Carlo Ancelotti Read online

  They worked the real fields, I worked the soccer fields. Their season culminated in a harvest, my season aimed at a Scudetto, an Italian championship, or else a cup of one kind or another—maybe European, maybe World. Worlds apart, and yet not that different after all. I was raised by a couple of excellent coaches. The product that brought in the most money for them in the old days was milk, but they never saw the money until the dairy sold the finished cheese. It might take a year or even a year and a half. In the meantime, while you were waiting to be paid, you had to be patient and make sure you had resources to fall back on. The art of keeping your cool was essential, and I learned it from them. It was an art that came in handy when I was injured as a player, and it’s been crucial to me as a coach countless times. It helps me to keep things on track when I have to manage a situation and keep from lashing out in anger—say if I’m being pressured by a player’s attitude, or sniping from fans or the ownership, or else the taunts of the media. You have to stay sensible, or you’re done for.

  The way you handle a group is the way you are, deep down. I prefer to talk with my players, not shout at them—though, after certain games, it does happen. I feel like a member of the group, inside it, not above it or beneath it. If someone has a problem, they’re welcome to vent. If someone is angry, they can ask for an explanation, even if in some cases there are no explanations for the decisions that have been made: it’s easy to choose between a player who trains and a player who prefers not to; it’s not so clear-cut when you are dealing with two footballers that have similar qualities and who both try equally hard. In situations of that kind, the smart thing is to keep your mouth closed. I’m not a father to my team, but I’m a friend, and I’m definitely a psychologist. I’ve never had any murderous interactions with my players; it’s much more common for us all to laugh together.

  In Dubai, during the winter retreat with Milan, everyone burst out laughing except for one player: Mathieu Flamini, victim of the Brigand Chief, a prank that’s really a bastard. But a spectacular one. You pick someone to be the butt of the joke, and usually you try to pick someone with a chip on his shoulder—oui, Flamini—and then you construct a fairy tale around them. You have to explain it to all the others, one by one, and that was a task that took it out of me; first you tell the Italians, in Italian, then you tell the Brazilians, in pseudo-Italian, and then you tell Beckham, with grunts and gestures. The plot is always the same. I’m the narrator of a story, and the players all take roles. These roles include the king, the queen, the coachman, the assistant coachman, the royal guards, the brigands, and, of course, the brigand chief. After dinner, Gattuso comes over to where I’m sitting and says, “Come on, coach, let’s play Brigand Chief. It’s fun, and there are some new players who’ve never done it before.”

  I raise one eyebrow and look skeptical, which is something that comes naturally to me. “No, not that game again. Don’t ask me to do Brigand Chief. I’m tired, I don’t feel like it tonight.”

  All the others, in chorus: “Coach, coach, coach.”

  This is where it starts, that was the signal. “Okay, but this really is the last time.”

  I begin to explain the rules, but it’s really just for Flamini’s benefit, because he’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on. There are parts to be assigned, one for every player. It all goes without a hitch, until it’s time to choose the brigand chief. That’s when the fun begins.

  Now it’s Gattuso’s turn to pipe up: “Tonight I want to play the brigand chief.”

  Inzaghi jumps to his feet, his napkin tumbling to the floor: “Jesus, Rino, that’s enough! You’ve already been the brigand chief once, tonight it’s my turn.”

  Kaladze breaks in, furiously: “Oh, you’re all a bunch of brownnosers, let an outsider have some fun for once.”

  Okay, it’s time for me to intervene: “Now, boys, calm down. Let’s let one of the new recruits have a shot at it.”

  Kaladze: “I vote for Beckham.”

  Kaká: “But Beckham doesn’t even speak Italian. How can he be the brigand chief?”

  Then it’s my turn again: “Oh, I’m fine with Beckham.”

  Everyone turns to look at Flamini. He turns red with fury and practically shouts: “Me, me, I want to be the brigand chief!”

  He went for it. He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

  Now the prank can begin: I start to tell the story. “Once upon a time, in a beautiful castle, there lived …” Maldini, waving a fork in one hand: “A king.”

  “And of course this king is married to …”

  Borriello, with swishy enthusiasm: “The queen.”

  “Whenever the king and queen want to leave the castle, they ride in a carriage pulled by six beautiful horses, and holding the reins is the …”

  Kalac, both hands pulling imaginary reins as he rocks on his seat, cries: “The coachman!”

  “But the coachman never rides alone, at his side is his trusted …”

  Abbiati, almost dancing with joy: “Assistant coachman!”

  I stop for a second and reflect: these players are going to try to win the Italian championship. My God.

  “All together, the king and the queen, the coachman and assistant coachman, have to drive through a dangerous dark forest, so they must be escorted by the …”

  Emerson, Pato, Kaká, Dida, Ronaldinho, and Seedorf all leap to their feet, waving knives and shouting in unison: “Royal guards!!”

  “Because lurking in the forest are the …”

  Zambrotta, Bonera, Antonini, and Jankulovski, with napkins on their heads: “The brigands!!!”

  “And these brigands are commanded by the …”

  Silence. Flamini slowly gets up from his chair and practically whispers: “The brigand chief.”

  “No, Mathieu, that’s not how we do it. You have to give it a little more oomph, you have to say it loud, like Maldini.”

  We start over. “And these brigands are commanded by the …”

  Flamini, a little louder: “The brigand chief!”

  Maldini: “You really don’t get it, do you? You have to shout! It! Out!”

  And, as always, the third try is the one that works. “And these brigands are commanded by the …”

  Flamini, red-faced, shouts furiously: “THE BRIGAND CHIEF!”

  There’s a brief pause. Then everyone stands up, from Beckham to Sheva. The roar is terrifying, the entire A. C. Milan team, in a single thunderclap of a voice: “… WHO GIVES EVERYONE BLOWJOBS AND WIPES HIS MOUTH ON A LEAF!” The silence is deafening. Gattuso practically faints. Mathieu Flamini (a wonderful person, a genuine team player) glares at me angrily. I can read his expression, I know what he’s thinking: “A pig can’t coach.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Faking a Fake

  Nils Liedholm could have been a coach; he could also have been a stand-up comedian. He decided to split the difference: he did theater, but his venue was the locker room. He was my first mentor and teacher; he might also have been my first Brigand Chief. He was a genuine chief, of real brigands; that is, us. Roma, capoccia der monno infame, to put it in Roman dialect—Rome, the capital of the world of villains—with Il Barone, as he was jocularly known, as its emperor and guide. He never raised his voice, but he taught plenty of useful lessons, especially useful to the young man I was at the time. He wore me down with technique. “Dribble,” and I’d dribble. “Dribble with your right foot,” and I’d dribble with my right foot. “Dribble with your left foot,” and I’d dribble with my left foot. “Slalom dribble,” and I’d pretend to be Alberto Tomba with a soccer ball. “Do a leg fake,” and I’d start to stumble. “Fake a fake,” and I’d fake it, pretending I’d actually understood what he’d said. In reality, though, I was delving deeply in an attempt to resolve a question that was tormenting me: “What the fuck is he talking about?”

  He was an extraordinary person. He could make you laugh; at the same time, his profound calm and inner tranquility would astonish you. We were haunted by
the fear of losing him; the odds were always highest when we played away games in Milan. The train left Rome’s Termini station at midnight. That was far too late for him. He’d have someone drive him to the out-of-the-way station of Roma Tiburtina at ten o’clock, then he’d climb aboard a sleeper car sitting empty by the platform, get comfortable, and go to sleep. At eleven thirty, they’d hook the sleeper car to the rest of the train and then pull into the main station where we were all waiting, ready to set off on our journey of hope—a journey of hope, in the sense that we always hoped Liedholm was with us, that he hadn’t been hooked onto the wrong locomotive, one heading for, say, Amsterdam or Reggio Calabria. Every time it was a crap-shoot. The next morning, we’d tumble out of the train exhausted, stubble-faced, in Milan. The only one who looked rested was Liedholm, who could have slept through an atomic bomb. “Boys, how are we doing this morning?”

  “Doing great, Coach.”

  And off we’d go to our hotel, to play cards and maybe set fire to our hotel room.

