Tranquillity amid chaos — that’s what Stefano Rellandini saw through his lens. Not the pyrotechnics raining down, nor the smoke curling through the rafters of Europe’s grandest footballing theatre. He saw an unlikely gesture — Marco Materazzi, the notorious warrior of Inter Milan, resting his elbow on the shoulder of Rui Costa, AC Milan’s refined artist of the midfield.
“One was a butcher,” Rellandini said later, “the other a poet.” The moment lasted mere seconds. He clicked once. That was enough. In that instant, football paused — not for peace, but for poetry.
The Derby That Wasn’t Just a Game
This was no ordinary fixture. Milan vs Inter. The Derby della Madonnina, played out in the belly of a city divided by neighbourhoods, heritage, and history — and yet united in obsession. On that April night in 2005, the derby wasn’t just a local rivalry. It was a crucible of political anxieties, sporting frustrations, and the first public embers of the Calciopoli fire that would soon engulf all of Italian football.
The setting was the UEFA Champions League quarter-final, second leg. But the ambience was theatrical. Milan — that proud city of operatic indulgence — had its greatest stage dressed for a tragedy. Red smoke, flares, chants, insults, hopes, and vendettas filled the San Siro like a volatile libretto.
An Empire in Control, A Republic in Ruins
Carlo Ancelotti’s Milan side was imperial in its elegance — a second golden generation under the stewardship of Silvio Berlusconi, the mogul-turned-prime minister whose footballing empire mirrored his political ambition: authoritarian, successful, and steeped in nostalgia. With Pirlo, Kaka, Nesta, Seedorf, Shevchenko, and Maldini, this was a squad of patricians.
Inter, meanwhile, were Rome without Caesar — chaotic, aspiring, full of talent, but forever falling short. Massimo Moratti, their oil magnate chairman, had thrown fortunes at salvation. Ronaldo. Vieri. Crespo. Cannavaro. Yet silverware eluded them, and the terraces mocked their annual August declarations of title intent. They were the perennial “August Champions.”
The second leg began with hope but ended in ruin. Milan were ahead 2-0 from the first leg. Shevchenko’s left-footed strike extended the lead to 3-0 on aggregate — a thunderbolt not just into the net, but into Inter hearts. That he escaped punishment for a headbutt on Materazzi earlier in the game only fed the fury boiling beneath.
And then, Esteban Cambiasso rose to score what looked like a lifeline. The roar from the Curva Nord was primal — until it was swallowed by silence. The goal disallowed. Julio Cruz had committed a phantom foul. The referee’s whistle felt like betrayal.
Inferno Unleashed
In an instant, the stadium became a warzone. Flares began to descend like flaming arrows. One struck Dida — Milan’s Brazilian goalkeeper — on the shoulder. Chaos reigned. Referee Markus Merk paused the match. Firefighters joined midfielders in trying to clear the debris. The air grew thick with smoke and rage.
"The pitch was in a fog," Rellandini remembered. "Even if you wanted to catch someone hurt, you couldn’t. It was like a dream turned nightmare."
Merk tried to resume the match, a final nod to reason. But it was too late. The players were ushered through a corner tunnel, flinching under projectiles. Eventually, the match was abandoned. Uefa handed Milan a 3-0 technical victory and fined Inter £132,000 — the largest penalty in its history at the time. Four matches behind closed doors were to follow.
The world condemned the violence. Ancelotti called it a "disgraceful episode". Berlusconi spoke of “drastic measures.” Inter’s manager Roberto Mancini could only offer weary remorse. The city that had given football two of its grandest clubs now stood shamed before Europe.
A Faultline of Scandal
But beneath the shattered flares and broken glass, a deeper rot had already set in. Rumours of Calciopoli corruption were beginning to seep into Turin and Naples. Bribed referees, favoured fixtures, murky networks of influence — the whispers would become a roar in just over a year.
Juventus would be relegated. Milan would be docked points. The veneer of Serie A’s glory cracked, exposing a mafia of manipulation beneath. Inter, untouched by scandal, would emerge as heirs to a crumbling throne — champions by default in 2006, and eventually treble-winners under Mourinho.
But that night in 2005 was the turning point — a symbolic collapse of an old order. The red of Milan, the blue of Inter, mingled in smoke and regret.
The Still Frame of Forever
And yet — in the middle of it all — Materazzi rested his elbow on Rui Costa’s shoulder.
Perhaps even gladiators, amid the flames, seek out artists for reassurance.
Perhaps that single image was football’s conscience — a reminder that beneath all the rage, scandal, and politics, there once was a game played by men, not machines.
It wasn’t a match. It was a requiem.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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