When he got to Milanello, he was a little overweight and, as a result—at least in the early period—he worked very hard. He wanted to lose weight, even though we already had some problems persuading him to work with a certain degree of continuity. He was remarkably gifted—unlike anyone else—and he thought that was enough to turn him into the Ronaldo of the old days. He was as wrong as he could be. We needed him for the championship season. I used to tell him that, and he would listen to me, but not that carefully. We considered his arrival to be a huge gamble; at first, he believed in it along with us, when we were all still rowing in the same direction. Then he seemed to give up; just as he started scoring goals, he got lazy, and, from that point forward, we all lost our bets. Him first, followed by A. C. Milan.
Ronie just rested on his laurels. It was a real pity, because he still had enormous potential. I was positive that he could become the greatest footballer on earth; he had everything he needed to do it, except for one thing: the sheer will. At first, we got along like a house on fire, but once he started to show his indifference I got tired of pushing him. There was no point in getting angry, so I thought: “Okay, we’ll work on it next summer.” It proved impossible: an injury intervened. First one, then another, and then another still, until he had the operation in Paris. If he’d only worked just a little harder …
And I have to say that, in the locker room, everybody was happy to see him. I’ve heard people say that at A. C. Milan we take surveys of the more experienced veteran players before completing the acquisition of a major player. That’s not exactly accurate, but it’s not that far from the real situation, either. When a player of a certain importance is about to join the team, we listen to the impressions of his future teammates, but we don’t ask for their opinions. The players don’t have a veto, but they can voice their concerns. For example, Christian Poulsen, long before joining Juventus, had a physical examination with us. He wasn’t too popular in the locker room, but that’s not why we decided not to take him in the end. He had a problem with his ankle, and the doctors said no. It was a different matter with Antonio Cassano: he would not have been likely to fit in with our group.
Together with Ronaldo, that January transfer window brought us Massimo Oddo from Lazio, the right fullback who could make Cafu huff and puff—another brick in the road that was leading to the final game in Athens. By now it was an obsession; I thought about it all the time, with one eye on Liverpool and the other on A. C. Milan—half my mind on the Italian championship and the other on the Champions League. In the first round, we struggled against Celtic. In the quarterfinals, we played Bayern Munich; we finished 2–2 at home, to the great concern and frenzy of one and all, while Galliani was busy unscrewing the last bolt holding my bench in place. He had almost finished the job. In fact, when we played the away game at the Allianz Arena, Milan had two coaches: me and the ghost of Marcello Lippi, who had already come to an agreement to replace me. If we had been eliminated from the European Cup, Berlusconi would certainly have eliminated me.
During that whole period, the players were great—caring and kind. They let me know they were rooting for me. They weren’t indifferent to what was happening. In Munich, thanks to Ambrosini, I rediscovered the beloved Christmas Tree formation. We won 2–0. Even Pippo scored: he aimed at the bottom right corner, the ball wound up in the top left corner, from an offside position. It was a classic Inzaghi-style goal. We went to the semifinals against Manchester United, with Liverpool against Chelsea; come on, we can do this.
The first match was at Old Trafford. We were ahead, 2–1; we lost 3–2. I turned into a genuine oaf. Sir Alex Ferguson invited me, according to tradition, to have a glass of wine with him in his office, but I didn’t go; I was too angry. “Get drunk by yourself, Ancelotti, that’s a better idea.” Before the second leg, I took him a bottle of Tignanello as an apology. It’s a Tuscan red, maybe sixty euros a bottle, something like that—not three hundred euros a bottle, the way they do at Inter.
The second leg of the semifinal was a perfect match. We played as if we were in an enchanted world. We felt like Alice in Wonderland, but we were the wonders. Ninety minutes of excitement and glory. Thrills and shivers from the cold, because it was raining like God really meant it, which made it all the more magical. The classic question I get from the fans is, Where did you get that monstrous level of performance—that incredible 3–0 game, with goals by Kaká, Seedorf, and Gilardino? Fifty percent in Istanbul and fifty percent in Milanello the evening before.
