Anyone who has ever studied Palermo FC’s organizational chart closely may have stumbled upon a rather unusual abbreviation: GDS. Spelled out: Gatto del Stadio. Her name? Aquila. A cat with the kind of aura that suggests she’s the one deciding who gets into Trattoria da Pino. Today we’re meeting her for the second time. Three espressos, a sticky plastic table, 32 degrees in the shade, and an ammonia‑tinged scent wrapping around our legs like an invisible cloak.

“Aquila, we’re insanely happy you accepted our invitation. As a token of appreciation, we’ll start with a slightly indiscreet question: are you f or m?”

A moment follows so quiet you can hear the dripping faucet in the ground‑floor restroom (yes, that one).

“What?”

We mumble something about photos, curiosity, journalistic interest.

“Guys, what photos? Are you some kind of creeps?”

We fire back without thinking:

“Says the one who was peeking out from under the dressing‑room curtain in the fan shop the other day.”

Another silence. Even heavier. The kind where every object around you suddenly becomes uncomfortable.

Salvo saves the moment with a master‑level topic shift:

“Uh, Aquila, where did you actually live before you conquered the Renzo?”

She sighs. A sigh that smells like panelle, spleen sandwiches, and raw stigghioli.

“I’m originally from the ZEN district, and honestly, I never planned on leaving. But… how do I put this… you know Franco and Pietro?”

We nod. Of course we know Franco and Pietro. Everyone knows Franco and Pietro. Aquila rolls her eyes.

“At first it was fine. But eventually… phew… you can’t imagine. Before this gets out of hand, here’s the short version: my ZEN era ended, and now I’m here. More space. More peace. More drama too, sure, but that’s a different story.”

We tell her we listened to I Want to Break Free right before the interview.

“A classic,” she says. You can tell she still finds those two entertaining.

Then comes the kind of question only two seasoned interview pros like us could ask:

“So… what else is new?”

“Seriously? Those are your questions? Whatever. Things are going pretty well. I’ve got sun, shade, multiple sleeping spots. Marco looks after me. Props to you, Sirchien. And ever since that brain‑dead Rottweiler stopped shitting everywhere, the place is walkable again.”

“We feel for you,” we say, noticing she’s already getting restless.

“Aquila, let’s talk sports for a moment: how satisfied are you with the season?”

Silence. The kind that’s heavier than the air in an arancini‑frying kitchen at noon in August.

“Let me put it this way: the season was amazing. Pippo is incredible. What he’s ignited here is unmatched. His haircut alone should’ve been enough to get us promoted, if you ask me. But honestly: we should’ve settled things against Catanzaro in the first leg. If you lose 3–0, there are reasons. I just had a bad feeling about the playoffs from the start. And then the bickering in the VIP stand. Grown men with expensive watches and sweaty linen shirts realizing their lives were supposed to happen somewhere else, but here they are… VIP stand, Serie B playoffs… mamma mia.”

She shakes her head.

“But aside from that: just look at the stats against Catanzaro. Three wins, one draw, four losses. It’s like Venice all over again. The Calabrians just don’t suit us.” She clears her throat surprisingly loudly. “Speaking of Venice: sick kits, right? Even as a Rosanero you have to admit that.”

“Oh yes,” we say.

“When you’ve got Mirko Borsche in the boat — or better, in the gondola — you know you’re getting a banger,” she says.

We all nod in quiet agreement until Aquila breaks the moment:

“Any news from Mirko?”

“We still have to keep things under wraps. But you know: by the end of June we’ll all be wiser.”

“Guys, come on. Mirko Borsche. Do you seriously have doubts? What club would say no? The man is the freaking jersey god. Even if it doesn’t happen this year, it’s only postponed.”

“Thanks, Aquila, we appreciate that,” we say, while another sharp ammonia wave hits us. The smell has become physical. You can almost chew it. Even our chewing gum absorbs the flavor, and we discreetly ditch it into our palms.

“What are you staring at?” she asks.

Salvo, still on fire with the topic shifts, asks:

“Aquila, who’s the biggest Gattara at the club?”

“Good question. But I’ve got a clear answer. Technically, it’s two: Monica at reception and Marta, the club assistant.” Suddenly she gets serious. “But guys, something just came to mind. Let me use this moment for something important.”

“Go ahead.”

“You know the Cat Colony in Palermo?”

“You mean the one in Parco Tomasi di Lampedusa? Sure.”

“If you ever have a few euros or some Amici Speciali to spare, bring them to the folks there. They need all the help they can get. They didn’t have as much sunshine in the gattara department as I did.”

“We will, Aquila!” She’s getting more restless now, clearly ready to leave. We flip through our notes, trying to salvage one last question.

“What’s coming up for you this year?”

“Oh man, black belt in interview questions, huh? Well, early September I’m at Dua Lipa’s wedding. Did you know she rented Villa Igiea?”

“Yeah, and we were shocked — on the way to Spiaggia dell’Arenella you practically walk right past it. You’d never guess that behind all those mortadella and tomato‑passata posters there’s a palace hiding.”

“Good, right?” Aquila says proudly, as if she brokered the villa herself.

“Anyway, that time slot is blocked. I’ll probably spend a few days around then with Nero Miciok and Filippo too. Old friends and all that.”

Then suddenly, the abrupt ending:

“Guys, I gotta go. Check‑up with Dottore Lombardo. And before you ask: no, he’s got nothing to do with Gaetano. Leave the man alone, he knows what he’s doing.”

She jumps up, elegant as a shadow, and disappears between the Hall‑of‑Fame pillars in the foyer. Wait — is that Marco Dittgen on the pillar back there? No, must be the heat and the stench causing hallucinations.

A final ammonia‑scented breeze lingers. An olfactory farewell.

Damn, the true boss of the Renzo Barbera has spoken. Not much, but to us. We sit there, espresso gone, conversation over, half our questions untouched, nobody asked if we wanted a refill. Three espressos on the bill — and wait… an Aperol Spritz? Huh? That’s when we know: we’re not getting anything more out of today.