I Think Therefore I Play

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I Think Therefore I Play Page 12

by Andrea Pirlo


  Chapter 20

  I know how to think. I’d hate it if people looked at me and fell into the trap of assuming: “Footballer. An EEG61 on him wouldn’t show much activity.” There are, indeed, some pretty stupid players out there – I personally know a few of them. But then there are also surveyors, architects, teachers, musicians, journalists (I know a fair few), pharmacists and butchers with the same IQ as a rock.

  Generally speaking, I reckon I’m a fairly switched-on guy. I’ve an opinion about everything and I’m not ashamed to express it, defend it and, where necessary, shout it from the rooftops. I can also tell when somebody’s taking the piss out of me, or at the very least I’ll have an inkling. If I don’t have proof, I’ll go with my gut feeling, like with a certain game in La Coruña back in 2004.

  At the time I was playing for Milan, and we’d travelled to Spain to take on Deportivo in the second leg of a Champions League quarter-final. We’d won the first game 4–1 and the chances of us not going through were roughly equal to those of seeing Rino Gattuso complete an arts degree.

  We were already thinking about the semis, as if we’d got it all sewn up even before we flew to Galicia. A tailor-made walk in the park. We hadn’t taken into account a couple of possibilities. One, that the tailor might go mad and, two, that our own players could be struck down by collective amnesia. Every single one of them, all at the same time.

  The impossible became reality. We forgot to play, and it ended 4–0 to them. They were laughing at us that night.

  The first thing that needs to be said is that we did ourselves in. But, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, something doesn’t stack up. Our opponents were going at a thousand miles an hour all night, even the older players who’d never exactly been known for their ability to combine speed with stamina.

  What struck me most was how they kept on running at half-time. To a man: no exceptions. When the referee, Urs Meier, blew his whistle they all shot off down the tunnel as if they were Usain Bolt. They couldn’t stand still even in that 15-minute period designed specifically to let you draw breath or at most just walk about.

  We were chasing shadows all night. Their players were crazy buzz bombs flying around all over the place. I don’t have any proof, so what follows isn’t an accusation – I’d never allow myself to go that far. It’s simply a nasty thought I’ve occasionally let percolate in the intervening years.

  For the first and only time in my life, I’ve wondered if people I’d shared a pitch with might have been on something. Maybe it’s all just anger that I haven’t yet managed to work through. But the Deportivo players were like men possessed, galloping towards a target that only they could see. For our part, we were completely blind, and duly brutalised.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, they came up against Porto in the semis and went out.62 Within a short space of time, they’d disappeared from the face of all the major European competitions.

  It does make me laugh, however, when people put the word ‘doping’ anywhere near the sacred name of Barcelona. They’re an elite circle who pass their secret down from generation to generation. The recipe is simple: to win with minimum effort, you make the ball do the work. The masters of the Camp Nou know how to run, but you never see them undertaking 70- or 80-metre sprints. At most, it’ll be 15 – they’re always looking ahead and they never tire themselves out.

  I imagine that drugs are a marginal problem in Italian football. We players are the subject of continual and extensive observation. We frequently, and gladly, receive visits from CONI63 and UEFA representatives, who make us undergo surprise tests. Not just urine, mind – they also take our blood. They’ll turn up during training, make themselves known and order us to follow them. They’ll take us into the dressing room, gym or medical area, man-marking us as we provide our samples. No player ever complains, and rightly so. As far as we’re concerned, transparent test tubes and honest syringes are always welcome.

  It would be really stupid to take a banned substance, both because of the trouble it would cause your conscience and the fact you’d be found out straight away. At the start of each season, the club’s medical staff give us a list of medicines we shouldn’t use. I’ll call the doctor even if I’m thinking about taking an aspirin – the danger of doing something irresponsible helps me stay ever vigilant. I’m like Matri in this regard: doping’s a disease I’ll never catch and yet it scares the life out of me.