Twenty-four hours before we played, Liverpool had played its home semifinal game against Chelsea. That evening, our athletic center, for all practical purposes, no longer existed; it had been replaced by a bank of stands. The mythical Kop of Anfield had been moved to Carnago, in the province of Varese, the hearth and threshold of the rossineri world. The party was here in our meeting rooms, with thirty bloodthirsty fans hunkered around the television set. You’ll Never Walk Alone, Liverpool. There we were, Milanisti wrapped in red scarves. We were shouting and howling against Chelsea (I solemnly swear it’ll never happen again …); Liverpool team hats and toy trumpets were pulled out at one point. It was one chorus after another. The only things missing were bottles of beer and free-form belching, otherwise the ceremony was complete. It went just as we had hoped. Liverpool made it to the finals. Whereupon we all looked one another in the face and thought the same thing: We’ve already won. Against Manchester and against Liverpool. We could even have skipped the matches, it was all written by destiny. Milan fans know the second perfect game very well—the one against Liverpool. What they don’t know is that, in fact, we had already played it the day before.
Athens, here we come. I told you that’s how it would turn out, boys. Galliani in the meantime was exhausted, his arm was sore; he’d had to retighten all the bolts on my bench. There was a sense of euphoria that is still impossible to describe. We knew that the Champions League was ours for the taking, while Liverpool knew they were doomed. Until just a few hours before the final match, I nurtured only a single doubt, concerning the striker. I hadn’t decided who would play that position, Gilardino or Inzaghi. Alberto was feeling better, while Pippo was Pippo. Even though they’d never admit it now, a number of players came to ask me one thing: “You aren’t thinking of letting Pippo play, are you? Don’t you see the shape he’s in?”
He was indeed half dead, and yet I knew that those were his nights. And before a challenge of that sort, everyone shows up, clamoring for a position, even guys on crutches. Ready to go out on the field, from the first minute to the last. I chose Inzaghi, and he gave us the European Cup with a double.
I don’t actually remember that much about the game, but I remember everything about the aftermath. We were in our hotel, by the big and luxurious swimming pool, just outside of Athens. There was a party with a hundred or so people, and when the outsiders finally left, we went over to poolside, where there was a little bar for the hotel guests, a sort of kiosk. We drank it dry in the first five minutes; not a drop of alcohol was left untouched. Whiskey, Sambuca, rum, grappa, beer: it was all slurped down in one massive collective gulp. Those of us who weren’t completely sloshed started a running bet on who would be the first to fall into the pool; we were all at high risk of drowning. We were stumbling, but we were determined to keep partying. Since we were the European champions, we maintained a certain demeanor: no one fell in the pool, but many of us collapsed on the poolside asphalt—which hurt more. In the meantime, Serginho had wrapped his arms around me and was practically in tears: “Carlo, you are my father.”
I did some rapid mental calculations; it just wasn’t possible. “What are you saying, Sergio? You’re older than me …”
“You’re my dad.”
“No, Sergio, really. You’re far too ugly to be my son.”
“Dad …”
“Cut it out. How the hell can I explain this to Katia and Davide, my two real children?”
And he started tousling my hair, like
a three-year-old. How the fuck had we ever won the championship? The cup—poor little thing—had wound up in bed with Galliani, once again. Maybe this was true love.
Before long, our managing director would have a second chance, when we won the European Super Cup (against Seville) and the International Cup (A. C. Milan–Boca Juniors, 4–2, and our chance at vindication—a way to forget the final we lost to them in 2003). Every cup we lift into the air means a night of torrid love for Galliani. That’s why he hated it when we lost.
