Paolo took some strange turns in life. Ups and downs, reversals, hairpin bends. He never knew a smooth road. He found himself facing the pitfalls of fate—and not always with a ball at his feet. But he held his ground. He took the hits, kept quiet, gritted his teeth. And when it seemed all over, he started again. Because when the ball beats inside you like a second heart, standing still is torture.

And he, with his gentle feet and clear head, couldn’t stay still. He was born to be on the field, to move a split second before everyone else, to see space where others saw walls. That’s just how he was built: a body tuned to wonder.

Then came the summer of all summers. Spain ’82. The blue of the national team swept everything away: controversies, doubts, injuries, club colors. A uniform of honor that Paolo wore as if he’d been born in it. And once inside those scorching stadiums, something inexplicable happened: while the others moved, he seemed to dance. As if he had a few extra seconds, a clarity all his own, a different sense of time. The others ran; he wrote the legend.

Three goals against Brazil. Two against Poland. One against Germany. Six masterstrokes. Six signatures to seal the myth. The world stopped to watch. Italy went wild. Paolo became a national superhero, but with grass-stained shoes and the air of a good kid. Someone who scored but never showed off.

And when legend goes pop, advertising comes knocking—no, it kicks the door down. He’d already made Ciak, shoes iconic, but after the World Cup, it was a whole new game. If Paolo Rossi advertised a product, then that product was for champions. Period.

His gentle face and boyish eyes started popping up everywhere: on billboards, in jingles, on TV. He was a spokesperson, a familiar face, a pop reference. He wore a Conbipel jacket, a pair of Mash jeans, or a Seb Sport tracksuit with more style than a Milan Fashion Week model; he went into schools with Dossena, telling kids “Drink more milk (Polenghi), guys,” with the seriousness of someone who’d just silenced Zico. He bit into Galatine candies as if they were energy bars. But the masterpiece was this: Paolorossilatteecacao—said and drunk all in one breath—suddenly, a drink became a national ritual. With the straw plunged into the triangular carton, Paolo became part of Italian snack time.

Corny acting? Maybe. But did he care? He played along with the same lightness he used to shake off defenders. No posing, no hysterical agents. Just natural. Because back then, footballers weren’t rolling in money, and those ad contracts came in handy. But Paolo never sold out. He just put himself out there, again. As always.

And then time passes, of course. But the myth lives on. Because if you made Brazil cry, you can laugh about it thirty years later. And so there he is, in 2014, in a Visa commercial: looking straight into the camera, quick with a line, a presence that shines through. In 2016, we find him at MediaWorld, ironic and relaxed, having fun like a kid. Because a fantasista is someone who knows how to be anywhere: on the field, in a commercial, in a joke. Naturally. Gracefully.

Paolo Rossi wasn’t just a striker. He was a spark in an era. A man who made humility his weapon and his story a symbol. He scored for Italy, won for everyone, shone off the field too. He even made a carton of chocolate milk shine. And now, a word from our sponsors!

I’m a milk brick, Polenghi Brick, to my friends. Triangular, compact, always fresh. I’m a chocolate milk carton, but not just any carton. No, no—I’m THE brick. The legendary one. The paolorossilatteecacao brick, all in one breath, like a goal in the ninetieth minute.

I know, these days you’re used to organic bottles, smart cups, paper straws that fall apart after two sips. Pfff. Back in my day, we meant business. I was solid, elegant, with that isosceles triangle shape that made the other tetrapaks turn their heads. And most importantly, I had him. Paolo.

Yes, that Paolo. Paolo Rossi. The World Cup striker. The only man in the world who could take down Brazil and then promote me—me!—with the same charisma. When he appeared on TV and said “latte e cacao Polenghi,” I shone with pride, buoyed by that beautiful jingle that kids from years ago still hum.

Forget the Champions League. Forget shirt sponsors. I had the face of a world champion stamped on my soul.

I still remember those days: millions of children, all holding me, straw punched in with a sharp jab, a sip, and off to imagine themselves on the pitch. Paolo scored, and they scored with me. I wasn’t just a snack. I was liquid dream, sugar and myth in pocket format. Then, of course, modern times arrived. They retired me for “sustainable packaging” reasons. Bah. But I know that deep down, in the memories of those who were there, no one has forgotten the taste of victory. The sound of the straw piercing the carton. The smell of chocolate as you watched TV, hoping for a replay of Rossi silencing Brazil.

And so, every now and then, when someone walks past a nostalgic shelf, they stop and whisper: “Remember? Paolorossilatteecacao...”

I sure do. And I’ll never stop saying it: I played for the national team. From the fridge, sure. But I was there.