Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius

by Aleesandro Alciato

  Then He Himself would call us, explaining that Borghi was the latter-day Maradona and that He Himself had discovered him: “Mr. Chairman, you are perfectly right. We think that you’ve got the inside track on this one. We’re on your side.”

  We were hypocrites out of necessity, we all had families to feed and clothe. We were faithful allies of the guy that coached us, slightly less faithful allies of those who issued our paychecks. I never understood how Sacchi managed to get the boss to change his mind. There were certainly harsh verbal battles. The only thing I know is that in the end, He gave in. And Borghi was sold, and Rijkaard joined the team.

  A. C. Milan, “The Invincibles,” had also become A. C. Milan, “The Dutchmen.” In quotes, with capital letters, as a sign of respect, because we were just too good. Gullitrijkaardvanbasten, as if they were one player, with a single tongue twister of a name; say it without stammering and you’ll have discovered the secret of immortality. He Himself lit up with pleasure at the thought.

  Without Rijkaard, and with Borghi killing time on loan to Calcio Como SRL, we had won the Scudetto in the meantime. Under Sacchi, we’d immediately become champions of Italy, on the first try. Our sensations had become reality; we were in gear, waving “so long!” to our rivals over our shoulders. Waving good-bye in particular to Maifredi’s Bologna, our archenemies. No one knows it, but, in theory, that was supposed to be our model team. Our contemporaries, the team we aspired to become. Not Herrera’s Inter but Maifredi’s Bologna. Sacchi was like a broken record: “Now, they know how to play soccer.”

  We couldn’t stand it anymore; he said the same thing, all day, every day, repeatedly, on the hour and half hour, in his inimitable accent: “Ragassi—boyz—you have to do your best to play like them. Maifredi’s Bologna F. C. is the best team in soccer.” At first, van Basten always had the same reaction: “Manfredo? Who is this Manfredo?” He was accustomed to Ajax, coached by Johan Cruyff. That Sacchi showed Baresi videotapes of Gianluca Signorini, so he could copy his movements, is an historical travesty; that he relentlessly and tirelessly talked to us about “Bologna di Manfredo” is, on the other hand, a sad and undeniable fact. He had managed to make us hate a team we had no reason on earth to hate. The team of the legendary Renato Villa and all the rest. He was jerking our chain. Until finally, one day, justice was done. On 26 December 1987, Sacchi arranged an exhibition match with Bologna, an away game. We poured onto the field, our eyes bloodshot with fury, and I was angrier than anyone else, because that was St. Stephens Day, and there’s an especially lavish banquet that I was being forced to miss. My dear Bologna and my dear Manfredo, I’m going to serve you a bowl of lentils and a plate of bollito to go with it. Before we left the locker room, we made it very clear to Sacchi exactly what was about to happen: “We’ll show you who knows how to play soccer and who doesn’t.”

  We pasted them, 5–0. We caned them mercilessly. Van Basten—the player who was most resistant to the playbook, because he loved to play by instinct—was injured, but on the way back home he turned strangely ironic: “Coach, maybe Sacchi’s A. C. Milan is better than Maifredi’s Bologna F. C.” He was happy, even if he was wrong.

  One exhibition game made us stronger, then Arrigo took care of the rest. Before he asked us to do something, he always explained why. There was a reason for everything. We implemented an all-encompassing pressing, and our opponents didn’t know which way to turn. They couldn’t understand a thing. They tried to play their game the way they were accustomed, and we suffocated them with our inescapable defense. In comparison with Roma, we were a very different group of players: we were less playful, we were a little more aloof.

  The second match that changed our lives was the one we played against Napoli, at the Stadio San Paolo, in the last few weeks of the 1987–88 championship season. We were one point apart in the league, but we knew that there had been an earthquake in their locker room. Seismic tremors that made us confident of victory, in part because we had just won our derby—the Derby della Madonnina against Inter. Even before we ran out onto the field, we knew the game would end with us many points ahead, just as our opponents knew in advance that they were going to lose.

