GIANNI BRERA WAS NEVER QUITE sure how to feel about the River Po. Like most people from San Zenone al Po — just outside Pavia — he had always treated it with respect. Back when he was a boy, just after the First World War, the whole village had relied on it. Winding its way through the low-lying fields, it was a vital source of transport, irrigation, even food.
But Brera rarely thought about it without disdain. At times, he almost despised it. He’d often describe it as a snake, even a — a cesspit. But the image he used the most was that of a “drunken father”. Though the river looked lazy enough most of the time, it only took an “evil bellyful”
