by Andrea Pirlo
By definition it was an unfair fight: adults picking on a little kid. Just plain wrong. The only way I could defend myself was by doing things that would amaze. Precisely what they were accusing me of in the first place.
I bore the mark of a non-existent sin, but was protected by an invisible suit of armour. One that every so often couldn’t prevent the odd lunging knife or poisoned arrow slipping through. A whole bunch of them hit me one afternoon when I was 14 and playing for the Brescia youths. I say playing for them, but in actual fact they were playing against me.
“Pass me the ball.”
Silence.
Strange: I’d shouted it loudly, and my Italian was pretty good.
“Guys, pass me the ball.”
Still nothing. A silence so deafening that I could hear my words echoing around.
“Is something going on here?”
Silence again. Everyone making out they were deaf.
Nobody would pass me the ball. My team-mates were playing amongst themselves, leaving me out completely. I was there but they couldn’t see me. Or better, they could see me, but chose to pretend I wasn’t there. They were treating me like some kind of leper, just because I was better than them at football.
I flitted about like a ghost, dying on the inside. There was a mutiny taking place against me. They wouldn’t even talk to me, wouldn’t even look in my direction. Absolutely nothing.
“Are you going to give me the ball or not?”
Silence.
I blew up and burst out crying. Right there on the pitch, in front of 21 opponents. Eleven on the other team, and 10 supposedly on mine. Once I started I just couldn’t stop. I ran and cried. I sprinted and cried. I stood still and cried. I was completely dejected and depressed. Most of all, I was an adolescent. And that sort of thing shouldn’t happen to someone so young. At that age, you should be scoring goals and celebrating. But the fact that I scored so many upset a lot of people.
It was in that precise moment that my career, still in its formative stages, took a turn down the right path. I had a choice: get pissed off and stop, or get pissed off and keep playing. Playing my way. The second option struck me as more intelligent, and something I could work on straight away.
Off I went and gathered the ball. Once, twice, a hundred times. Me against the rest of the world. I was like some kind of noble crusader. Nobody wanted to play with me? Fine then; I’d be my own team. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the weaponry. Ten of them would struggle to score, but I’d manage it all on my own. I’d dribble past every last one of them, including the kids wearing the same colour of shirt as me.
They’d all got it so wrong: I didn’t have the slightest intention of behaving like a superstar. The truth is a lot simpler: that’s just how I was made. I was acting on pure instinct, not riding a flight of fancy. I’d spy a pass, the chance to bring out a trick or an opportunity to score and it was already done. I’d outpace even myself, especially when it came to thinking.
Even in those early days I was someone who always had to deliver; always had to maintain high standards. For everyone else, it was okay to have an average game. If I did, it was a failure.
Right from the start, they said I always seemed tired, as if I couldn’t go on. Truth is they were taken in by the way I moved around the pitch. I looked like I was idling, always taking small steps. Small steps for me, giant leaps for mankind. Or something like that.
Venting my emotions out on the pitch all those years ago was like releasing a coiled spring. If there are too many people around, I’ll tend not to speak all that much. I’ll get worked up, for good or bad, without letting on. But that afternoon it was a different story.
I conducted a long and silent discussion with my inner self. Looking back, it bordered on madness:
Andrea, a gift like yours shouldn’t be a millstone. It’s true, you’re better than the others, and you should be proud of that fact. Mother Nature was kind to you; she was on good form the day you were born. She gave you the magic touch – now go take advantage of it.
You want to be a footballer? That’s the dream that’s attached itself to you? The others want to be astronauts but you couldn’t give a fuck about going into space? Well then, go and pick up that ball. Give it a stroke: it belongs to you. The jealous folks don’t deserve it. They’re trying to steal that special part of you. Smile. Be happy. Make this moment brilliant and then make many more just like it.
Go on, take that leap and if you can, take your father with you. The people giving chase will soon fall behind. It’s written in the stars. Go, Andrea. GO!
Even today, I’m not completely convinced I’m unique or irreplaceable. But I struggle to explain that to people who are used to making superficial judgments about me. I have reached one conclusion, though. I think I’ve understood that there is a secret: I perceive the game in a different way. It’s a question of viewpoints, of having a wide field of vision. Being able to see the bigger picture.
Your classic midfielder looks downfield and sees the forwards. I’ll focus instead on the space between me and them where I can work the ball through. It’s more a question of geometry than tactics. The space seems bigger to me. It looks easier to get in behind – a wall that can easily be knocked down.
People have compared me to Gianni Rivera,4 saying that side of my game reminds them of him. I’ve never seen him play, not even on video, so I can’t say whether they’re right or wrong. I’ve never looked at another player, past or present, and thought they were similar to me. I suppose there’s always time, but I’m not on the lookout for clones; it’s not something that interests me. After all, Dolly won’t ever be the same as the other sheep.
I don’t feel pressure, either. I don’t give a toss about it. I spent the afternoon of Sunday, July 9, 2006, in Berlin sleeping and playing the PlayStation. In the evening, I went out and won the World Cup.
