by Andrea Pirlo
He’s often targeted and insulted by opposition fans. Let’s say that the way he goes about his business perhaps doesn’t help him get much love, but I’m still convinced that if he was white, people would leave him in peace.
‘Jump up high so Balotelli dies’ is an unspeakable chant that, sadly, I’ve heard at the Juventus Stadium amongst other places. Even worse are the monkey noises that I’ve listened to pretty much everywhere.
But instead of depressing Mario, moronic behaviour of that kind actually seems to fire him up. He won’t let this human trash get their way, and it’s the most intelligent response because if you listen to what a stupid person says, you elevate them to the position of interlocutor. If you simply ignore them (still acknowledging that, unfortunately, they exist) you’re leaving them to stew in their own polluted sea: one where there are no friends and no shore. The good news is that even sharks can die of loneliness after a while.
Prandelli has given us national team players some firm direction on the matter. “If you hear people in the stands disrespecting Mario, run over to him and hug him.” In that way, hate can be cancelled out by an equivalent dose of love. Not a fashionable choice, but a pretty forceful idea.
Speaking in purely theoretical terms, I wouldn’t be willing to walk off the pitch in protest like Kevin-Prince Boateng did during a friendly against Pro Patria, taking the rest of the Milan team with him.54 I don’t think it’s the best way to make a stand again racism: for me, it’s more a surrender than a reaction.
That said, if one of my team-mates was a victim of intolerance and refused to carry on playing, I’d go along with his wishes and those of the rest of the team. It would be up to him to tell us how he felt and to take the final decision. I’d leave the field only if the whole team was in agreement, though. I think you’d have to actually experience something like that to know how you’d react. It’s too delicate a subject to plan your response in advance.
I’m happy that Mario is the way he is. He’ll react (wrongly) to provocation on the pitch, but doesn’t let what’s going on in the crowd affect him. If he scores, he might put his finger to his lips to mock the opposition fans, something that really infuriates them, but if they tell him he’s got the wrong colour of skin he’ll simply laugh in their faces. He makes complete fools of them and emerges a convincing winner. The way I see it, he’s capable of becoming a symbol of the fight against racism, both in Italy and throughout the world.
In terms of footballing ability, Mario’s class is unquestionable. I’d have happily seen him end up in a Juventus shirt. Top players are in a position of real strength, in that they can basically pick their club. The problem for us, however, is that there’s only ever been one team in Mario’s head. “Boys, sooner or later I’ll sign for Milan,” is the refrain we’ve all heard, and his dream duly became reality. I’d have loved to set up a few goals for him, playing a part in his success as I do with the national team. Only once did I think it might happen, when he said in an interview with Sky: “I’d really like to change the Juve fans’ minds about me.”
Maybe one day in the future we’ll play in the same club side. I say that knowing that his agent, Mino Raiola, an absolutely world-class operator, would sell his own name to close a deal. And I mean that quite literally. He once admitted as much speaking to the co-author of this book.
“Mino, clear something up for me. How do you pronounce your surname? Is it Raiola or Raiola?
“Whatever you want, just as long as you pay me.”
Give that man a round of applause.
For Mario, Juventus would have been a hyperbaric chamber. Somewhere he could let it all out and keep the pressure around him at a constant, ideal level. Buffon, Chiellini, Marchisio: when you look at those guys you realise just where you are. They’re always happy, always ready to involve and excite you with their infectious enthusiasm. And, when required, they can also make you change your mind.
Balotelli would have been loved and nurtured by a dressing room where hard work is the order of the day. Where the spirit of sacrifice is an absolute must, not a request where you can shake your head and say ‘no’.
Nobody ever moans and there are a load of Italy players about the place – perhaps the most precious strength of that whole environment. They’re all steeped in the history of the club and know by heart the peaks and troughs it has experienced. They don’t need any hints or clues as to who the good guys are and whose name needs a little cross. The national team players pull everyone along – they’re our happy driving force.