  We were hurtling downhill through the championship, and at the bottom of the hill the Scudetto awaited us. Diego Maradona had issued clear orders: “When I play, I don’t want to see a single black-and-red banner in the stadium.” But we were there, and we were stronger than banners and fans. Napoli 2–A. C. Milan 3; we’re the ones, we’re the ones, we’re the champions of Italy. We, and Him. Meanwhile, van Basten pestered a steward: “Excuse me, have you seen Manfredo, by any chance?”

  CHAPTER 11

  I Decide the Formation.

  Sacchi doctored the results of my athletic trials, especially my times on thirty-meter sprints. He didn’t want me to know how bad they were; in his way, he was trying to boost my morale. Let’s put it this way: in a race, a cement traffic post could probably beat me. Two-man sprint? I’d come in third—a distant third.

  I was slow, but that’s actually why we won the Italian championship. I couldn’t perform any overlapping plays with Ruud Gullit; that was really the point. Ruud was a missile, I was a crawfish. A blowfish trying to keep up with a barracuda, which is physically impossible. And yet, in the early days, Sacchi believed in this formation, and he would insist on our playing in a 4-3-3 formation on the pitch. Four defenders, three midfielders—me on the right (with His approval), Bortolazzi in the middle, and Donadoni on the left—then three strikers, namely Virdis, van Basten, and Gullit, in front of me. There was one play that called for me to overlap with Gullit. If you don’t know exactly what that means: if Ruud had possession of the ball, I was supposed to run at top speed up the field, cut behind his back, and receive his pass as quickly as possible. Once, twice, three times, a hundred times: the same thing always happened. Gullit would pass the ball to a phantom, because I just couldn’t run fast enough. By the time I got there, the ball was already out of bounds. Sacchi would get irritated: “Come on, Carletto.”

  “Come on what? Dreadlocks here runs three times as fast as me. I couldn’t keep up with him on my motorcycle.”

  We tried it forward, backward, and sideways, until Arrigo finally gave up: “Boys, let’s try a 4-4-2 formation. With Ruud as striker and Carletto central midfielder.” To put it simply, that was the formation that won us the Scudetto—the Italian championship. Just for starters. And it was all due to my two wooden legs.

  People thought of that A. C. Milan as a remarkably talented team. Well, that’s obviously not true; Roberto Colombo was one of our players … We had a good goalkeeper, Galli, but there were only three genuine thoroughbreds: Baresi, Gullit, and Donadoni, and all three of them were quite young. Maldini was still just a youngster, a phenomenon waiting to be discovered. What really made the difference for that team was our sense of being a group, and a strong sense of belonging, of loyalty. Loyalty to the team, to the owners, to our colors. Credit was due to the youth program, where many of the players had grown up. Galli, Costacurta, Baresi, Maldini, and Evani, lifelong Milan fans—footballers who had learned to walk at Milanello.

  A. C. Milan, “The Invincibles,” a homegrown team, with a defense that endured for many years. We could say that it still endures today. Tassotti-Baresi-Costacurta-Maldini—it could have been worse. It’s a legend that is constantly evolving, handed down from year to year, from generation to generation, from symbol to symbol. Gattuso and Ambrosini will be the next lead tenors, if the mass hallucinations of the market will allow it.

  Over the past twenty years, A. C. Milan has been consistently victorious because it has managed to preserve the same spirit it had at the beginning. With a deeply Italian core, another fundamental aspect of the team: players who lead the others, taking them to another level, with their behavior, discipline, and character. Foreigners included. There are always five or six Italians, and their presence is crucial; it is thanks to them that the tradition that Sacchi built continues.
How long it will endure, I truly cannot say. Everything changes, everything always becomes more challenging. Over the past twenty years, the chairman has remained the same person, the managing director has remained the same person, the team manager has pretty much remained the same, in the sense that Silvano Ramaccioni was replaced only recently. There hasn’t even been much turnover among the cooks and waiters at Milanello. It’s always been a family business. The only significant change is that, because of his political obligations, Berlusconi has been less involved. His absence has been noted. He is rarely present at Milanello; during my last season, there were only occasional phone conversations about specific issues. From time to time, he’d call to ask how the players were doing, what formations I planned to field.