  I get angry when cyclists give interviews and accuse footballers of being spoilt. Too rich, they say, always in the spotlight, total prima donnas. And yet they forget that ours is undoubtedly a clean world. The stuff that’s coming out about theirs doesn’t surprise me. Ex-riders admitting to using banned substances doesn’t even make the headlines any more. People now take it as read that it’s been a widespread practice for years. And that is truly sad.

  It seems they’re all at it, not least because for any normal person it would be impossible to pedal 300km a day, at maybe 40km per hour, then get up and do the same 24 hours later, and then once again the following day.

  Events like the Tour de France, Giro d’Italia and Vuelta a España require riders to be at peak fitness for weeks on end. Some of those mountain climbs would melt a car engine, yet the cyclists manage to keep going. They’ve talked about legalising doping, but that strikes me as an obscenity – much better to shorten the stages.

  It really annoyed me when Lance Armstrong, and thereafter a procession of support riders (or supporting actors…), admitted they’d deceived their opponents. That they’d whored themselves out to certain gurus just to get on the podium. It’s not the confession that bothers me; that’s the sacred part of this whole discussion. I’m more concerned with the hundreds of times they denied it, acting all indignant and threatening reprisals and lawsuits against those who were unmasking them. In the end, the authorities stripped Armstrong of seven Tour de France titles after showing that he’d scaled the Eiffel Tower in a helicopter. Nothing to do with training. Zero titles won on the pitch, to coin a phrase ...

  I just hope they teach the younger cyclists that it’s wrong to cheat. Perhaps they need to take a piece of paper and write the names of everyone who already has. Or maybe it would be better to make a list of those who’ve gone too soon, having died in suspicious circumstances. That sort of shock treatment is certainly required. On cigarette packets you’ll see ‘smoking seriously endangers health’ in big block capitals, and from that point on, it’s completely the smoker’s responsibility if they happen to get ill. Perhaps on bike frames we should now be writing: ‘Don’t put any shit in your water bottle.’

  If I look in the mirror when I get up, or before going to bed at night, I see a man of average ugliness. With stubble, an unruly mane of hair, a squint nose, slightly protruding ears and bags under my eyes. But I also see a man who’s completely happy with the figure staring back at him. Who’s proud of every single second of his past.

  Gino Bolsieri at Flero and Roberto Clerici at Voluntas weren’t just the first coaches to understand that my ideal position is in front of the defence. Apart from my dad Luigi and mum Lidia, they were also the first people to remind me that taking a shortcut might help you finish first, but one day you’ll find yourself face to face with your demons and you’ll lose. You’ll perish in a hell that you yourself helped create.

  I do have something that burns inside me, an Olympic torch deep within. It’s a violent fire, made of flames and passion and fed by pure pleasure. To put it out, to put me out, they’ll need to douse my soul. Pretty much everyone who’s been even half-listening knows what I’m talking about. As do the directors of Al-Sadd, the Qatari club who qualified for the 2011 FIFA Club World Cup.

  When my agent Tinti rings and gets straight to the point without bothering to say hello, you know there’s something serious going down. “Andrea, the guys from Qatar want you.”

  “Come again?”

  “You’re going to play in Qatar.”

  “Are you mad? I
wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it’s too soon.”

  My last season at Milan was on the home straight and I didn’t have the slightest intention of emigrating.

  “But even Guardiola played over there.”

  “Yes, at the end of his career.”

  “Okay then. But you need to go and meet them, just to be polite.”

  “Fine – when do they arrive?”

  “They’re already in Milan. Stick on a tie – I’ll come and pick you up in an hour.”

  They were waiting for me at the Principe di Savoia, a fabulously luxurious hotel close to the main train station, where David Beckham stayed during his time at Milan. The Qataris had booked out an enormous suite and in it were the club’s owner, a few directors and a swarm of lawyers.

  “Ciao, your contract’s ready.”

  “Good day to you as well; it’s an honour to meet you ...”

  “You’ll look great in our strip.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, my name’s Andrea Pirlo.”

  “You don’t have to make up your mind straight away. We’ll give you a few minutes to think it over.”

