People have called me from Real Madrid. There have been numerous contacts between Florentino Pérez and me; we’ve chatted and traded opinions. He is a person I respect; he knows what he’s doing and what he wants. He loves Real Madrid first and foremost; he’s a softhearted romantic, just like me. We like soccer, we love life, we enjoy entertaining people. We see eye-to-eye on many points. The last time we talked, he told me one thing in particular: “Carlo, someday you will be my coach.”
CHAPTER 27
We’ll Beat the Bastard
I never engaged in doping when I played soccer. I took adrenal-cortex injections, like everyone did, but it was legal and legitimate. You were allowed. Some doctors even prescribed it. “It helps to recover from fatigue,” they told us, and, in fact, you felt less tired. Today, I am slightly dopey, but that state of mental confusion is a result of age—of my endless nomadic roaming, in my thoughts, from A. C. Milan to Real Madrid, from A. S. Roma to Chelsea and the national team of the Ivory Coast. That is why, whenever a soccer player suffering from ALS comes forward, I am so enormously irritated to hear people say that it’s all because of the substances that were circulating in the locker rooms. What do they know about it? Why don’t they find out the facts before they open their mouths? A bunch of self-appointed doctors without licenses. I get mad, just as Stefano Borgonovo gets mad. Stefano is the person who helped me decide to write this book. He is suffering from ALS, but “not caused by doping,” as he often says. He fights against his personal enemy and the ignorance of the general public. There is a foundation that bears his name.
The reason I wrote this autobiography was to help Stefano. Anything I earn from its publication will be donated to research, because while fans may want to know everything about me, I want to know everything about this disease, and especially one thing in particular: the best way to beat the bastard, as Stefano calls his illness. He has lived in the shadows for two years, ashamed to show his face in public. Then he understood: life is beautiful, and we need to do our best to defend it. We need to fight for life, at Stefano’s side.
In soccer circles, rumors had been circulating for years that something was wrong with Borgonovo. It was an insistent rumor, but no one knew anything for certain. He only emerged once he felt ready: “Friends, I’m not well, that’s for sure. But there is one thing I want to say: the Bastard has already done me enough harm—no more.” He contacted Galliani to organize an exhibition game in Florence between A. C. Milan and Fiorentina (the two teams he played for), he gave an interview to Sky TV, he put his name and reputation into it. He took an enormous risk. It wasn’t easy for someone in his condition. He was clear-minded, but he exhibited the symptoms of his disease: “Here I am, ladies and gentlemen. I am Stefano Borgonovo. And I want to win.”
That was the beginning of the Great Challenge on the soccer field, with Ruud Gullit’s tears and my own sense of helplessness. I saw Stefano in a wheelchair and didn’t know how to react; I didn’t know what to say, how to treat him. I hadn’t seen him for many years, and I never thought he’d look like this when I saw him again. We were all weeping, while he was laughing, and that’s what helped us to sweep away the barriers and prejudices.
To think back on it now, we really did act like idiots; he needed our support, and we just pulled out our handkerchiefs and started sobbing. It was paradoxical that Stefano bolstered our courage, and not the other way around. His brain travels at a supersonic speed, he’s faster than any of us, and, that evening at the Stadio Artemio Franchi, he’d already outdistanced us completely. We were thinking, it’s not possible that he is sick, while he was thinking, it is possible to find a cure.
At that point, I was still shocked and, to tell the truth, somewhat uncomfortable. Once we got back to Milan, Mauro Tassotti and Filippo Galli both told me that they had talked with him: “Carletto, Stefano asked us to go see him.” So I got over my reluctance and got into my car, and drove to his house, in Giussano. I was worried; I was afraid that I would freeze up in his presence, be unable to speak, go blank. Instead, the minute I entered his room I felt fine, I was at ease. Stefano talks through the voice of a computer. He speaks with his eyes, in the most literal sense. He moves his eyes to pick out letters on a display, forming words and phrases and sentences. All you need to do, though, is look at his eyes to understand a great many things, first and foremost that he is more alive than all the rest of us put together. When they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, that’s a simplification. For him, they are the keys to escape prison—two glittering beams of hope.