  Note to the outside world: I decide on the formations—I alone, in all cases—and I want to make that point clear once and for all. Of course, Berlusconi has asked me more than once to explain why I excluded this player rather than that one, and we may even have argued in some cases when I chose to sideline one or another of his favorites, talented and skilled players that he has a hard time seeing cooling their heels on the bench. Lately, Ronaldinho; in the past, Rui Costa. He loved van Basten and Savicevic; he adores Kaká, even though he decided at a certain point to sell his contract.

  If the chairman of your team asks you to explain the reasoning behind your decisions, you have an obligation to do so. It’s a coach’s duty to his employer. It makes sense. Berlusconi’s general philosophy is well known; how many times have we heard it? “I want a team that is capable of winning championships in Italy, Europe, and around the world—a team that plays spectacular, exciting soccer. A team that embodies the principles of fair play, dedication, and discipline. A team that is master of the field and of the game.”

  This is just to say that the guidelines of today were already the guidelines back then. A team that can win, a team that plays exciting soccer. Sacchi was the first to succeed. Working with Sacchi, I also understood the importance of respecting a referee’s decisions, even before Moggi and Giraudo explained it to me, with reference to De Santis. During the Milan–Empoli game at San Siro in 1988, I was given my third yellow card of the season, which meant one more and I’d be disqualified; the next game was scheduled to be played in Rome. Against my Roma. For the first time, I would be playing at the Stadio Olimpico as a former player. I didn’t want to miss that opportunity, I couldn’t get a fourth yellow card. I asked Silvano Ramaccioni to accompany me to the office of the referee, Rosario Lo Bello; I knew him because he’d come to see me when I was out of commission, along with Nicolini, an assistant to his father, Concetto Lo Bello. This guy Nicolini had a farm near my house where he raised veal calves. It was nice of them, I always appreciated it. So I went to Rosario Lo Bello, and I started talking immediately: “Signore Nicolini asked me to give you his regards,” even though I hadn’t seen him for months. “And I’m really hoping to play a good game today. The only thing that’s worrying me is this: I’m on the brink of suspension, and on Sunday I really want to be playing against Roma. I really care about that, so I’ll do my best to play right.”

  “Carletto, that’s your problem.”

  I understood a number of things from his answer. Most importantly, that I had just fucked up. “Completely,” Ramaccioni reassured me.

  On the field, the score was 1–0, in our favor, with a goal by van Basten. In the last minute of play, we got a throw-in, I went over to the touchline and was about to throw and then changed my mind and handed the ball to Tassotti instead. Yellow card. Warning for delaying the restart of play. I was just wild with fury. After the match, I waited for Lo Bello in the tunnel, and I gave him several powerful pieces of my mind. Result: disqualified for two days, because, in his report, he also mentioned our pregame conversation. We appealed the decision, and got a one-day reduction, but I had to miss the Roma–Milan game nevertheless. That day’s lesson: mind your own goddamned business. Especially when you get the unhealthy idea of going to visit the referee in his locker room. Especially when that referee turns out to be a traitor.

  We first met Dieter Pauly at the Marakana Stadium in Belgrade, playing against Red Star in a UEFA Champions’ Cup match the year after we won the Scudetto. I still detest Pauly today. I hate him, and I hate that animal Stojkovic. At the home game at the San Siro, we traded blows throughout the match; I gave him a couple of kicks and I’d been given a few warnings, but, as far as I was concerned, it ended there. Not for him; he waited for me in the tunnel to the locker rooms. In his native tongue, he said he’d be waiting for me when it was his team’s home game. In my own native tongue, I told him that I couldn’t wait for the chance, that I hoped those two weeks would go by in a hurry. He spoke in Austro-Hungarian, I answered in Emilian dialect; we understood one another perfectly. And, in fact, he was there, waiting for me in Belgrade, in a stadium with 120,000 spectators all baying for blood. There was a sense of tension, the atmosphere was strange, war was about to break out in the Balkans, and you could sense it. Everyone sensed it. Before Stojkovic walked out onto the field, he came to see me: “I’ll see you out there.”

  “No problem, that’s what I’m here for.”

