My relationship with football began when I was still in my mother’s womb. Truthfully, I had little choice but to be as deeply connected with the game as my father was at the time of my conception, when he was at the height of his career as a full-back. Football dictated a big chunk of my early years, from where we lived to whom my family socialized with and, most notably, how little time I got to spend with my dad. He was always training, away playing in a different city, or participating in events where athletes were the centre of attention. By the time I was seven years old, I had already lived in five different cities, moved internationally twice, and unknowingly mingled with a bunch of individuals who made the history of football – such as Mario Kempes, Roger Milla and Walter Zenga, just to name a few.

This sport was such a background feature in my everyday life that I never consciously decided to support a particular club; my allegiance to FC Internazionale was etched into my genes by the person who is responsible for bringing football into my life in the first place: my grandfather Giovanni Accardi.

A humble mailman from Palermo, my grandfather lived and breathed football. Despite being a working-class father of four, a devout Catholic, and a member of a large family that systematically gathered for lunch each Sunday, he made it a point to never miss a game. He frequently attended matches at La Favorita–the former name of Palermo’s stadium–bringing his two young boys along. Like many other Southern Italians, his football faith was rooted in two clubs: his hometown side, sitting on the lower ranks of the country’s league tiering; and a big, mythical, Northern club known for dominating the Serie A. Milan’s Black and Blue squad was his pick.

For years, I heard stories about his obsession with Inter. He dreamed of one day going to watch a match at San Siro, wearing his best suit because one of his children was on the roster. And once his youngest son Giuseppe, my father, began showing signs of being a gifted player, he immediately ensured he’d join a respected academy to get him one step closer to fulfilling his dream. When my dad turned 14, his efforts fortified. He did whatever he could to get him in front of the big guns up in the North of Italy, where real professional football was played. Through a relative who lived on the outskirts of Bologna, he arranged a trial for his son with the city’s team, which ultimately signed him.

Unfortunately, I never got to meet my grandfather. Nor did he ever get to see his son play for FC Inter. He passed away in the Spring of 1985, six years before I was born and a few months before the club eventually purchased his son from Cavese after a particularly brilliant performance in the Coppa Italia. But his love for the team survived, and it has embedded itself in me. It grew fonder and it transformed into a blend of yearning, grief, and profound saudade—it helps me feel connected to someone I never met but has undeniably and inherently impacted my life.

While I felt emotionally attached to I Nerazzurri from childhood, it wasn’t until my late teens that I started following Inter consistently. That was when Ibrahima Mbaye came into our life.

On a damp, gloomy evening in November 2009, as I sat on our blue couch, my father—long retired and now working as an agent—walked into the house, followed by a quiet, lanky Senegalese teenager who, despite the biting cold, was wearing cargo shorts.

Born in Guédiawaye—a suburb of Dakar, Senegal—Ibrahima joined the prestigious youth football academy Étoile Lusitana at thirteen years old before being scouted by FC Inter during an international tournament held in Belgium. His coach, former Portugal national Luis Norton de Matos, asked my father to deal with the bureaucracy of moving a non-EU minor to Italy. Luckily, Ibrahima’s own father had been living in Pavia (a small town close to Milan) and was able to sign the necessary paperwork for him to come over. However, due to limited finances, he entrusted my dad with rearing his youngest son. Ibra, as we learned to call him, would become an integral part of our family.

As soon as Ibra signed his first professional contract with the club in 2010, it was as if my dormant passion for Inter activated. I went from being a passive sports enthusiast, watching occasionally whenever the right social gathering came along, to an overly involved fan. I checked stats, highlights, and followed the youth tournaments he participated in (and frequently dominated). I travelled to Milan with my father to watch his games whenever possible, and I stayed engaged even when I moved to Los Angeles for college. To this day, the only kit I hold onto dearly is my brother’s old training kit.

Upon graduation, I briefly moved to Milan to pursue a career in fashion. At this point Ibrahima was a fixture on the main squad, though not always starting, and I began regularly attending the games. Wow. The atmosphere, the energy, the choreographies, the chants. As an adult, everything about the stadium experience enchanted me. It’s a divine, visceral feeling comparable to a holy ecstasy. For 90 minutes, I became part of a community comprised of thousands of strangers unified by a universal hope—it transcended class and age. This is what kept me coming back, wanting more, and cemented my commitment to Inter. It’s the pre-match ‘panino con la salamella’ (bread with sausage), the flat beer from the vendors pacing the stands back and forth, and the supreme collective joy sparked by a match-defining goal.

For me, Inter means family. It’s hard to describe the reasons why I support this club. It’s beyond the tangible. It’s a way to pay tribute to my grandfather and bond with my—then newly introduced —brother. It’s not logical. It’s friendship, it’s religion, it’s a generational fil rouge. It’s the type of mystical madness we, humans, need to escape the seriousness of everyday life. It’s a topic of discussion, a reason to gather and let go of the emotional barriers we are forced to build to function.

Inter is more than a club—it’s a bond that has brought me close to people in unexpected ways. During my longest stint in Milan, from 2019 to 2024, my allegiance to the club became the matrix of an unforeseen friendship with the concierge of my apartment building. Every morning, we would exchange thoughts on the latest results, discuss the transfer market, and revel in the shared joy—or frustration—of being Inter fans.

Even now, living part-time in New York City, my support for the club has led me to surprising places. One such place is the basement of a catholic church in Manhattan where Don Luigi, the head of the local fan club, hosts screenings whenever Inter plays.