Once upon a time, there was a world where “making 13” wasn’t just a stroke of luck—it was the start of a new life. A flash of genius, intuition, heart—and a Totocalcio betting slip. You’d mark your crosses on 1, X, or 2 and hope for a Sunday miracle. And if things didn’t go your way? Oh well, you’d start again on Wednesday. No apps, no algorithms—just a pen, a newspaper, and unshakable faith in Lady Luck.

That was soccer when all the matches kicked off at the same time, and if someone scored while you were in the bathroom, your little radio would tell you about it. The one with the single earbud, of course. There was no live goal coverage—just the neighbor’s shouts, Sandro Ciotti’s voice, live reports from Tonino Carino in Ascoli, and the suspended silence of stadiums packed with families, couples, old men with scarves knotted around their necks even in the middle of August.

The stadium wasn’t a restricted zone yet—it was a place where you could go alone at 12 years old and still feel safe. The chants were clever, ironic, even poetic—the line between teasing and insult was clear, and if you crossed it, you’d get more boos than the opposing goalkeeper. And then there was that unwritten rule: the last fifteen minutes, you could get in for free. Yes, you heard right—they’d open the gates. Because the show belonged even to those who couldn’t afford it.

Meanwhile, outside the stadiums, 45s were spinning. Little vinyl records, 17.5 cm in diameter, with a hole in the middle that seemed made for slipping your dreams onto a turntable. The sleeve, often colorful and featuring the singer’s face on the cover, measured 18.5 by 18.5 cm. Side A was for the big hit—the one everyone sang in the shower. Side B? A surprise. Often a hidden gem.

You’d pop them into the record player, a gadget about the size of a handbag but with more personality than some DJs today. All it took was a battery, and off you went—impromptu concerts at the beach, in the car, or outside your house. And if you got a plastic record case for your birthday? You were the king. Or the queen. The 45s spun—literally—at 45 revolutions per minute, not by chance.

And it wasn’t just singers who made them. Oh no. The 45 was so popular that even soccer stars jumped in. Paolo Rossi, for example—the man who made us scream louder in 1982 than any Sanremo singer—recorded SUNDAY AT THREE. A love song disguised as sports commentary, or maybe the other way around. “My opponents all have your eyes, I see your golden hair on their heads...” — locker room poetry, music for emotional replays. He recorded it for charity, and he didn’t do badly at all—once again proving himself a champion.

Soccer players’ 45s are a little trash-pop-soccer treasure waiting to be rediscovered.
Here’s a (hard to believe, but true) tracklist of 45s recorded by soccer players—between legends, flashes in the pan, and pop madness. Some have become collectors’ items, others... erased for the good of humanity. But all deserve at least a round of applause (or a laugh) for their courage.

Some are absolute kitsch gems, others real attempts at a “parallel career.” But all tell of a time when soccer players were still human beings who made mistakes, took risks, and—sometimes—sang badly. But with style.

Ready? Turn up the volume on your imaginary record player: