Peppe was in charge of the team warehouse; he’d been hired by A. S. Roma after he appeared on the playing field one day. It was a Roma–Inter match, Inter had a last-minute penalty shot, and Peppe had been unable to restrain himself. He hopped over the fence at the Stadio Olimpico. Howling like a madman, he’d rushed forward, but it had ended badly for him: beaten silly in front of five thousand screaming fans. The team owners wanted to save him from similar embarrassments in the future, so they took pity and gave him a job in the warehouse. He was a tiny little guy, a hard worker, with a very odd tic: he’d stick out his tongue and blow, then fake a dry spit. It was a brilliant masterpiece of weirdness, which always culminated the same way, with the same phrase repeated twice: “Up Lazio’s ass, up Lazio’s ass.” And who could argue with that sentiment?
One evening at training camp, we decided to play a prank on him. Me, Roberto Pruzzo, and Roberto Scarnecchia took Conti and wrapped him in toilet paper. Rolled from head to toe: he was so little that it only took a few rolls. “Soft, strong, and very long—Bruno Conti.” He really looked like a mummy; we even dabbed on a couple of spots of Mercurochrome to give him that nice dried-blood effect. At two in the morning, we stood him right outside of Peppe’s room, knocked on the door, and ran like the wind. When the poor little guy opened the door, Conti let out an infernal howl: “Mwah-hah-hah-hah.” Peppe gasped and staggered backward, the prank had worked perfectly. A little too perfectly, in fact: he had turned pale. He was mouthing words, but no sound was coming out. He was paralyzed by fear. “Peppe, it’s only me, Bruno.” Maybe that’s what really scared him … Anyway, we had to call a doctor. A couple of quick slaps in the face, and he was fine.
I considered kneeling down to beg forgiveness, but then I decided against it: “Right, smart boy, you’ll never get back up.” Achilles had weak heels, Pinocchio and Tassotti had spectacular noses, I had my knees: let’s just say that they weren’t exactly my strong point. I found out how weak my knees were when I was playing for Roma, with two serious on-field injuries. I don’t have the strongest memory where dates are concerned, but October 25 1981 is a day I’ll always remember. We were playing Fiorentina, and Francesco Casagrande—a determined halfback who had already broken my nose once when he was playing for Cagliari—was marking me. While I was trying to pivot to reach a throw-in, I made a strange move after chesting the ball down. I’d twisted my knee, and my teammates all took it out on him: “Bastard.” In fact, though, he hadn’t done a thing wrong; the instant replay on RAI television was crystal clear, he’d never even touched me.
The things that flood into your mind in those few seconds are crazy. The first thing that came to mind was Francesco Rocca, aka Kawasaki, an idol of mine, my first roommate when I came to play for Roma. In my mind, I reviewed his slow recovery, a lengthy period of torment after a serious injury, and, more importantly, I tasted the fettuccine (pansful at a time) that his mamma used to make for us in San Vito Romano after each training session. To tell the truth, I remembered the fettuccine first, then I remembered my teammate (after all, life is about priorities). Anyway, I had just ruptured my anterior cruciate ligament, but, since my menisci were still sound, we decided to try to recuperate without surgery. I stayed off my leg for a month, then I got back on my feet, and I was put on the bench for a game against Napoli. The next day, side-footing the ball during training with the youth team, I heard a distinct clock sound from inside my knee. Come again? Clock. Oh, thanks, now I understand perfectly. Two sharp sounds, and my knee was bent permanently. I was in Trigoria, I lay down on my sofa, and I called Doctor Alicicco. “Ernesto, something’s wrong. I think I broke my meniscus.”
“No, I doubt that very much.”
“Please come take a look.”
“I’m on my way.”
He was checking me over, increasingly confident that it wasn’t my meniscus: “See, it can’t be your meniscus; this is the meniscus over here,” and as he spoke he lightly touched the spot with one finger. I leapt straight into the air, I hate to admit it. Still, even back then, I was already right one hundred percent of the time.