  At the Grand Hotel Brun, in Milan’s San Siro neighborhood, we once came mighty close to doing just that. It was the evening before the Inter–Roma match of 1981. After dinner, it was the usual group of us lying around in our room: me, Roberto Pruzzo, and Bruno Conti. Pruzzo was sprawled out comfortably on the bed, reading a copy of the Corriere dello Sport. A lightbulb clicked on in Conti’s massive brain: actually, it was a Bic lighter that clicked into flame. In any case, that genius Conti crept over and set fire to the corner of Pruzzo’s paper. Pruzzo saw the sudden burst of flame, promptly wet his pants, and threw the fiery stack of paper across the hotel room. It dropped to the floor at the bottom of the curtains, next to the bed. In no time the curtains were burning, too. It was an historic conflagration: if Nero had been there, he’d have been tuning his violin. The hotel staff were running up and down the stairwells in search of a fire extinguisher. At last, with much huffing and puffing, they managed to put out the flames in the hotel room, and then the ones all over Conti. Conti paid for the damages to the hotel room, but he never bought Pruzzo another copy of that day’s Corriere dello Sport.

  We felt a breath of freedom thanks to Liedholm. With freedom, however, came a number of things; once, a trip to the hospital for the whole team. We left for an away game and wound up on gurneys. We were scheduled to travel to Avellino, near Naples, for the Coppa Italia, and the schedule was routine: practice in the morning, lunch together at Trigoria, departure. Unfortunately, we were running early that day, and our coach had a brilliant idea. We dropped by to watch our archrivals Lazio play at the Stadio Flaminio. “Come on, boys, it’s on the way …” Li mortacci sua, as they say in Rome: “Curse his ancestors and forebears.” We were going to pay a call on Lazio.

  We showed up without calling ahead but—how can I put this?—we didn’t manage to slip into our seats unnoticed. We were a glaring yellow-and-red stain on the enemy’s best carpet. The die-hard fans noticed us and gave us the warm welcome they reserve for their crosstown cousins: “Merde! Pieces of shit!” The whole stadium turned to stare and shout toward the stands where we were sitting. We sat there, uncomfortably, for eighty minutes; we tried to leave, unobtrusively, ten minutes before the end of the match. The team bus was parked about two hundred yards from the ground. Liedholm was friends with a couple of Rome city cops, and he just climbed into the backseat of their police wagon. We, on the other hand, were left to our own devices. We tiptoed down the stadium stairs, walked out into the parking lot, and there was the entire population of the Lazio fan club, waiting to say hello. So thoughtful of them. We started walking toward the bus, and jackbooted kicks began to fly. We sped up, and vicious insults filled the air. We broke into a run, and legs stuck out to trip us up. It was a full-fledged mob attack—not our idea of fun. Everything imaginable was flying through the air in our general direction, and, for the first time, I put the Maestro’s teachings into practice. “Dribble with your right foot,” and I gave a Lazio fan a sharp kick in the ass. “Dribble with your left foot,” and I let fly with another vigorous kick in the ass. “Slalom dribble,” and I avoided a couple of biancazzurri. “Do a leg fake,” and I faked my way past two more Lazio hooligans. “Fake a leg fake,” and I did my best to pretend I wasn’t dying. We had a rough time of it in that parking lot, but we finally made it back to the team bus. It really should have come as no surprise, but still we were horrified to discover that Liedholm hadn’t made it back yet. They picked up rocks from the ground and threw them at us, smashing the bus windows. Some of the team were hurt by this point, and blood had begun to flow. There was nothing we could do but try to lie low, on the floor of the bus, in the aisle running between the seats. It was a little corner of hell. Finally, out of nowhere, Liedholm showed up, not a hair out of place, escorted by two city cops.

  “Why, boys, what’s happened to the bus? Why are you lying on the floor?”

  We explained everything to him in chorus: “Go fuck yourself.”

  He was a character. A phenomenon. Before every major match he would instruct Dr. Ernesto Alicicco to tell us jokes in the locker room. But that afternoon, we were the joke ourselves, and the punch line didn’t make us laugh. So the Roma team walks into the Lazio stadium … In the emergency room, we got so many stitches we could have run up a whole new set of team uniforms with the thread.