The first thing he said to me was, “Do you remember that time when we were on the National team?”
“No, Stefano.”
He started writing an anecdote, word by word, laboriously. And as he wrote, I began to understand how that story was going to end. For me: badly.
“Carletto, you really can’t remember what a fool you made of yourself that time?”
Okay, now I’m starting to remember. Unfortunately.
“We were in summer training at Trigoria; you, me, and Roberto Baggio all in the same room. It was hot out, the middle of the summer, and we were telling jokes and kidding around. At a certain point, you decided to exaggerate. You went too far. You opened the window and you took off your undershirt, with a draft right on your back. There was no air conditioning …”
“Okay, Stefano, that’s enough. This is ancient history.”
“No, no, let me tell the story. I told you it was damp out, that you could get sick, but you said not to worry, that you were defero. That’s right, with a Roman accent, de fero—an iron man. We were laughing and kidding around.”
Some people might wonder what was so bad about what I did, and, in fact, I asked Stefano the same thing (alas!). “The next morning, you woke up with a fever of 104 and strep throat. Baggio and I came to see you to ask how the iron man was doing. You threw a shoe at us. And you left summer training camp because you were a wreck.”
At that point, I really felt like an ass, for two reasons. First, that day at Trigoria I had proven that I was an ass. Second, I was an ass the first time I saw Stefano sick, because I thought that he was somehow different from me. In fact, I hadn’t understood a thing. When he was a soccer player, he was lazy, he lacked intensity in his playing, but now he has become a warrior. A soldier who never surrenders. He wants to win every battle, by whatever means necessary, and he will succeed this time, too.
I had misgivings about Stefano, and he helped me to overcome them. Me and many others—all his friends. And then Kaká and David Beckham, whom I took to his house. Stefano wanted to meet them in person to explain the situation to them. He believes that everyone can do something for him: support research to find a solution for his problem, and help the families of those afflicted with the disease, because treating the disease is often prohibitively expensive. Stefano already had Beckham’s autograph, on an England jersey that Capello had sent him. He had enormous respect for Kaká.
He tells everyone the same thing: “I know I can do this, but not alone. I need a team. The more of us there are, the better.”
I’m in, I can coach. Stefano’s the striker. The Bastard is the goalkeeper on the opposing team. We’ll force in a goal. We’ll win.
CHAPTER 28
Summoned by Abramovich. The End.
Thank you. Quite simply, thank you. If I am Carletto Ancelotti, I owe it all to Italian football. I feel like an authentic product of my homeland, a genuine, official soccer player and coach. A 100-percent Italian product. For export, sooner or later, because the soul never changes: it goes well beyond the concept of borders. They raised me the way my father cultivated the soil; I grew because I was nourished with passion. In much the same way that he could predict the weather by looking at the sky, I could tell the future by interpreting DVDs—my present and my future. Whatever team I may be coaching, my last thought is for many people. Thanks again. Grazie. Gracias. Thank you. Danke. In all the languages of Europe.
GRAZIE: I played in Serie A and on the national team, I won, I trained, I coached, and I won again. I passed the ball to van Basten, I tried to stop Maradona, I explained soccer to Del Piero, Maldini, Zidane, Kaká (and, in an attempt to win him over, the rich tycoons at Manchester City called me up in January 2009: that was their first time), Beckham, and Ronaldinho. I wept, I smiled, I lived just as I wanted to live, with excitement and passion. I always took home a salary without ever really noticing that I was working, like fat and happy pastry chefs. They eat to work, not the other way around, and that may be why I have a certain tendency to spread and grow. I have broad hips and a vast heart. I am head over heels in love with what I do. Thank you. Thanks again. For everything that Italian soccer has given me. Much more than what I was able to give in return, even though I have been pretty generous. I experienced and learned a single and unified culture, that of results before everything else. The soccer we play is intervillage rivalry taken to its logical extreme.
