Poor us! Not even the football market makes us dream anymore.

Previously, after having badly digested the disposals of Reijners and Teo Hernandez, the dearly departed supporters of the Diavolo had to be pleased with the arrival of Luka Modric, a (falling) middle-aged star who in Real Madrid has long been fielded only in the last quarter of an hour, when the others are very tired. It is a good thing that instead Samuele Ricci, the 23-year-old Torino midfielder who has been on the Azzurri's roster for a while, has been drafted in. Although not a superstar, for Milan the former granata player can finally be considered an investment for the future. Moreover, he speaks Italian, a quality that cannot be overlooked in a footballing babel where everyone speaks their own language without being understood by anyone.

In short: Allegri or no Allegri, Milan fans had better not even dream about it. On the contrary, they should erase the good memories, the last Champions with Ancelotti and even the last Scudetto with Pioli. Keep a low profile by cancelling fillet and caviar. With Cardinale and Furlani, you have to get used to frozen food or some zero kilometre product so as not to burden the costs, already burdened by Ibrahimovic's long journeys

And Juventus? It, too, emerged battered from both the championship (fourth) and the World Cup, where its own fans breathed a sigh of relief that they had not been too badly scrambled by Real Madrid. Our football is so bad, so peripheral, that losing by a single goal, even for Juve, seems almost a feat.

Now everyone at the Juventus club is getting excited about the arrival of Jonathan David, a Canadian bomber who has played for Lille in the last three seasons, scoring 77 goals.

On paper it looks like a good buy, but all to be verified. But since deluding oneself is one of life's last pleasures, the 'Gazzetta', presenting the new centre forward, headlines: 'David a monster'. Reinforcing the dose by having Canada's coach, Jesse Marsh, speak, we read this vaticinium: 'After Haaland, there's Jonathan. He will score 25 goals!"

What can we say? Let's keep our fingers crossed for Madama's supporters, who are really struggling to get excited about bombers lately. Not to put our finger on the sore spot, but how can we not remember the incredible story of Dusan Vlahovic, the Serbian centre forward who arrived from Fiorentina in 2022 for 70 million plus 10 million in bonuses?

The centre forward, whose salary touches 12 million, is being kept at bay by the Bianconeri club, who would like to replace him with Victor Osimhen, Juve's new object of desire. Only there is one catch: Dusan, who has only played one game in four in America, has no intention of leaving because he is aiming for free release in a year's time.

In the meantime, even if he remains on the bench, he enjoys his million net per month until June 2026. As they say for journalists, better than working.

It is hard to know who is right. The only thing certain about this mayonnaise gone mad is that we live in a football - or rather, in a world - that is completely disconnected, where the value of money no longer has any meaning except to enrich the procurers, who are quite happy with this demented stalemate, given that Vlahovic, despite his pathurnias and reckless stops, is still a good centre forward, one who has scored 58 goals in 145 games.

When he arrived at Juve, the Serbian was compared to City's terrible Haaland. Who did we say David, the newcomer, is being compared to now? Elementary Watson, also in Haaland. Here, at least in the summer, let us dream. But the terrible Haaland leave him alone

Tour de France, what a passion! When someone asks what is so fascinating about the Grande Boucle, you have to tell them to go and watch yesterday's stage again, which ended with Mathieu Van Der Poel's victory in Boulogne sur Mer, France's most important fishing port. And if on seeing it, he still doesn't understand the magic of the Tour then go ahead and dedicate himself, no offence to anyone, to golf or burraco. In fact, it must be said that Van Der Poel, already triumphant this year at the Sanremo and Roubaix, not only came first in Boulogne to take the yellow jersey, but did so by beating at the sprint none other than Pogacar (2nd) and Vingegaard (3rd), i.e. the two champions who for five years now, once one and once the other, have been arriving in the yellow jersey on the Champs Elysees in Paris.

Hence the wonder: that in an almost banal stage, at a Tour that had only just begun, magnificent champions like these three phenomena fought with the knife between their teeth to honour the race and stamp their winning mark on it. Mind you: no one asked them to, they could easily have left room for some minor figures, waiting for the time trials and the big mountains where the race will be decided. But that's the way it goes at the Tour: every left is lost, every stage is a journey to the beginning and the end of cycling, a sport that when it hypnotises you with its magic, you can no longer find the key word to free yourself.