by Andrea Pirlo
It’s a trick that some housewives have perfected. They’ll go to the supermarket and throw all sorts of big-brand goods into the trolley: San Daniele ham, Panna water, expensive parmesan cheese, Barolo wine. Then they’ll chuck in a plain, sad little yoghurt that looks out of place beside the rest. When they get the shopping home, the husband and kids see the yoghurt. It’s not what any of them would have picked, and they find the courage to pipe up. “Mamma, dearest, never buy that yoghurt again.”
They see it for what it is: a huge mistake, a plunge in style, an exception that reinforces the rule. Thanks to that interloper in the trolley, the rest stands out. The housewife, with her shrewd intelligence, had it mapped out all along. A perfect plan to extol and encourage certain tastes by sacrificing another. Her family will never find that plain old yoghurt in the fridge again, just as I hope never to experience another night like May 25, 2005. I wouldn’t be able to cope, even if I was a cat on my ninth and final life. I’d rather commit suicide by taking a stroll through a cage of ravenous Dobermans.
There are always lessons to be found in the darkest moments. It’s a moral obligation to dig deep and find that little glimmer of hope or pearl of wisdom. You might hit upon an elegant phrase that stays with you and makes the journey that little less bitter. I’ve tried with Istanbul and haven’t managed to get beyond these words: for fuck’s sake.
31. Milan were 3–0 up at half-time through goals from Paolo Maldini and Hernan Crespo (2). Liverpool hit back after the break, Steven Gerrard, Vladimir Smicer and Xabi Alonso all getting on the scoresheet. There were no further goals in extra time. Liverpool won 3–2 on penalties
32. Woody Allen’s mockumentary
33. Gigi Marzullo is a high-profile Italian talk-show host
34. Inzaghi’s goals came right on the stroke of half-time and in the 82nd minute. Dirk Kuyt scored for Liverpool in the dying moments, but Milan held on to win 2–1
Chapter 13
That’s right: for fuck’s sake. Double fuck. The first words that come to my lips when I think of Istanbul. For me, it’s now the capital of evil and forced cursing. Swearing’s my release, and the one weapon I have to defend myself against destiny when it elects to strike without pity. I’m not superstitious, so I’ve got to have something to cling to.
Others go in for some real heavy stuff. People like Alberto Gilardino, my one-time team-mate with Milan and Italy, put their faith in witchcraft. Most of the items in his kitbag are real ‘model footballer’ territory: Dolce and Gabbana dressing gown, Dolce and Gabbana slippers, Dolce and Gabbana suit, Dolce and Gabbana briefs, Dolce and Gabbana glasses, Dolce and Gabbana cologne, and L’Oreal hair gel – only because Dolce and Gabbana don’t make it.
But he’d always slip a pair of stinky old boots in there as well. We’re talking ancient, ugly, tatty things with wobbly studs. Archaeological relics, if truth be told, but he treated them like treasure and they were always spotlessly clean. He’d shine them up, caress them; sometimes he’d even talk to them and kiss them. Mental stuff.
As they looked like something Attila the Hun might have played in, our kit supplier made him promise not to wear them in competitive games. They sat him down to explain that Sandro Pertini had long since stopped playing cards on planes,35 that you couldn’t buy a black-and-white TV any more, and that John F Kennedy had been assassinated. This last piece of news in particular always seemed to take him aback (“are you serious?”), but he’d soon gather himself and his pride, saying: “I’m not chucking these boots away.”
“But why, Gila? They’ve got more holes than a slice of Emmental.”
“Because I’ve scored a shedload of goals in them. If I put them in the bag I take to the ground, they’ll transmit the fluid to my new boots.”
“The fluid?”
“The magic fluid.”
“Oh Gila…”
“Honestly. And the more I put them in with my other kit, the better the chances that the magic fluid will come out the soles and spread to the new boots. Fingers crossed it’ll work right away and have the desired effect.”
“So first they need to be squeezed like lemons, then you sprinkle the juice on the other ones?”
“Spot on Andrea. Finally someone who understands. It doesn’t take a genius.”