I underwent surgery, and recuperation was pure hell. Nowadays, just two months after surgery, Gattuso is already running; back then, two months after the operation, I swore like a sailor every time I tried to move. For forty-five days I was in a cast, in bed, with my leg at a forty-five-degree angle, in traction; then, for another month, I was in an air cast (a removable cast, which I took off every morning for physical therapy), followed by another thirty days during which I could only set my foot down lightly on the floor. Total time out of commission: one hundred and fifty days off my feet, no end of boredom and irritation, and an incredible array of pains. In the meantime, Rocca had stopped playing, but, since he was now an expert in the field of hobbling and limping, he stayed on with A. S. Roma, assigned to work on my recovery.
While bedridden, I actually put on some weight. I know—incredible … me, of all people! So Francesco decided to put me on a diet. During summer training camp, I worked separately with him while the team exercised and practiced. Every morning, he put me on the scale, and I never lost a pound. Nothing. It drove him crazy. He couldn’t figure it out.
“Why aren’t you losing weight? Carletto, what am I doing wrong?”
“Francesco, I don’t understand it either. But it’s got to be your fault.”
If he took the blame, credit went to the fans. In Brunico, not all the players slept in the main wing of the hotel. Many of us were housed in an annex where each room had a kitchen of its own. Fans would bring us wild mushrooms, we got hungry at a certain time of the evening, and at midnight we started cooking up fettuccine ai funghi. If those mushrooms had been poisonous, today Rome would have just one soccer team. We ate epic quantities of pasta. I finally recovered completely in October 1982, round as a soccer ball but happy, just in time to begin the preseason leading up to the Scudetto and skip the World Cup entirely. “Champions of the World. Champions of the World. Champions of the World.” They were. I would only become a champion later, with A. C. Milan.
And to think that Enzo Bearzot would have taken me to Spain. I had already debuted in the Italian national team in January 1981, in Montevideo, Uruguay, when Italy played the Netherlands. I played in the Mundialito; I scored a goal after six minutes of play, and I even won a gold watch that the organization put up as a prize. My teammates, the older ones especially, took that outcome with wisdom and philosophy: “Lucky jerk.”
After the match, I went out to celebrate with Marco Tardelli and Claudio Gentile, and then we went to dinner. Of course, we got back late. My first thought, as we returned to the hotel: “I’m with Tardelli and Gentile, so there’s no problem.” My second thought, as I saw Bearzot waiting for us at the lobby doors: “No problem, my ass.”
I was the ass, and my time was up. We went around to the back entrance, we took the elevator, we punched 3 for our floor. The elevator doors slid open; we were home free—or almost. We would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for that tiny detail: Bearzot, waiting to greet us. Il Vecchio—the Old Man—in person: “You two, Tardelli and Gentile, you can go. But I’m surprised at you, Ancelotti.” A few sharp words and he was gone. I felt horrible. I was pale as a sheet. I went mum, didn’t feel like saying a word. I was frozen motionless in shock. I would gladly have thrown myself at his feet, on my knees, begging for forgiveness. All familiar symptoms that my teammates had seen before. Conti, a few yards down the hall, was laughing. It was a good thing he wasn’t dressed up as a mummy.
CHAPTER 8
A Dog, Champion of Italy
Rome, a city of madness, the capital of my heart. I don’t know a thing about Milan, but I know everything about Rome. It was there that I learned to live, even though my relationship with my finest moments is a strange one: I don’t remember much about them. In soccer, as in life—even private life—the things that really stick with you are your disappointments, and I’m not all that interested in talking about them. T
he 1983 Scudetto was my first victory, but all that remains in my head are a few snapshots. And not all that many, to tell the truth. A. S. Roma, champions of Italy for the first time in forty years, and I can rest on those laurels; there are places where I’m still treated like a king. We used to eat frequently at Da Pierluigi, in Piazza de’ Ricci, and, even today, if I dine there I might as well leave my wallet at home. They won’t let me pay; a Scudetto is forever.
In the crucial period of the season, we played a home match against Juventus, our biggest rivals for the Scudetto, and we lost. Michel Platini pulled a move a few minutes before the final whistle, Brio headed it in. Our five-point lead shrank to three, I’ll admit we started wetting our pants, but Brio received his just deserts. A policeman’s dog bit him in the tunnel, which was the very least that could have happened to him. It was a moment of high tension; people were talking and shouting, there was a general hubbub, some of the voices were angry: the German shepherd lost his temper. Sergio Brio wasn’t really very popular with the rest of us players; he was too determined on the field, he could be a little vicious. After the victory, he was leaping in the air, shouting, laughing. That poor dog saw a giant ogre celebrating, and he got scared. He went straight for the butt cheek and bit him in the ass. What a remarkable thing it was. We carried the dog in triumph on our shoulders. I may be a little off center, but when I think about the Scudetto, that’s the first image that comes into my head.