CHAPTER 26
Once Upon a Time, I Signed a Contract with Real Madrid
Tortellini y merengues, the royal banquet is served. Look at it and you’ll gain weight; eat it and you’ll go down in history. The history of a city, a team, a nation. An actor in a stunningly beautiful movie. Camiseta blanca and a dinner jacket. I was invited to the royal ball, and I went: “Don Carlo, Señores. I am here to train you.”
In 2006, I accepted an offer from Real Madrid, and, I have to say, it wasn’t a difficult decision. A wonderful prospect, the scent of life. It was April 2006, and A. C. Milan’s triumphant return, crowned in Athens, had not yet begun, but Real Madrid had already understood everything: “We want you. You’re the best.” The Best, because the title of The Special One had already been taken: José Mourinho had assigned it, to none other than José Mourinho.
I was curious to understand what it was like to live on a normal team bench, without excessive tremors and vibrations under my ass. They came looking for me, and I signed happily. A preliminary contract, for three years, and fifteen million euros—five million euros a season, almost twice what I was earning at Milan. Pure, unadulterated luxury. Independent journalists had sensed that something was going on, and they reported on it; less independent journalists took care of denying everything on my behalf. Too kind, you really shouldn’t have.
During negotiations, I never met Florentino Pérez in person, but undoubtedly he had been the first to suggest my name. He was the jefe of just about everything, the second king of Spain, after Juan Carlos. He wrote the shopping list. He had put down my name, and it was an exciting thing. The only problem was that they’d need a plus-size grocery cart to hold me. The idea of me at the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu; let’s just hope nobody calls security.
The decisive meeting had been in Milan over dinner, between me and Ramón Martínez, who was Real Madrid’s technical director at the time. We spent a couple of hours talking about players and the reason that I had been first choice: “We like the way you deploy your team, we like the way you think about football, you’re the one we need for what we’re trying to do. So please entertain us, señor.” What with jokes and goals, I figured I could do that. There was just one obstacle to overcome, and it wasn’t exactly a secondary problem: my contract with Milan. That good old wobbly bench of mine. “If they release me from my contract, then there’s no problem, I’m all yours. One thing is for sure: I don’t want to force anyone’s hand, and, most importantly, I don’t want to start a fight with my club—or at least what I consider my club until proven otherwise.” Until that point, Milan knew nothing about our talks.
The other person I talked to at Real Madrid—or El Madrid, as they tend to call it—was José Ángel Sánchez, who was the de facto chief administrative officer of the club. He was in charge of contracts; he handled the dubloons and the major decisions. Everyone was in agreement: I was going to be the new coach.
“Ancelotti, in the next couple of hours, we’re going to send you a fax at your office in Milanello.”
“No, listen, it might be better if you sent it to my house.”
Yes, that way we could avert a scene out of a horror film: a sheet of paper feeds out of the fax machine, and the walls of Milanello begin to crumble. Down tumbles the photograph of Berlusconi, followed by the pictures of me, and all the photographs of the triumphs of Milan, the rossineri. One wall collapses against the next and takes it down in turn, like dominoes falling. Summon an exorcist, put everyone into quarantine. In that dire setting, even the ghost that Capello claimed he heard every night would reveal himself, clanking his chains. No question, that was a scenario I’d rather avoid. And, in fact, they sent the pre-contract to my house in Felegara, where framed pictures and walls remained soundly in place, guarded by my watchdogs, one of whom is named Nelson. (Any reference to Dida is completely and fondly intentional.)
Six sheets of paper, total; simple, without Real Madrid letterhead. In it was everything they had promised me. Everything. I didn’t ask for the moon, but I came close. And they kept their word. I never had any reason to doubt they would. They were reliable people. I understood that from the very beginning. I signed it and returned it to sender. I sat staring at the fax machine; as it swallowed the sheets of paper, it looked like a hungry child. I may even have emitted an excited “¡Olé!”
At the bottom of that pre-contract there was a rider. It was a clause on which I had insisted: “This contract will become valid only once A. C. Milan gives its consent.” There was still one major step. At that point, I became an ambassador on my own behalf; I called Galliani, with a serious voice that was nothing like me, and I was concise and laconic: “Signore Galliani, I need to see you.”