  “In truth, I’ve only come here to find out who you are.”

  There was something of a linguistic incompatibility at work, a fissure in the space/time continuum. They were travelling in the future while I focused on the present. Even so, they made a good impression. That was the day I discovered that Father Christmas does exist.

  “Andrea, how many kids have you got?” they asked.

  “Two.”

  “Well, we’ve an excellent English language school in Qatar.”

  “I actually quite like hearing them speak Italian.”

  “No problem. We’ll build a new one and employ only Italian teachers. Are you a fan of cars?”

  “Yes ...”

  “Great. We’d be delighted if you’d accept a few Ferraris as a gift.”

  “A few?”

  “And if you find yourself missing Italy, there will always be a private jet sat on the runway for you.”

  “But ...”

  “The contract’s ready. It’s for four years.”

  “Thanks but ...”

  “It’s for 40 million Euros.”

  At that point Tinti almost passed out.

  “40 million over four years, not per season. You’ll understand we can’t go overboard, what with the financial crisis.”

  “Ah yes, I understand.”

  “But if 10 million a year isn’t enough, don’t worry, let’s talk.”

  It was all too much. If I’d asked them to reclaim the desert, perhaps they would have said ‘yes’. To avoid further temptation, I forced myself to end the chat.

  “Many thanks, but I can’t,” I said. “Signing for you would mean signalling the end of my career, and I still think I’ve got a lot to give in Europe, in Italy. If I change my mind, I’ll be in touch in a year or two.”

  “11 million.”

  “Tullio, let’s go.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Tullio.”

  “Thirteen.”

  I had to basically drag away my agent, who was in a state of ecstasy. We made our escape. I looked at my watch and realised the time was 21:21. My favourite number, twice over. Destiny was whispering softly in my ear: “You did the right thing in there.”

  My dad was born on the 21st. It’s also the day I got married and made my debut in Serie A. It became my shirt number early on and I’ve never let it go. It brings me luck, and that’s the reason this book stops at 20 chapters. I like to think that the next one is made up of blank pages, waiting to be filled with other tales and experiences yet to be written.

  And one thing’s for sure – I’ve got a pen.

  61. A scan to assess the brain’s electrical activity

  62. After a goalless draw in Portugal, Porto won the second leg 1–0 to reach the final, where they beat Monaco 3–0

  63. The Italian Olympic Committee

  I’ve got well-hidden tattoos: my son Niccolò’s name in Chinese letters on my neck; an ‘A’ for his sister Angela just below

  I’m going to eat them all, but don’t tell Granny

  Want to bet that I’ll become a top player?

  Me in my Flero Juniors shirt. Even back then I wanted to be the one with the ball

  With Italy under-16s in Red Square in Moscow, Russia

  At my parents’ house. One cool guy, I’m sure you’ll agree

  On holiday in Viareggio with a freshly bought shirt: Inter, of course

  Finally at Inter and I’m even smiling

  With the under-21s at the Olympics. Bronze face, just like my medal

  I spent the afternoon of July 9 2006 sleeping and playing the PlayStation. In the evening, I won the World Cup

  I made my decision right at the last second, when I saw Joe Hart doing all sorts on his line

  2005: I thought about quitting because, after Istanbul, nothing made sense any more

  2007: We celebrated, but didn’t forget

  Rino’s always been my favourite target, despite the fact that he tried to kill me with a fork

  Alessandro Nesta: Friend, brother, team-mate, roomie

  I tried to copy Juninho’s free-kicks and eventually I understood his secret

  Each free-kick bears my name and they’re all my children

  We need Mario Balotelli … he’s an antidote to the racists. Whenever I see him, I’ll give him a big smile

  When Conte speaks, his words assault you

  The team belongs to Agnelli and to everyone: it’s a communist co-operative at the heart of a capitalist state

  Index

  The page numbers in this index refer to the printed version of this book. To find the corresponding locations in the text of this digital version, please use the search function on your e-reading device.