Then came the celebrations. We were returning to Rome from Genoa, where we had played the deciding match. The Appian Way was jammed solid, from Ciampino Airport to the center of the city. People were waiting for us as we pulled through in the team bus, it was just incredible. There was a symphony of car horns. They kept the decorations up in the streets for four or five months; we had given the city an excellent reason not to bother working. Cappuccino, breakfast pastry, and Forza, Roma. The first night, I put on a scarf, a cap, and a pair of dark glasses so as to pass unrecognized, I hopped on my scooter and zipped around the city for hours. It’s a wonderful place, and it’s hard to win for precisely that reason—it’s a city that reacts disproportionately both to the good things and the bad things. It isn’t easy to keep your equilibrium in a place like that, but it remains a one-of-a-kind city.
A Roma fan is more versatile than others; he has a distinctive sense of humor. I love to listen to people from Rome when they talk; they come up with unforgettable wisecracks. Once, when I was already playing for A. C. Milan, we played an away game in Rome. At the Stadio Olimpico, construction was underway for the 1990 World Cup, so we went over to the Stadio dei Marmi to warm up. People were allowed in to watch, and comments of all hues and shades were flying. Pietro Paolo Virdis emerged from the locker room with his unmistakable mustache, reminiscent of the little man on the Bialetti espresso pots. One of the Roma fans yells out: “Hey, Moka Express.” I thought that was fantastic. I still can’t see Virdis without smelling the coffee. Another time, just before a Roma–Juventus match, Brio emerged from the tunnel into the stadium. Yes, the famous Sergio Brio, aka Sergione (Big Sergio), but without a German shepherd’s teeth clamped into his butt cheek this time. Instead, he had Rui Barros right next to him. Brio was six foot three, Rui Barros was five foot four. They were a sight to behold. From the crowd, the voice of a modernist poet floated over the field. “Hey, Brio, ma che te sei portato? What’d you bring with you? Your lighter?” Followed by ninety-two minutes of laughter and applause.
I didn’t get any applause, though, when I got hurt the second time. It was worse than the first time, and now it was my left knee. In December 1983, champions of Italy, we were playing against Juventus in Turin. I jumped to head a long ball, Cabrini was behind me, and he put one hand on my shoulder, knocking me slightly off balance. I landed wrong on my left knee. Clock. What? Clock, again? That’s right, clock. Now my knee was talking to me, and the news wasn’t good. Once again, I couldn’t control the lower half of my leg, just like the first time. It was a bad feeling—all over again. Another operation, with surgery by Professor Perugia; more physical therapy, with Silio Musa. After six months, I still couldn’t extend my leg. Professor Perugia had found some adhesions: “I’m sorry about this, but we’re going to have to do another minor procedure. It’s called a ‘manipulation under anaesthesia.’ ” I didn’t like the sound of that; I got a shiver down my spine. “Maybe you should perform a manipulation under anesthesia on your sister, Professor.” Just to make sure that I felt as bad as possible, they gave me an appointment for a clinical visit the day after the final game of the Champions Cup, which we lost in Rome against Liverpool. What that meant, in practical terms, was that they saved the cost of the anesthesia, even though I’d only watched the match from the stands. I hobbled into Villa Bianca, and they all acted happy to see me: “Back again, Carletto? What a pleasure to have you here.” They were sincerely happy, too, but I told them all to go to hell just the same. They put my leg in a cast, fully extended, the foot twisted to one side. It hurt like crazy. In the end, though, I got better.