“You’re right about that – it doesn’t take a genius…”
From what I know, the boots date back to when he played for Biellese36 or thereabouts. Years later, just the sight of those wrecks with their frayed laces was enough to make him regress and lose his mind. They were his lucky charm – without them he felt lost.
“If I’ve got them with me, I’ll score goals. If I leave them at home by mistake, I’ll ask the boss to stick me on the bench, because there’s no way I’ll do anything good without them.”
Whatever you think of Gila’s little quirk, it’s considerably better than the more invasive ritual favoured by Filippo Inzaghi. Simply put, he crapped. Crapped a hell of a lot. That isn’t a bad thing in itself, but the fact he’d do it at the ground, in our dressing room, just before the game, got on our nerves somewhat. Especially if the dressing room was small – a stink like that in such a confined space can get a little overpowering. Often he’d go three or four times in the space of 10 minutes.
“It brings me luck, boys,” he’d say.
I’d heard that was the case if you stepped in it. That producing it and smelling it had the same effect was certainly news to me.
“It doesn’t do much for us, Pippo,” we’d say. “What have you been eating, anyway – a dead body?”
Inzaghi’s answer was always the same. “Plasmons.”
In hindsight, it was pointless even asking. We all knew those baby biscuits were what Pippo ate at all hours, every single day. He was a 40-year-old newborn. And when he came to the end of a pack, he had to leave two biscuits at the bottom. Not one, not three: two. “That way the stars will stay aligned in my favour.” Ah yes, the famous alignment of the stars and baby biscuits.
“For goodness sake, don’t touch the last couple. You’ll just upset the balance,” he’d say. The intestinal one, most likely.
We tried everything to steal the last two from him, but never had any joy. He guarded them jealously, as selfish with his snacks as he was when it came to passing the ball. “I’m doing it for your own good, boys. You need my goals.”
There was the same self-enforced monotony about the other things he ate. Plain pasta with a little bit of tomato sauce and cured beef for lunch. Plain pasta with a little bit of tomato sauce and cured beef for dinner. That was his lifelong menu. He behaved in the same way at the table as he did in the opposition penalty box. Always doing the same thing, without any great imagination or flair, but with maximum efficiency.
At meal times, he’d sit and wait for the waiter to bring the dishes, almost as if he wanted to be spoon-fed. During games, he’d sit and wait for the ball to somehow bounce off him and end up in the net.
And he’d always have on the same pair of boots. They were good for all seasons and he cherished them with a rather suspicious level of devotion. Over the years I’ve realised that all forwards are fetishists. Pippo’s boots didn’t have any magic fluid, but they did have loads of patches. Like Gilardino’s, they dated back to the dawn of time, but there was a clear difference in the outlook of the respective owners.
“I’m well aware these boots are destroyed, but I’m going to keep playing in them,” Pippo would say. “Nobody’s ever going to change my mind. These are the only soft ones going.”
“What are you on about?” we’d ask. “All boots that professional players use are soft.”
“Nope, you’re wrong. Only these ones are.”
He was completely crazy but harmless. A really nice fruitcake, if you like.
Sebastiano Rossi37 wasn’t much better (or worse, depending on how you look at it). He was a great big bear of a goalkeeper, over two metres tall and with a truly inexplicable obsession. When the team warmed up befor
e a game, nobody could walk behind him. Under his strict house rules it was absolutely prohibited. “It’s bad luck: you’d be as well sticking an own goal past me right now,” he’d say.
Everyone at Milan knew about this quirk, but we weren’t about to let on to our opponents. Guys like Angelo Peruzzi,38 his fellow keeper who happened to be playing at our ground one day. Now, at the San Siro there’s a little gym where both teams warm up. Rossi was busy doing an exercise with our trainer and had his back glued to his favourite wall. It so happened that he dropped a ball and had to take a couple of steps forward to retrieve it. At that precise moment, he saw Peruzzi coming over. Walking quite calmly, headed straight for him.
