Vincenzo Montella lies in bed. It looks cold outside, but it’s nice and toasty under the covers. The alarm clock on the table flips from 5:59 to 6:00, and the radio clicks on.
His eyes snap open as the too-familiar patter of the morning DJs puts a close to the accursed strains of Sonny and Cher. He gets dressed and goes down to the hotel dining room for the same breakfast he always eats, then walks down the same street he always walks on the way to work. “Vincenzo? Vincenzo Montella?” he hears a voice ask for the thousandth millionth time. He doesn’t even turn his head anymore. No whistling bellybutton trick. No bing. No nothing.
The crowd hasn’t changed from its previous incarnations. Everyone is excited, giddy almost, ready to see the day’s big event and the future that will unfold from it. Montella doesn’t care anymore. He knows the outcome—six more weeks—but more than that, he knows it doesn’t matter, because a continuation of winter implies that there could be another season. Montella knows that it will always be winter for him, just like he knows that, every day, the groundhog will be removed from its hole and consulted. It’s as sure as Sonny and Cher.
Like the countless days before, he finishes work and decides to spend some time doing something new. He pores over video of his players, of opponents, of other teams entirely, in hopes of finding something that’ll work. He devises new training methods, new ways to communicate his ideas. He diagrams set play routines, but the diagrams eventually turn on him.
He learns to play the piano. He becomes an incredible dancer. He helps people in the neighborhood. He learns French. He kidnaps a marmot. He robs an armored truck. He gets hit by a truck, jumps from a belltower, drops a toaster in his bath. He makes friends. He saves a stranger’s life. He maybe saves his own.
And, the next morning, at 5:59 AM, Vincenzo Montella lies in bed. It looks cold outside, but it’s nice and toasty under the covers. The alarm clock on the table flips from 5:59 to 6:00, and the radio clicks on.
Luca Ranieri has done everything you want an academy product to do—starred for the Primavera, excelled on loan, and shown promise with the first team—and now he’s gotten a solid contract extension.
Erick Pulgar will return to Chile for a trial over a fatal hit-and-run from several years ago. It’s a pretty awful story.
Given the lack of a real midfield playmaker in the Viola fold, the club’s purported interest in Sevilla’s Éver Banega makes some sense.
Fiorentina produced a
putrid display brilliant performance against historically middling Serie B side European powerhouse Cittadella to progress in the Coppa Italia most important club competition in the world. Doesn’t that feel better?
Viola Nation got an exclusive tour of the Artemio Franchi that’s very worth your time.
We asked you to pick Fiorentina’s best player for the month of November, and pick you did: congratulations Bartłomiej Drągowski.
We got a chance to chat with rising star Christian Koffi, who’s currently tearing it up with the Primavera. You should absolutely read this and get to know him a little bit better.
Longtime community member (and former VN writer) MiQ has some questions about his Champions League fantasy squad. Help him out.
Which time loop movie is closest to Fiorentina right now?
This poll is closed
Edge of Tomorrow (aka Live. Die. Repeat.)
Happy Death Day
Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children
Comment of the week
Fresh memes from m.atthew. What more could you want?
That’s it for this week, folks. Don’t look at your phone in bed.