“Come when you like. My office at headquarters, in Via Turati.”
There, Galliani is playing on home turf; he has all his familiar moves, he even knows where to seat people with whom he has to negotiate—or arm wrestle. When Gattuso was on the verge of leaving the team to go to Bayern Munich, for example, Galliani summoned him to Milan and locked him up in the trophy room. “Rino, look around you carefully, and then let’s talk it over.” He convinced him to stay by wearing him out.
That day, I started talking first, beating Galliani to the punch: “Listen, I asked for this meeting because I have a major opportunity. I’ve had an offer, apparently, from Real Madrid.” I qualified it in an attempt at diplomacy. “It’s an opportunity that I’d really like to take advantage of, because we’re talking about one of the most important soccer clubs on earth. Here, I’ve won and won and won again. I’ve been here as a player and as a coach, I know everything and everyone; maybe it’s a good time to seek greener pastures. I see it as a challenge, it could really teach me a lot, it would be exciting. If you could just see your way to …”
I was starting to blabber on, and I also had a vaguely doleful expression on my face, as if to say: make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver but the other is gold. Oh, of course I’d get used to the new situation; finding my footing between one championship and the next was becoming my specialty. I’d made my decision. But so had Galliani. And his decision wasn’t the same as mine: “That’s entirely out of the question.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s entirely out of the question, Carletto. You stay here, we’ll extend your contract. We don’t want to give you up. We need the work you do here. We must go forward together.”
I’ll confess that at times like that I felt like a genuine musketeer. One for all and all for one—which can be rendered in its Milan-fan slang version: Berlusconi for all, and all for Berlusconi.
Galliani went on: “You’ve done great work here with us, so I can’t let you leave. At this point in time, there is no such thing as A. C. Milan without you. Our story hasn’t come to an end yet.”
“But …”
“No buts. You are, and you will remain, the coach of A. C. Milan.”
It was as if he were symbolically handing me all the nuts and bolts he had removed from my bench over the years. Only symbolically, of course; otherwise, it would have taken a three-quarter-ton truck to haul off all that scrap metal. And I didn’t happen to have one with me.
I have to say I took it well. Very well. “If that’s how things stand, Signore Galliani, then I’ll be delighted to stay on.”
“I repeat, we’ll extend your contract and adjust it to your satisfaction.”
That wasn’t really what mattered. The important thing was the fai
th he had expressed in me. No price can be set on feeling loved and valued. These are emotions, and therefore priceless. When Real Madrid told me, “You’re the best,” they had certainly hit the right note—the same note that the Triad had sounded a few years before them. Cuddle me and feed me, and I’m happy.
So I called up Real Madrid and told them about my conversation with Galliani: “He told me that I can’t accept your offer. But I thank you; it’s been an honor to negotiate with you.” At home, I still have that pre-contract in a box with all my most important things. It’s a souvenir of a nice, adrenaline-charged period. Ramón Martínez was very nice to me: “I expected it to turn out this way, but it was a good experience for us too. We’ll see you again; let’s stay in touch.”
At that point, they focused their attention on Fabio Capello, who had already worked for them once. The Spanish press began pairing his name with mine in articles. The way they told it, it had turned into a battle between him and me, an all-Italian derby; in reality, I had already signed a pre-contract, but I had also already rejected their offer. At a certain point, Capello got angry and issued a statement that made me smile with fond indulgence: “You think Real Madrid wants Ancelotti? Excuse me, but whom did they call first?”
He thought he was the only candidate; actually—that time, at least—they had called me first, and I had even answered. Often my friends make jokes about that famous phrase. Whenever I invite one of them for dinner: “Sure, Carletto, we’ll be there. But whom did you invite first?” It’s become a catchphrase, an all-purpose joke.
Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius Page 15