But that’s all right. When I see kids playing in a little field, I get emotional. This is the point we’re at: “Go, boys, only one out of a thousand ever makes it.” Without wanting a lawsuit from Gianni Morandi for the lyrics of the song, I can safely state that I am that one out of a thousand.
April 1, 2009, was an interesting day. I don’t think I’m an April fool; if anything, I’m good for the whole year. More than a fluke of destiny, let’s say it was a bit of April foolishness. That fits with my personality. Until seven in the evening, I was mostly thinking in English. After lunch, I gave an interview to the Sky TV channel, which I still remember in considerable detail. That’s what happens on special days, whether good or bad—they are in any case unforgettable.
“Carlo, what do you see in your future?”
“I have a contract until 2010 with A. C. Milan, so I’m staying.”
“Can we say that you are staying for certain?”
“You can say that I’m staying.”
“How many lies have you told in this interview?”
“One or two, a few, just to defend myself …”
“If we see you again in a couple of months, will we be able to say which of the things you just told us are lies?”
“In a couple of months, sure.”
In other words, I was making it clear, in the gentlest way imaginable, that I would be leaving. Certainly I was starting to prepare for my departure, sowing the seeds for it. I had been taking intensive English lessons for a while, and it was no accident. Three lessons a week, a model student. The pen is on the table, and my name is Carlo. That afternoon, I answered the questions with a ferocious expression on my face I had learned how to adopt, because I knew what the next phase was likely to be. An appointment that evening in Adriano Galliani’s office at number 3, Via Turati. Headquarters, once again. A scene I’d already seen and experienced. Déjà vu. The same characters but a brand new proposal (much more than a proposal …). In some ways, an indecent proposal. The proposal from Chelsea Football Club.
“Good evening, Carletto.”
“Good evening, Mr. Galliani.”
His expression was darker than mine, I started feeling shivers running up my back. Shivers of joy, among other things. It was a surprise.
“Listen, Galliani, I have something to tell you. I’m thinking of going to coach Chelsea.”
“That’s entirely out of the question.”
Brusque. Verging on the violent. My vice president was like a broken record. It was the same answer he gave when he refused to let me leave to coach Real Madrid. The same six words—seven, if you include the contraction.
“So you want me to stay?”
“Of course we want you to stay.”
Our meeting continued over dinner, at Da Giannino, the restaurant in Milan where people meet to negotiate contracts and deals. In reality, it was already all decided, but we did our best to work out an understanding: “We’ll make the final decision after the end of the championship finals, so after May 31. In the meantime, we’ll qualify for the next Champions League.”
There were almost two months to go. We were in the big room, the one with the megascreen television. We watched Italy vs. Ireland, Giovanni Trapattoni against Marcello Lippi, whom some people already considered my designated successor from 2010 on, after the South Africa World Cup. I felt light on my feet, even though I looked like a bull, and that was the real miracle. A homemade miracle, just to be clear—not something crafted in the luxurious drawing room of His Mourinho-ness. He, while the game was being broadcast live, was on the Piero Chiambretti show, comparing Himself to Jesus. Forgive him, for he knows not what he says. I do. And I often think of everything that led up to this day.