Around the same time, another player for Roma, Paolo Giovannelli, was injured. He was a friend. Unlike me, he had torn his posterior cruciate ligament. The same thing happened to him: after six months, he still wasn’t better, he still hadn’t regained complete freedom of movement in that leg. So he heard the doctor utter a phrase I knew all too well: “We’re going to have to do a manipulation under anaesthesia.” At that point, the ears of Professor Perugia’s sister must have started ringing, just as I was beginning to ask myself some questions: “So, if I had to be put in a cast with my leg extended in order to recover complete freedom of extension, what are they going to do to him so he can recover the ability to bend his leg?” Well, it was surprisingly simple. They trussed it up. They put him to sleep, manipulated the leg, wrapped it, and tied it. It looked like a giant salami. I took one look at it and heard my stomach rumble with hunger. My immediate impulse was to eat it, but my sense of friendship held me back. He was howling like a wild animal, so I just made fun of him: “Oh, you’re just a giant baby, there’s no such thing as pain.”
I wasn’t kidding, pain really doesn’t exist. It’s only a theory I have, but it seems to work. Knees are just enemies we have to fight; the war started years ago and continues today. I want to run, my head tells me I have to go, I go, my knee swells up, but I ignore it. It’s the knee that’s suffering, not me or my mind. It bothers the knee for me to run, there are no menisci anymore, so running is a lot harder on it, but I refuse to give up. My knees have made me suffer a lot over the years, now it’s my turn. So I punish them, often running through the woods, uphill and down. Or else I run on a treadmill or on hard surfaces; oh, how it hurts them. And the more they swell up, the harder I run; it serves them right. Every so often I talk to them, I insult them. There are even times when I take offense and refuse to talk to them. Maybe I belong in an insane asylum, but if that’s where I wind up I’m fine with it, because my knees are going in with me. I can already imagine the newspaper headlines: “Carletto Defeated By Nonexistent Pain.” And the interview with Brio: “Then what was that pain I felt in my butt cheek?”
All kidding aside, it’s an excellent psychological exercise. Challenges and difficulties aren’t obstacles: you can and you must go beyond them. Aside from my second injury, there was Sven-Göran Eriksson, who had, in the meantime—June 1985—replaced Liedholm in the dugout. He was young, Swedish, and he had already won the UEFA Cup with I. F. K. Gothenburg; he had just come to Italy from Portugal, and you couldn’t understand a word he said in Italian, practically the same as now. “Tre muuuu tre.” At first, some people thought he was saying “three times three” and they’d answer: “Nine?” Then it dawned on us that he was trying to say “three against three.” We played a lot of practice matches, tre muuuu tre, and later quattro muuuu quattro.
Eriksson brought a whole new way of working to the team; he prepared meticulously, he was respectful, and he was good-hearted and open to helping t
he players. Every morning, when he came to work, he would go around and shake hands with all the players, until finally there were some who couldn’t take it anymore, like Pruzzo. Eriksson would extend his hand, Pruzzo would reach out and shake it, saying: “A pleasure to meet you, I’m Roberto.”
I was pretty comfortable, even if, during that period, I began to understand just what it meant to be benched. I had recovered from my injury, but he wouldn’t let me play; he believed in Stefano Desideri and Giuseppe Giannini, both of whom had come out of the youth league. I felt that I had been sidelined, I thought he was overlooking me or that he had it in for me. That wasn’t the case at all; he put me back on the first team, and the following year he even offered to make me captain, because Agostino Di Bartolomei had moved over to A. C. Milan and Conti didn’t want to take on that level of responsibility. Me—captain of Roma. I represented a team and three-quarters of the city, because, let’s admit it, there really aren’t that many Lazio fans in Rome.
Right before one game, we walked into the locker room in I can’t remember which stadium, and we were suddenly hit with a serious wave of nausea. It was a stink the likes of which none of us had ever encountered before. Ciccio Graziani hurried over to the toilets and, with his usual savoir faire attempted delicately to determine who was behind that stench: “Ahò, ma che te sei magnato? I ratti der Tevere?” Roughly translated: “What have you been eating, rats from the Tiber?” A door swung open, and Eriksson emerged, red-faced. “Relax, boys. It’s just the coach who’s crapped his pants.” Like Liedholm, he never lost his temper. He was Liedholm’s natural successor. He really was a great coach. One of the reasons that my relationship with Roma cooled considerably was the team’s decision to get rid of Eriksson in April of 1987. The previous year, we had lost a spectacular championship match for the Scudetto, the famous game against Lecce, even though we had played beautifully. Undici muuuu undici—eleven against eleven.
Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius Page 5