From a mental point of view, my not entirely inadvertent tutor was Mircea Lucescu, the coach who plucked me from the Brescia youths aged 15 and put me straight into the big boys’ world of the first team. I found myself training with 30-somethings who were a little bit put out at me getting under their feet. They were twice as old as me and, some days, twice as nasty.
“Andrea, keep playing like you did in the youth team.”
That was the first phrase Lucescu whispered to me and, like a good little soldier, I obeyed. Not everyone took it well, especially the senior players in the dressing room. They were among the most listened to and respected out on the pitch, and were like old men compared to me.
One day I took the ball past one of them three times in a row. The fourth time was fatal. He committed the worst foul of all time, carrying out a premeditated assault on my ankle. There was no point trying to make out he hadn’t meant it – nobody would have believed him.
He, too, thought I was acting like a superstar when, in reality, all I was doing was following Lucescu’s instruction. The coach gave me a wink and said: “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. And make sure to try that again, please.”
He spoke to me with kindness then turned to the rest of the team and said: “Give the ball to Pirlo; he knows how to look after it.”
It’s the story of a strange friendship, between a person and an object. I knew how to do certain things with a football without even having tried them. My first real triumph was when my team-mates kicked me less often than they passed to me. On my first day of training, the ratio was 10:1 (ten attempted murders to one pass reaching me, almost always by mistake). Over time things improved, eventually reaching a point where there were consistently more passes than fouls.
That made me happy, especially for my dad, who could then get a season ticket in the best leather seats right in the middle of the stand. He didn’t need to bring along his earplugs any more. The jealous folks were right where we’d left them, back at the youth team pitches.
4. Rivera is a Milan and Italy legend. A stylish playmaker, he won three Serie A titles and two Eur
opean Cups, as well as the 1968 European Championship
Chapter 3
They weren’t bad kids, the ones I played with in the Brescia youths. But they did have a very serious problem; one that always got the better of them. They were running scared of their own dreams. Dreams that weighed them down and eventually crushed them.
They thought of me as the Bogey Man; someone trying to kill their future. I held out my hand to drag them up, but instead they turned their back on me. They fell behind then pulled out of the race to become professional players.
For me, it’s always better to keep chasing down the guy in front and maybe finish second, rather than stopping altogether. It’s a shame they never understood that.
I know fine well what was going through their minds when they found themselves in quicksand, corroded and imprisoned by the worm of jealousy. I can almost hear them even now: a chorus of voices all screaming the wish that was dying in front of their eyes: “We want to play for Barcelona or Real Madrid!”
I know because they told me. I know because I told them. Becoming a footballer is only the first half of the silent prayer a kid offers up to the sky or confides to his teacher in a primary school essay. The second part is the name of the team he wants to play for.
Spain was right at the top of our list, an undisputed king that had us utterly captivated. It was a flight of fancy, an ambitious project put together word by word while we had our playtime snack. We wanted to turn our fruit juice into sangria, or perhaps even cerveza.
Twice I almost managed the miracle.
It’s the summer of 2006, we’ve just won the World Cup, and I’m thoroughly drunk on life. I go out and about on my bike in the quiet little streets of Forte dei Marmi5 and, as I pass by on the seafront, people stop and pat me on the back. Fans say hello and I do likewise; there’s a nod of recognition for each and every one of them.
“Hello, Andrea.”
“Buenos dias.”
“What a lovely afternoon, Andrea.”
“Buenas tardes.”
“Sweet dreams, Andrea.”
“Buenas noches.”
“Ciao, Andrea.”
“Hola.”
“We’re heading back to Milan; see you soon, Andrea.”
“Adios.”
“Coming to the usual place in a little while for a drink, Andrea?”
“Hasta ahora.”
They must have thought that beating France in the final had fried my brain, but there was something they didn’t know. They were missing a vital piece of the story, namely that as things stood, I belonged to Real Madrid, not Milan. I was a Madrid player in my head, my heart and my soul. I had a five-year contract sitting waiting, and a salary that was out of this world.
It seemed that certain people at Milan had got themselves into one too many scrapes – or at least that was the story doing the rounds. Calciopoli6 was the second most popular topic of conversation back then, a close second to Italy’s penalty shootout triumph in Germany. One day you’d read that we were going to be relegated to Serie B, the next that we were looking at a 15-point penalty. The next again day they’d be talking about us handing back trophies and having our titles removed from the record books. After a while I began to suspect that it wasn’t Mark David Chapman who killed John Lennon. It had been one of the Milan directors.
The whole thing was an absolute shambles. Nobody, least of all me, had a clue what was going on and what Milan’s fate would actually be. One thing I was sure of, though: I would never drop down to Serie B. And if I had to leave, I wouldn’t feel like a traitor. You always want to be ambitious and play for a noble cause. There was no way I was going to pay for other people’s sins, if that’s what they turned out to be. I’ve always believed that those who make the mess are responsible for cleaning it up. If you break something, you pay.
The Madrid coach Fabio Capello phoned. And then Franco Baldini, their director of football. Everyone wanted to speak to me. I had a word with my agent and asked him to find out what Milan were saying about it all.