My life has a specific and illogical explanation. It’s based on the secret of dreams: you have them without believing in them too intensely, and that relieves the pressure. At least at first. There was a time when my idol was Gene Gnocchi, to give just one example. A number 10 shirt with a comic strip printed on it. He thought with his feet and played with his head. Then my role models changed, I grew, because my progress in Italy was step by step. Put all your effort into it, and you’ll see that something will emerge. As a player, I won four Italian Cups, three Scudetti, an Italian Super Cup, two Champions Cups, two European Super Cups, and two Intercontinental Cups. As a coach, I won an Italian Cup, a Scudetto, an Italian Super Cup, two Champions Leagues, two European Super Cups, and a FIFA Club World Cup. That’s a lot, but the numbers don’t really convey the idea. Pride lies elsewhere, where emotion intervenes. You have to try it to believe. And feel it to live. A normal, wonderful narrative. Between a field and a wobbly bench, I spent my best years at A. C. Milan. So, once again, thank you. Thank you to all those, from Reggiolo to heaven, whom I met along the way: friends, enemies, teammates, coaches, players. To the teams I coached and those I might still coach. In particular, thank you to Silvio Berlusconi for letting me discover a new world and for never telling me what formation to field. And to Galliani, with just this one regret: why didn’t we ever use the informal “tu,” why weren’t we on a first-name basis? “I love you, Signore Galliani” is one thing, but “I love you Adriano, man” is much better.
THANK YOU: to the clubs that thought of me all the way from England. To Chelsea, of course, which was the first in chronological order. I will confess that, beginning at a certain point in the 2008–09 season, I watched a lot of DVDs of John Terry, Frank Lampard, and Didier Drogba. I was already the manager of the Blues, at least on paper. Just like with Real Madrid, a few seasons ago. Me and Abramovich together: things could be worse. Worse, which is something he can imagine—or actually remember, since he has already worked with His Specialness, José Mourinho …
GRACIAS: also to Florentino Pérez. As with Abramovich, whose first name is Roman, there’s a bit of Italy in his given name. Florentino. And so it is natural that he possesses the inner art. A conversation with him always has the fine flavor of ancient things. Simple things. Real Madrid fills his soul, occupies his mind, which is candid—in a word, blanca. He has always greeted me with the same phrase, which I have already mentioned: “Carlo, someday you will be my coach.” In the meantime, he now has his own original sin: he has only just begun to work with His Specialness.
DANKE: to Bayern Munich.
… the list could go on, and it could include certain other people. It’s not hard to imagine who or why. And, as I express my thanks, I raise my eyes, I go back in time, and I remember. When I was coaching in Italy, I often looked at a fire alarm at Milanello. They installed it directly over my room, Room Number 5. On it, there is a phrase in white letters on a red background, and in case of emergency it lights up: LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. On certain days it was turned off out of respect and, when things were tight, out of necessity. Then Abramovich and Chelsea Football Club arrived. The Premier League and the FA Cup. Now I want the Champions League. And I’ll make a promise: if we win, there’ll be a party. And Zhirkov won’t sing.
Carlo Ancelotti
Born 1959 in Reggiolo, Reggio-Emilia
AS A PLAYER:
Parma A. C., 1974–1979
Promoted to Serie A in 1979
A. S. Roma, 1979–1987
Scudetto 1983
Coppa Italia 1980, 1981, 1984, 1986
European Cup runners-up 1984
A. C. Milan, 1987–1992
Scudetto 1988, 1992
Italian Supercup 1988
European Cup 1989, 1990
UEFA Super Cup 1989, 1990
Intercontinental Cup 1989, 1990
Italian National Team, 1981–1991
26 appearances
World Cup squads 1986, 1990
AS A MANAGER:
Italian National Team, 1994
Assistant coach to Arrigo Sacchi
Runners-up, World Cup 1994
A. C. Reggiana, 1995–1996
Won promotion to Serie A, 1996
Parma, 1996–1998
Runners-up in Serie A, 1997
Juventus, 1999–2001
Runners-up in Serie A 2000, 2001
Intertoto Cup 1999
A. C. Milan, 2001–2009
Scudetto 2004
Coppa Italia 2004
Supercoppa Italiana 2004
European Cup 2003, 2007
UEFA Super Cup 2003, 2007
FIFA Club World Cup 2007
Chelsea F. C., 2009–present
Premier League 2010
F. A. Cup 2010
Community Shield 2009
Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius Page 16