Rossi instantly abandoned what he was doing and, to stop Peruzzi in his tracks, wedged himself between him and the wall. We all heard the commotion, followed by these words: “Get out of here, this is private property. Nobody walks behind me.” It was as if he’d stuck up one of those signs you see with a picture of a dog with a line through it, replacing the face with that of Peruzzi.
There wasn’t a scene purely because Peruzzi knew you don’t attack crazy people. You smile, nod and agree.
“Seba, you could have hurt him,” we said.
“Pity I didn’t,” came the reply.
In the dressing room, he’d commandeer all the scissors used to cut the tape that goes over your socks and shin guards. He absolutely had to be the first person to use them. Only after he’d finished were the rest of us allowed a shot.
“If we change this routine, we’ll end up jinxed.”
Whenever he said that, I followed the old custom of touching my balls, just in case for once in his life he was right.
Back in my Reggina days, the man to keep an eye on was Paolo Foglio.39 He couldn’t sleep unless he’d balanced his trainers against the wall, one on top of the other with the toes pointing down. A real feat of geometry.
It was funny to watch these guys tackling their various demons. To me, it seemed a complete waste of time. Superstitions tend to begin when something goes wrong. For a goalkeeper, it might be letting in too many goals. For a striker, a temporary inability to find the back of the net. For Inzaghi, a sudden strike at the Plasmon factory.
I manage to keep my head even in difficult times which, fortunately, have been few and far between. I reckon that people looking on from outside are pleased to see a pretty normal guy without too many excesses. I like it when I hear parents tell their kids: “Pirlo’s got his head screwed on. Follow his example.”
You can be a good player, a really good player, without going overboard on the pitch. You don’t have to have a crazy haircut to be a point of reference for the team. I don’t even really like tattoos, although I’ve actually got three small, well hidden ones: my son Niccolò’s name in Chinese letters on my neck; an ‘A’ for his sister Angela just below, and my wife Debora’s name on my ring finger, covered by my wedding band.
They’re invisible to others: some sentiments should belong to me alone. I feel them on my skin. I want them on my skin.
Compared to every other team I’ve played in, superstitious folks are thin on the ground at Juventus. Conte’s very religious: before he goes onto the pitch, he’ll kiss a crucifix and statuettes depicting saints, then move onto the Madonna and his rosary beads. I don’t think he’d put up with some of the more tribal stuff.
Come to think of it, however, there’s one exception to the rule: our president, Andrea Agnelli. During my first season at the club, he missed every single away game. “I feel sure of victory only when we’re playing in Turin,” he says. “Anywhere else, I pick up negative vibes.”
To win the scudetto, we beat Cagliari at the Stadio Nereo Rocco in Trieste. The president wasn’t there, but I’m saying nothing. The guy who pays my wages is always right.
35. Sandro Pertini was Italian president from 1978 to 1985. When Italy won the World Cup in 1982, he flew back from Spain with the team and was pictured playing cards with manager Enzo Bearzot as well as players Dino Zoff and Franco Causio. The World Cup itself was sat in the middle of the table
36. A club from the town of Biella in Piedmont, northwest Italy
37. Goalkeeper who started out with Cesena before spending over a decade at Milan
38. Goalkeeper who played for Roma, Juventus, Inter and Lazio, and was part of Italy’s World Cup winning squad in 2006
39. A jobbing right-back who saw service with Reggina, Atalanta and Siena
Chapter 14
His uncle was known as the avvocato,40 his father was the dottore,41 and he’s plain old Andrea. A simple title for a special man who’s cut from the same cloth as all the other Agnelli. Lamb by name,42 lion by nature and never, ever caged. Always free to mingle with the common man.
Andrea is one of us, and one of them – he’s a fan with special privileges because his words have the power to get the players on their feet and into action. The team belongs to him and to everyone: it’s a communist co-operative at the heart of a capitalist state. He pays, the others celebrate, then he can rejoice as well.
Juventus isn’t his plaything. It’s something greater: a family passion, a private property that remains extremely public. A cause that he’s inherited, cultivated, made bigger. He’s a president, the president. Coming from the past to build the future. The present certainly exists as a crucial point on the bianconero43 timeline, but somehow it’s also fleeting.