  Roma was just that way. My nickname on the team was Il Bimbo—the Kid—and Il Bimbo is who I am. Someday, I’m going to coach that team, I have a debt of gratitude. It was a fun team to play for. From the very first day. From back in 1979, when Liedholm, on his way back home from a holiday at the spa in Salsomaggiore with his wife, stopped by to see me in Parma and took me away with him. The transfer fee was 1.2 billion lire ($950,000). It was like an episode of The Price Is Right. And, from the minute I got there, it was clear that I was in a unique place, and first impressions matter.

  I got off the train from San Benedetto del Tronto at Rome’s Termini station with simple, easy-to-follow instructions: “Get a taxi outside the station, tell him to take you to Via del Circo Massimo, the press conference is being held there. Pay close attention: a yellow taxi, with writing on the door and TAXI written on the dome light on the roof; don’t take a gypsy cab, they’ll charge extra.” Fine. I obeyed the instructions to the letter, but the taxi driver didn’t recognize me; we pulled up outside of Roma headquarters, and there was a screaming, chanting crowd of four thousand delirious fans. In fact, the transfer season of 1979 was an important time: Turone and Benetti had just arrived, Conti had returned from being on loan, and Romano had joined in defense. It was a nice feeling, I felt like one of the team. I was ready to get out of the cab, asked the driver how much I owed him. “Ten thousand lire.” I pulled out my wallet, extracted a ten thousand lire note, handed it to him. There was a growl of disapproval from the fan base. When they saw that I was paying the cabbie, the crowd turned ugly, and insults flew in the general direction of that unfortunate taxi driver. “A Lazio fan!” “Dirty traitor!” “Nun te devi fa’ paga’—don’t take his money!” “Cojone, asshole, Roma is sacred!” To make a longish story short, they hemmed the cab in, taking the driver hostage, and started rocking the car back and forth for no good reason—and with me inside. I started feeling seasick. It must be fate—I seem to remember the faces of a lot of taxi drivers. He was terrified: “Get out. The ride is free. Just get out of my cab. Beat it!” My career was just beginning, and they were already ordering me out of taxicabs.

  There was just one minor detail: I still didn’t have a signed contract. With Parma, I was earning ten million lire ($8,000) a year; now that Roma had recruited me, I had decided to ask them for a hundred million. I was at the summer training camp in Brunico, we’d been working for a few days, so I went to talk directly with the chairman, Dino Viola, a magnificent manager and leader, and a man who counted pennies. “Ancelotti, how much do you want?”

  “A hundred million lire a year, Mister Chairman.”

  “You are out of your mind.
”

  Then three weeks of total silence. On the last working day before the regular season began, Viola himself called me: “Ancelotti, have you thought about your salary?”

  “Well, maybe we could talk it over …” So I let him talk me down to 24 million lire ($20,000) a year before taxes, from my original demand of 100 million lire a year after taxes. Twenty-four million lire—more or less the same salary Parma had been paying me. How long did negotiations last? About twenty-nine seconds. Results of the negotiations: disastrous. Just like my debut in Serie A, at the Stadio Olimpico, playing against the champions of Italy, A. C. Milan. Enormous tension, enormous excitement, an unsettling sense of doubt as to whether I was up to the challenge of that gigantic world. After the first minute of play, Conti runs up the length of the pitch and hits the post, Pruzzo brings it down with his head. I’m in the penalty area, Albertosi makes a miraculous save, and the ball rolls out half a meter in front of me. I can’t believe my luck—on my début in Serie A! I close my eyes, pull back, and send an intercontinental missile toward the goal; so hard my foot was hurting afterwards. Albertosi gets to his feet and blocks the ball with his face. Jesus, he blocks it with his face. The ball ricocheted away from the goal—final score: 0–0. I was confused, a little angry, but almost happy. Deep inside, part of me was celebrating. I finally understand, I’ve finally learned. I faked a fake. I faked a goal.

  CHAPTER 7

  Achilles’ Knee

  Peppe didn’t need to fake anything. He really was on the verge of dying on the spot, of a massive myocardial infarction—heart attack, to the layman. If he did, we already had our stories straight: we would just blame it on Bruno Conti. The situation was appropriate; there he stood, wrapped in toilet paper, ready to be flushed away if necessary.