  A

  Abbiati, Christian 48

  A.C. Milan FC 1–7, 16–17, 19–21, 23–24, 26–28, 38, 49, 56, 58, 65–66, 69, 72–77, 79, 81, 83, 85–86, 91–92, 95, 111, 132–4, 141, 143, 148

  Allegri, Massimilliano 2–3

  Alessio, Angelo 56

  Al–Sadd FC 148

  Ambrosini, Massimo 5, 48

  Ancelotti, Carlo 76, 78–79

  Agnelli, Andrea 97, 99, 105, 124, 135

  Agnelli, Umberto 100

  Apicella, Mariano 81

  Armstrong, Lance 146

  Armstrong, Neil 31

  Asamoah, Kwadwo 127

  Atalanta FC 125

  B

  Baggio, Roberto 62–63, 100, 119

  Baldini, Franco 17, 21

  Balotelli, Mario 131, 134

  Barca/Barcelona FC 15, 22–28, 77, 121, 145

  Baresi, Franco 74

  Barthez, Fabien 33

  Barzagli, Andrea 40, 138–39

  Battisti, Lucio 40

  Beckham, David 148

  Bennato, Edoardo 39

  Bergomi, Beppe 62

  Berlusconi, Silvio 8, 19, 75–79, 81

  Blatter, Sepp 70–71

  Boateng, Kevin–Prince 132

  Bolsieri, Gino 147

  Braida, Ariedo 46

  Brescia FC 9, 12, 15, 18, 62–63, 65–67, 76, 113, 118

  Brescia Reserves 39

  Busquets, Sergio 26

  Buffon, Gianluigi 34, 55, 57, 70, 134

  C

  Cagliari FC 97

  Calciopoli 17, 104

  Calcioscommesse 56

  Cambiasso, Esteban 62

  Camp Nou 145

  Cannavaro, Fabio 70

  Capello, Fabio 17–18, 21

  Carrerra, Massimo 56

  Casillas, Iker 70, 72

  Cassano, Antonio 37

  Castellini, Luciano 63

  Champions League 18, 21, 38, 71, 120, 141, 144,

  Champions League Final 2005 84–88, 92

  Champions League Final 2007 87

  Chechi, Jury 8

  Che
lsea FC 76–77

  Chiellini, Giorgio 57, 134

  Clerici, Roberto 147

  Conte, Antonio 53–56, 61, 78, 97, 100, 103, 135

  Coppa Italia 38, 120

  Corioni, Luigi 63

  Costacurta, Alessandro 73, 80

  Coverciano 20, 38, 40, 46

  Crespo, Hernán 86

  D

  Del Piero, Alessandro 100, 123, 125–126

  Deportivo de La Coruña FC 143–144

  De Filippi, Maria 42

  De Rossi, Daniele 40–43, 45–47, 137

  DiBenedetto, Thomas 21

  Di Biagio, Luigi 35

  Djorkaeff, Youri 63

  Drogba, Didier 72

  Dudek, Jerzy 84, 86

  E

  Elizondo, Horacio 139

  Emerson 18

  Estiarte, Manel 25, 29

  Eto’o, Samuel 23

  Euro 2000 35

  Euro 2008 112

  Euro 2012 35–36, 40, 72

  F

  Falcao, Radamel 70, 72

  Ferguson, Sir Alex 110

  FIFA Club World Cup 148

  Foglio, Paolo 96

  G

  Galliani, Adriano 1–2, 19, 73, 77

  Gattuso, Gennaro 45–49, 86, 143

  Gazzetta dello Sport 119

  Gilardino, Alberto 91–92, 94

  Guardiola, Pep 23–28, 31, 39, 148

  Guglielminpietro, Andrés 65

  H

  Hart, Joe 35

  Hodgson, Roy 63

  Huntelaar, Klaas–Jan 75–76, 78, 81, 83

  I

  Ibrahimovic, Zlatan 24, 27–28, 72, 83–84

  Iniesta, Andrés 26, 70–71

  Inter Milan FC, 5–6, 38, 45, 62–67, 69, 134

 

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