It was the same at Milan, but it wasn’t like that at Inter. Prandelli knows how it works at Juventus, and he usually calls us up to his squad en bloc. There’s no one single person in command. The whole thing works so well because of the democratic spirit that reigns in the dressing room. If Buffon really wanted to, he could quite easily stand up and say: “I’ll decide what happens here. I’m the captain; I’ve played in Serie B with this shirt on.” But he’s never done that and never will. He’s too intelligent, too good, too everything really.
Lots of fans will go crazy when they read this, but I’m convinced our recent success has come about precisely because we were demoted. It helped amplify to the nth degree the sense of belonging at the club, which emerged from the whole thing strengthened. Getting back to Serie A was hard but, over the years, that pure anger has been transformed into something more positive. Now there’s no more room for shame: being a Juventino is to carry oneself with pride and dignity. Till the very end, as president Agnelli would say.
When the negative vibes were cleansed, the resulting explosion brought about something remarkable. It was a black-and-white Big Bang, the creation of a new world very similar to the old one. And that’s the really good news: Juventus descends from itself.
People are scared of us again, and it’s getting more and more that way. We’re reminded of that fact every day by numerous individuals, chief amongst them one Antonio Conte, when he sticks up on the dressing-room door the articles where opponents talk about us. He collects and cuts out these interviews with an almost maniacal zeal, attaching them to the entrance to that most secret room.
He takes a red highlighter to the bits he really wants us to read. People talk about the labourer president;55 well, we’ve got the newsagent manager. At least once a week there’s a summary session of what’s been said in the papers. The message is clear. When it’s Juventus they’re playing, everyone takes on a completely different character, even those without hope at the bottom of the league with nothing left to play for. They’ll try to claim a big scalp by getting under our skin. It’s all about provocation.
“Boys, have you seen what this guy’s saying?” Conte will ask. “He reckons we’ve got weak spots.”
“It’s all bullshit, coach,” we’ll say.
“It might be bullshit, but if we’re men, we need to stand up and show him he’s wrong. And look at this guy. He swears we’re going to go through a bad patch soon.”
“That’s a load of crap as well, coach.”
“Let’s not fall into this trap. There’s only one way to prove him wrong and that’s to win. Which reminds me – have you read this last line, the one I’ve circled?”
“Yes coach. That cretin says we’re the most unlovable team in the world and that everybody knows it.”
“He’s right about that. When we see him out on the pitch, we need to thank him for saying it. It’s a compliment: it means that we’re back. That people are scared of us, that we’re honouring the name we carry. Always remember this: opposition teams only really like those they know aren’t going to beat them.”
“Coach, he also says you’re crazy.”
“Do you see? In amongst the thousands of idiotic things he said, he’s had a moment of clarity. Now, you owe me one euro twenty.”
“What for?”
“The paper.”
54. A friendly match between Milan and lower-league club Pro Patria in January 2013 was abandoned after
players walked off in protest at racist chanting from fans. The game, played in Busto Arsizio near Milan, saw Pro Patria supporters single out Kevin-Prince Boateng and other black Milan players for abuse. Boateng tore off his shirt and walked off the pitch, and the rest of his team-mates followed him
55. Silvio Berlusconi is known as the presidente operaio, a reference to his pride in being a self-made man
Chapter 19
Matri’s paying. Matri56 always pays, in a figurative sense as much as anything. Nesta’s emigrated to Canada, I only see De Rossi when we’re with the national team, and so Alessandro’s the last man standing. It’s an unwritten rule that my current roomie is always my first victim.
To be honest, sometimes it’s like shooting at the Red Cross, even if he’d prefer me to directly bomb a hospital. He’s a hypochondriac, you see. Reckons he’s got every disease going. It’s so bad he sometimes thinks he plays for Torino but, in actual fact, there’s nothing wrong with him.