  Four minutes into the game, I saw the ideal situation: he had the ball, I caught up with him, waited until the moment was right. I did my best to break his ankle, and I came pretty close to doing it. The referee, who was supervising his last Champions’ Cup match, gave me a yellow card. Since I was already facing suspension, I was forbidden to play in the following match. Which, unfortunately, would be played against Red Star the following day. Around fifty minutes into the match, a tremendous blanket of fog descended on Belgrade, the Bogeyman suspended the game, and play was resumed twenty-four hours later. We won the rescheduled game on a penalty kick, after a regulation goal by van Basten that Pauly had failed to see. After all, he felt he had to earn his paycheck. And I had to give a meaning to mine, signed by a very angry Arrigo Sacchi: a fine of fifty million lire ($40,000). The most expensive yellow card of my life. To hell with Pauly, and to hell with Stojkovic.

  Despite their best efforts, in the end we won the Champions’ Cup (and the chairman revoked my fine). We won 4–0 against Steaua Bucurest, at the Nou Camp in Barcelona. In the semifinal we had eliminated Real Madrid, which Berlusconi had predicted in the locker rooms at the San Siro: “We’re going to win with a goleada—a wave of goals.” And, in fact, it was Milan 5–Real Madrid 0. He was already foretelling the future. He’d certainly seen the future in Sacchi, who gave him, in the years to come, a Scudetto, two Champions’ Cups, two Intercontinental Cups, two European Super Cups, and an Italian Super Cup. Masters of Italy, Europe, and the world. The game was worth playing.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Double in the Last Match

  Carletto, I’m leaving to coach the Italian National Team. I’d like you to come with me.”

  “Thanks, coach. I never thought of myself as a player who could still be national-team material.”

  No comment, just a deep sense of embarrassment instead. The season was coming to an end, and Sacchi was telling me, in deepest secrecy, that he was about to leave A. C. Milan. But he was also making it clear to me that my career as a footballer was coming to an end, because what he was really saying was: “Do you want to come along as my assistant coach?”

  Arrigo Sacchi knew that his time at Milanello was ending (and when your time is up, the sooner you realize it, the better), and he was already preparing to set off on a new adventure: Italy. The national team. To combine his thousand tactics and formations into a single idea. He was the Garibaldi of Fusignano. Before that day, it had never occurred to me that I could become a coach. Arrigo’s suggestion was a blinding revelation to me. For the first time, I saw myself on the bench, and, I have to say, I liked the idea. I immediately saw it as a major opportunity. It was 1991, I was thirty-two years old, I had wobbly knees, and I could continue as a player, but no one knew for how long.

  Sacchi, with h
is great big sunglasses, twice the width of his face, left without a backward glance. For me it was more of an arrivederci than a good-bye.

  So long, Arrigo Sacchi; hello, Fabio Capello. Not that I was all that happy to see him. His arrival marked the beginning, for me, of a period of ruthless competition, of being pushed aside, of feeling unwanted. The more I found myself on the bench, the more I felt like jumping over to the opposite shore, the one occupied by Sacchi, where you made decisions without having to run.

  You won’t like everyone you meet in life. Fabio Capello and I had—and have—different personalities. The problem—a problem I still encounter on the coach’s side of the equation—is that it’s very difficult to separate a professional relationship from a human relationship. If a player winds up on the bench or in the stands, by the very nature of things he can’t feel a deep sympathy for his coach. The relationship doesn’t take off; it’s inevitable, and that’s what happened to us.

  Capello was the first coach who didn’t think of me as an unquestioned regular fullback; there was a young man that the team saw as having a great deal of potential. They gave Demetrio Albertini many more options than they gave me. When Rijkaard was injured, I started a number of matches in midfield up until November, but then I felt like I’d been caught in a game of Monopoly: from the pitch to the stands, without passing “Go.” Or stopping at the bench. Four months sitting there as a thoughtful spectator—in the sense that if you’re sitting there watching others play the game you want to play, you have a lot of time to think. In fact, that’s where I made my decision, sitting on the folding seats of the stadiums of half of Italy: I’m out of here.