Part of an occasional series translating some of the most interesting foreign language football writing

Football observers, who are often amateur anthropologists, have long held that Latin American players carry their varied ancestry from the Old World with them; in particular, that those of Argentina often demonstrate their Italian roots. Domenico Morfeo, on the other hand, despite being born in Pescina in 1976 and having never left for foreign shores, could easily have been mistaken for such an emigrant. The delicate left foot, the innate confidence, the prosaic facial expression contrasted with the dynamic sense and touch of the ball, might all have been found on the streets of Buenos Aires or Montevideo. Yet destiny was to take him on a long, winding road of turns and dead-ends until he finally returned home, in a series of migrations that were little more than local.

A subtle left winger with great dribbling ability, vision of the game, the ability to provide pinpoint and balletic poise, close control and shooting precision made him a complete fantasista. Set against this was his diminutive size and delicate physique. Laziness and obstinacy of character round out the picture, the cracks through which his natural talents eventually slipped away. Trained at the academy of Atalanta Bergamo, he stood out while playing for their Primavera team such that at national youth level, one would often see Morfeo on the pitch while a certain Francesco Totti was left on the bench.

He made his debut at Atalanta at the age of 17, registering 3 goals in 9 appearances in the initial season. He went on to complete his apprenticeship by playing the following full season in Serie B and then two campaigns in Serie A, until at just 22 he had chalked up 83 appearances and scored 22 goals. Over those same years, Morfeo participated in the European Under-21 Championships with gli Azzurri, winning a gold medal in Spain I May 1996 in Spain, triumphing on penalties against the hosts. He was the final penalty-taker, capitalising on a mistake from Raul; this was the Italy of Cannavaro and Nesta, of Panucci, Tommasi and Totti – all coached by Cesare Maldini.

The first spur for Morfeo’s career came with the move to Cecchi Gori’s ambitious Fiorentina. But here also emerged the early signs of his character limitations, in a side containing giants of the game such as Batistuta and Rui Costa, as well as the excellent Oliveira. 5 goals in 28 appearances in his first season was a modest if respectable haul, but lower than might be expected. The following season, Fiorentina signed another forward, Edmundo (‘O Animal’), another competitor in terms of talent and on-field personality potentially pushing Morfeo down the pecking order.

The new role designed for him by Trappatoni did not help, either, relegating him to the wing where Morfeo did not have the physicality and pace to express himself. Approaching a critical phase for his development, he found himself loaned out first to Milan (where he did in fact win a Serie A championship, albeit as a non-playing protagonist) and the to Cagliari. The instability doubtless watered down his performances.

Domenico finally seemed to find his true self in Verona, at the court of another ‘Ceasar’ just starting to make his mark in Serie A. This one, Prandelli, was familiar with Morfeo’s talent through Atalanta’s Primavera, who he had coached to victory in the Viareggio Tournament in 1992. Arriving during the winter transfer window while the team appeared on the verge of relegation, Morfeo finally demonstrated the full repertoire of ability that everyone had suspected for years. With 5 goals and countless contributions in 10 games, he dragged the gialloblu to safety.

Morfeo now returned to Florence, full of expectations, yet things would still not go his way: after just half a season he departed on another tour, this time to his motherland of Atalanta. After this, at his athletic peak of 26-27 years old, he strung together a couple of modest seasons first at Fiorentina itself (18 appearance and 2 goals), and then at Moratti’s Inter where he reunited with former teammates Toldo and Batistuta (17 appearances and a single goal).

It was to be once again Prandelli who would bring Morfeo back to an environment more suited to his ability to express himself. Prandelli wanted Morfeo with him at Parma, where the team needed to find itself again after the glory years of the Tanzi era. Here, finally, Domenico was able to play with reasonable continuity for four seasons, being selected for around two-thirds of the club’s fixtures and scoring a few goals here and there – the high point being 8 goals in the 2004-5 season. Moreover his contributions were often decisive, particularly in providing assists to the front men in a notable pairing with Gilardino. Long and short passing, backheels and placed shots, it was finally magic again for Morfeo.

The fifth and final season at Parma marked the bitter end of the relationship. Then at 32, Morfeo appeared to be on the verge of dropping down to Serie A to join Brescia; but, even with the paperwork signed, the now worn-out talent from Abruzzo reneged on his contract having only taken to the field for a single Coppa Italia match. In 2009, another of his former mentors from Atalanta, Emiliano Mondonico, summoned him to Cremona, but even this was not a success: 4 miserable appearances marked the end of this career as a professional.

What remains to us of Domenico Morfeo is at the same time both too highly acclaimed to be forgotten, but also clouded in disappointment; a sense of “I could, but I don’t want to” which is difficult to comprehend. He possessed great class and ended with some reasonable numbers (54 goals and 51 assists in 282 games in Serie A, during that league’s golden age), but fans are hard-pressed to remember them unless they happened to be there in the ground during a moment of magic. Ultimately this is probably Morfeo’s greatest enigma – the King of the Lesser Tens.

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Preface to the original article, from the Mondo Sportivo column ‘The Children of Lesser Gods”, authored by Paolo Chicherchia:

This is the first instalment of a new column dedicated to all those fantasisti which have intermittently shone, like actors on suburban amateur dramatic stages, without ever making that final step up to true quality: provincial playmakers, directors caged within their own limitations, clear talents lumbered with pub physiques, deft-footed hot-heads, wasteful artists, unlucky stars and fragile champions, often considered “the next big thing”. All of them have floated outside the ranks of the greats of the game, but all of them have created magic in that No 10 shirt so beloved by football fans.