He’ll sneeze and go: “I knew it. I’ve got pneumonia. Doctor…”
Or he’ll spy a single spot and it’s: “Told you, an allergic reaction to something I’ve eaten. Help, help, I’m dying. Doctor!”
Heaven forbid he gets an itchy nose. “No, not herpes, no! Doctor!”
It’s a similar story out on the pitch. He’ll mess up a shot, missing the target by miles, and all you’ll hear is: “Mamma mia, must be the conjunctivitis to blame there.”
At that point I’ll intervene and try to calm him down. “You’re absolutely fine, 100% healthy. Your only problem is you’re a wanker.”
He’ll laugh, but that just brings on toothache. So he’ll stop and his ears begin to burn. I know him, I like him and so I can’t help fooling around. “Ale, you’re losing blood from your nose.”
“Must be an epistaxis!”
“An epi- what?”
“An epistaxis – a really small haemorrhage.”
“It’s a brain haemorrhage you’ve got…”
“A brain haemorrhage!!”
“I give up.”
Any little twinge and he goes straight to the medics. If he thinks he’s got the flu, he’s checking his temperature every two seconds. It’s reached the stage where I suspect he just likes using the thermometer, that it brings him some kind of pleasure. One night I was thinking about the whole thing and decided to play a joke. As soon as he’d gone off to sleep, I went and got a poster of Andrea Barzagli,57 one of those they give away with the Hurrà Juventus magazine, and pinned it up above his bed. I took a photo on my BlackBerry and sent it to a load of mates along with a three-word message: “Now that’s love.” A complete fabrication, of course. Precisely like all his ailments.
When he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, shaving or making himself beautiful with all his lotions and potions, I’ll burst in shrieking like a madman.
“What the fuck, Andrea? You’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Aaaaaand we’re here again…”
He’s a very anxious bloke, Matri, scared of everything. The doctor hates him. I adore him, just about as much as he loves Barzagli, because he has a priceless gift. Whenever he plays, all he needs is a single touch and he’ll get you a goal. Let him have another touch and he’ll score again. His strike rate is fantastic – he’s a hugely underrated player. If I was a president, a guy like him would be right at the top of my wish list. He comes with a billion-year guarantee.
Every so often, I tell him what I think. “Ale, you could cause any defender in the Italian league a headache.”
“A headache?”
“Don’t worry: it’s only a figure of speech.”
One of these days I’m going to secretly film him and stick the video on YouTube – it would go viral overnight. But you could watch it only once before it self-destructs: in football, Paganini dies before he’s even born.58 There are no repeats in this game. The things that players do can’t be wound back and watched in slow motion, and some terrible errors of judgment occur as a result. Using the helping hand of technology simply isn’t allowed under the current rules.
Referees cop a lot of flak because those in charge are welded to traditions that are more stupid than they are old. Certain individuals don’t want to go down the road of in-game replays, something that would solve at least 50% of the current problems, kill all the controversy stone dead and make our (professional) lives a lot less eventful.
Zidane was sent off for a headbutt on Marco Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup final. Everyone knows the ref, Horacio Elizondo, took that decision after his assistants saw the images on TV, even if they technically couldn’t be influenced by them. Luckily for us, they weren’t experts in lip reading.59
In today’s climate, having that external aid would be massive for match officials. Referees aren’t robots; the law of averages tells you they’re going to get things wrong occasionally. I’ve also never been able to understand how linesmen can watch the ball being struck and at the exact same time judge whether the player receiving it is in line with the others. Not even a four-eyed monster could manage that.
Saying ‘no’ to technology is like something out of a sporting Third World. All you’d need is a small screen where the fourth official stands. (Incidentally, I’ve always thought that ‘fourth official’ sounds like some kind of special agent rather than one of the referee’s assistants). They’d be able to settle all the most difficult questions pretty much in real time. Was the ball over the line? Was that foul committed in the box or just outside? Offside – yes or no? In all of five seconds, some real dilemmas would be reduced to absolute certainty. The ref would still take care of all the more subjective stuff, like judging whether a tackle is a foul, because TV pictures can’t give you a definitive verdict there.