The president’s motto is “Work, work, and more work”. The reality is he doesn’t need to but, for him, it’s an insatiable desire. “The only way to win,” he calls it. “The one path that will take you to your most ambitious goals.”
His passion for Juventus is almost pathological. Friends of the club are always welcome, but its enemies must be stopped, as soon as humanly possible. He’s not a nasty man by nature but if you’re against him, you’ll see that side. He always fights fire with fire: any perceived slight against Juventus is a slap in the face for him, and he’ll react. He’ll roar, grapple and hit out, with words that have the gravity of a sentence issued by a judge.
From the team’s point of view, he’s a very kind and caring president. He never raises his voice with us, however things are going. He’ll be there by our side in sickness and in health until death do us part, because he’s married to us and the club. His first thought is for us, and only then will he worry about himself. He loves us and we’re all very aware of that fact.
Just like Conte, he knows what needs said and when, even if his tone is softer and less strident. He could talk about figures like Gianni and Umberto Agnelli44 but never does. He could go on about Michel Platini, Roberto Baggio, maybe even Alessandro Del Piero, but they don’t enter the conversation either.
He’ll never go into detail about a particular dynasty or team from the club’s past. He doesn’t like making comparisons because it might cause embarrassment and that’s just not his style. Many times, however, I’ve heard him say: “It’s a privilege to play for Juventus. It’s a beautiful thing, written into only a few people’s destiny, and you should always thank your lucky stars that you’re here. Everyone who’s played for this club has won something sooner or later. One trophy, 10, a hundred. This club is everything, and it needs to be everything for you as well. You need to be Juventus to the very core of your being, always striving for further glory, for yourself and for the club. Take your lead from those who came before you. Be that inspiration for those who’ll follow.”
One brick and then another: happiness for him derives from a pretty straightforward plan.
Even when he’s talking about something else, it always comes back to Juventus. The season after we won the title in Trieste,45 we were suffering a bit of a dip, and he started discussing the Ryder Cup in golf, another sport he adores. “Boys, there’s this competition that takes place every two years where the strongest golfers in Europe and the United States play against each other. It’s the absolute ultimate, the noblest thing they can be involved in. It’s a real he
aven on earth for these guys.”
In 2012 it took place at Medinah Country Club, not far from Chicago.
“At the end of the first two days, the Americans were 10-6 up. They were on the verge of winning and making that ultimate dream a reality. They needed only four-and-a-half points and, for anyone who doesn’t know, that’s not really a lot. The Europeans, on the other hand, needed to win eight of the 12 singles matches to draw level and hold onto their trophy.”
In essence, he was talking about people who wear caps with visors on their heads. Who go about with clubs in their hands and shiny shoes on their feet. Two groups of well-to-do gentlemen out for a stroll on perfect lawns. And yet he had us utterly captivated. He was pushing all the right buttons and we really got into the story. There was complete silence in that room, as if we were all holding our breath at the side of those greens in Illinois.
“During the last day of play, the Europeans pulled off a miracle. They didn’t just draw; they won. Through sheer force of will. And will can take you everywhere, boys. It can tear down walls, give you wings and destroy differences. The Americans were absolutely powerless as they watched the greatest comeback in the history of the Ryder Cup taking shape before their eyes. They were swept away by that force, caught up in it against their will.
“The newspapers over there called it ‘The Miracle of Medinah’. Boys, let’s not give up. Let’s give it everything we’ve got. Every last ounce within us.”
Call me mad, but his words sent a shiver down my spine. Just for a moment, he reminded me of Al Pacino and his extraordinary performance in Any Given Sunday, the cult film where he plays an American football coach. Unforgettable words – cinema to make your heart race. I looked at our president and saw Pacino as he delivered his lesson in that husky voice. “Either we heal as a team, or we’re gonna crumble. Inch by inch, play by play. Until we’re finished. We’re in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And, we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back into the light. We can climb outta hell ... one inch at a time. But I can’t do it for ya.”