Shortly after, I was due back at Milanello. To make the Champions League proper, we had to get through a qualifier against Red Star Belgrade. I was trying to reach the very top of the skyscraper and here we were on the ground floor. Those of us who had been at the World Cup were in line for only 10 days’ holiday before training started again, but it was at that point Tullio said to me: “Hold off on going back. Let me speak to Real. If you really want a change of scene from Forte dei Marmi, head back to your house in Brescia. And keep your mobile on – in a little while you’ll get a call.”
No sooner had he said it than the phone started ringing. Nostradamus was a mere amateur compared to our Tullio.
“Hello Andrea, it’s Fabio Capello here.” Only one of the most successful coaches in the history of the sport.
“Hello, coach. How are you?”
“I’m great, and I imagine you’re even better. Come and join us. We’ve just signed Emerson from Juventus and you’re the man to play beside him in midfield.”
“Okay then.”
He didn’t need much time to convince me. Less than a minute, I reckon. Not least because I’d already seen the contract. My agent had studied it in great detail and then shot off to Madrid. We were like two young lovers, Tullio and I. Teenagers with each other on speed dial. The phone lines were red hot.
“Andrea, we’re on.”
“I’m really happy about that, Tullio.”
I pictured myself in that white jersey. Pristine, and at the same time aggressive; a mean streak running through its unusual purity. My thoughts often wandered to the Santiago Bernabeu, the temple, a ground that struck terror into opponents. Bruised and battered slaves at the king’s banquet.
“What do we do now then, Tullio?”
“Let’s go for lunch in a few days.”
“Where? Meson Txistu in Plaza de Angel Carbajo?”
“No, Andrea; not Madrid. Milanello.”
“What do you mean ‘Milanello’? Are you stupid?”
“Nope, you heard right: Milanello. We haven’t got Galliani’s approval yet.”
Ah yes, the pen guy.
The menu was always the same: I knew it off by heart. Antipasto, starter, main course and then the legendary ice cream with crunchy bits on top.
We met in the room used for team meals, halfway between the kitchens and the hall with the hearth where Berlusconi would pound away on the piano and tell various kinds of jokes. Equidistant between the most modest part of the complex and the richest. Between a symbol of humility and one of unabashed power. Between a place where people sweat buckets earning relatively little, and a spot where they earn a fortune sweating just the right amount.
I, meanwhile, was floating between Milan and Real Madrid.
Tullio spoke first. “Andrea’s going to sign for Real.”
Then me: “Yes…”
Then it was Galliani, staring straight at me. “Andrea, my friend, you’re not going anywhere.”
He pulled out a little case from under the table. That made me smile, thinking it had been just as well hidden as Monica Lewinsky under Bill Clinton’s desk in the Oval Office (every now and then I’m carried away by these crazy trains of thought).
A contract then appeared from the case, with Mr Biro adding, “You’re not leaving, because you’re going to sign this. It’s for five years, and we’ve left the salary details blank so you can write in whatever you like.”
Tullio just about ripped it out of my hands. “I’ll keep hold of this.”
He took his time, brought it home, read it and read it again. I went off to the national team training camp at Coverciano7 and, for a few days, I didn’t hear anything. I thought it was a done deal: I was thinking in Spanish, dreaming in Spanish. My imagination was in overdrive, flying off to Madrid and landing somewhere between Plaza Mayor and Puerta del Sol.
And then my agent phoned me.
“Sign for Milan. Right now, they’ll not let you leave
.”
“No…”
“Yes.”
“Ok, fine.”
People maybe think decisions like that take an eternity – hours, days, or even months, sapping your physical and mental energy. It’s almost never the case, because often your instincts will be telling you one thing but a clause in your contract obliges you to do something else entirely. In that sort of scenario, it doesn’t take long to say ‘no’, even if you’re doing so reluctantly.
You’re then forced to tell the media a lot of crap; provided, of course, that they manage to ask you the right question. If they enquire whether it’s right you’d practically signed for Madrid, you’re duty-bound to respond hiding behind well-worn clichés and half-truths. You read a dull, lifeless script written by press officers with no talent or creative spark.
“No, that’s not the case. I’m perfectly happy at Milan.”
Fuck off!
It’s a pity it went the way it did. I’d have signed for Real in a heartbeat. They’re a club with more glamour than Milan; more prospects, more appeal, more everything. They strike fear in their opponents, whoever they happen to be.
All that said, I had the consolation of winning the Champions League at the end of the season. It could have gone a lot worse.
Capello and his assistant Franco Baldini weren’t exactly happy when Tullio told them I wouldn’t be emigrating. The idea has always stuck with Baldini, however. Every time I see him, he comes over, smiles and launches into the same story. “I’ve never managed to bring you to a club where I’ve been working. Sooner or later, though…”
He tried to take me to Roma before I signed for Juventus. I just wasn’t sure of the situation and the circumstances, even though I trusted him. He’s great at his job; he’s got style. The new ownership structure was what concerned me – I just wasn’t convinced by it. “We’re going to build a great Roma,” Baldini kept insisting, but he couldn’t tell me much, if anything, about the Americans who had bought a majority stake.