I’d love to see a more modern football. But at the apex of the power pyramid, where brains wither and wallets matter, people hide behind tradition and try to keep things the way they’ve always been. They pretend they’ve forgotten we used to wear pointed studs and played with a ball that weighed a kilo. Back in those days, we didn’t have TV cameras, either. I’m not saying that John Wayne should make a science fiction film, but Steven Spielberg would certainly be in a spot of bother if special effects didn’t exist. For one thing, he couldn’t be himself.
The next step is obligatory if we’re to overcome a mindset that’s now out of date and counter-productive. One that doesn’t take account of the changes we’ve seen on pitch, but also in society in general. It’s high time that football’s ruling class stopped dozing in their armchairs. Even opening one eye would be enough, or maybe just a little bit of both. They don’t understand that their antiquated way of thinking causes huge harm to referees. It leaves them utterly on their own and in the snipers’ crosshairs. Things they don’t notice in a split-second (and, as I say, they’re human and imperfect), millions of people see on TV. The folks watching on think “He’s fucked that one up: what a total idiot.”
What they should really be thinking is: “Poor soul: he’s being forced to operate in a bygone era.”
You don’t get black-and-white sets any more. But even just realising that TV has been invented would be a major step forward for certain people. It would also help those individuals who still obsess over pictures of the Sulley Muntari ‘goal’ that wasn’t given in the now infamous Milan-Juventus match from 2012.60 Perhaps they could finally let it go and delete the photos from their phones.
At the end of every game, more in Serie A than the Champions League, it has to be said, managers and directors line up to pass comment on the referee. They talk about what’s not gone well; the mistakes that made them lose their cool. This painful vivisection of the game’s most controversial moments goes on for hours and hours. They talk about the ‘ideal decision’ and compare it to the one taken on the pitch. It’s always the same uncharitable message: the match officials got it wrong. Again. They’re completely unreliable.
There should be more honesty in what people say. Playe
rs should remember the pass they misplaced; coaches the formation they messed up. Directors should recall the bad signings they’ve made, fans some of the songs they’ve sung, and Matri his medicine box. Passing judgment on others is always a lot of fun. Looking inwards is that little bit more difficult.
We need to get one thing straight. ‘Let’s throw ourselves into the future’ can’t just be an electoral slogan or an advert for a swimming pool in Nyon or Zurich. It needs to become a way of thinking, a real desire to change for the better. Other sports have taken that leap without suffering any negative repercussions.
Let’s say Rafael Nadal’s got match point at the Australian Open. The chair umpire decides the ball’s in, awards an ace and gives Nadal victory. But Hawkeye, the electronic aid commonly used in tennis, says he’s got it wrong. Truth is the winner: the match continues, Nadal goes off and serves again without complaint, his opponent doesn’t mouth off ad infinitum, the umpire puts his hand up to say he got it wrong and the fans immediately forget the whole thing to concentrate on the next point. No losers and no controversy.
Either we start playing on a pitch made of blue cement or we use the available technology regardless of the tournament we’re competing in. One or the other.
56. Striker Alessandro Matri played with Pirlo at Juventus before signing for Milan in 2013
57. The Juventus and Italy centre-back
58. Niccolò Paganini, perhaps the most celebrated violinist of all time, was thought to have died at the age of six but started moving again during his own funeral
59. Materazzi is alleged to have made insulting comments to Zidane about his mother and sister, provoking the Frenchman’s angry reaction
60. In February 2012, Juventus and Milan were locked in a battle for the title. Milan took an early lead in the head-to-head at San Siro, and seemed to have doubled their lead when a shot from Sulley Muntari clearly crossed the line, only for the match officials to wave play on. Alessandro Matri equalised late on for Juventus, who went on to win the league by four points