It begins at night, four years ago. Francavilla Fontana, Brindisi district, South of Italy. A few friends – nobody wanna go home – a soccer ball, two small training goals. The game is 3 versus 3, outdoors. No precise rules – yet Fiffa inda Street is born. The boys are having fun, games become tournaments, tournaments become all-night-long events. Fields are traced with lime of tuff. Seven-minute games on asphalt, cement, by the seaside, even on snow. Dozens of teams are born, each of them a name, uniform, logo. Once an hobby, Fiffa goes viral: it’s born in southern Italy, but it’s played in Turin, Modena, even in Cipolletti (Argentina). Everybody wants to play: male teams against female teams, children dreaming to get big, a few elder people. Fiffa inda Street is free, and it spreads out. Trophies are cheap and basically worthless – playing is more important and valued than winning. An environment grows out the game: girls and boys waiting for their friends to play, waiting to play, cheering, warming up. Fiffa is still genuinely played outdoors, no permit nor bureaucracy. Hundreds of people keep gathering at this happy soccer raves, mocking the “fiffa”, this weird dialectal word that means fear.