I Think Therefore I Play (3 page)

He, too, thought I was acting like a superstar when, in reality, all I was doing was following Lucescu’s instruction. The coach gave me a wink and said: “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. And make sure to try that again, please.”

He spoke to me with kindness then turned to the rest of the team and said: “Give the ball to Pirlo; he knows how to look after it.”

It’s the story of a strange friendship, between a person and an object. I knew how to do certain things with a football without even having tried them. My first real triumph was when my team-mates kicked me less often than they passed to me. On my first day of training, the ratio was 10:1 (ten attempted murders to one pass reaching me, almost always by mistake). Over time things improved, eventually reaching a point where there were consistently more passes than fouls.

That made me happy, especially for my dad, who could then get a season ticket in the best leather seats right in the middle of the stand. He didn’t need to bring along his earplugs any more. The jealous folks were right where we’d left them, back at the youth team pitches.

 

4.
Rivera is a Milan and Italy legend. A stylish playmaker, he won three Serie A titles and two European Cups, as well as the 1968 European Championship

Chapter 3

They weren’t bad kids, the ones I played with in the Brescia youths. But they did have a very serious problem; one that always got the better of them. They were running scared of their own dreams. Dreams that weighed them down and eventually crushed them.

They thought of me as the Bogey Man; someone trying to kill their future. I held out my hand to drag them up, but instead they turned their back on me. They fell behind then pulled out of the race to become professional players.

For me, it’s always better to keep chasing down the guy in front and maybe finish second, rather than stopping altogether. It’s a shame they never understood that.

I know fine well what was going through their minds when they found themselves in quicksand, corroded and imprisoned by the worm of jealousy. I can almost hear them even now: a chorus of voices all screaming the wish that was dying in front of their eyes: “We want to play for Barcelona or Real Madrid!”

I know because they told me. I know because I told them. Becoming a footballer is only the first half of the silent prayer a kid offers up to the sky or confides to his teacher in a primary school essay. The second part is the name of the team he wants to play for.

Spain was right at the top of our list, an undisputed king that had us utterly captivated. It was a flight of fancy, an ambitious project put together word by word while we had our playtime snack. We wanted to turn our fruit juice into sangria, or perhaps even
cerveza
.

Twice I almost managed the miracle.

It’s the summer of 2006, we’ve just won the World Cup, and I’m thoroughly drunk on life. I go out and about on my bike in the quiet little streets of Forte dei Marmi
⁵
and, as I pass by on the seafront, people stop and pat me on the back. Fans say hello and I do likewise; there’s a nod of recognition for each and every one of them.

“Hello, Andrea.”

“
Buenos dias
.”

“What a lovely afternoon, Andrea.”

“
Buenas tardes
.”

“Sweet dreams, Andrea.”

“
Buenas noches
.”

“Ciao, Andrea.”

“
Hola
.”

“We’re heading back to Milan; see you soon, Andrea.”

“
Adios
.”

“Coming to the usual place in a little while for a drink, Andrea?”

“
Hasta ahora
.”

They must have thought that beating France in the final had fried my brain, but there was something they didn’t know. They were missing a vital piece of the story, namely that as things stood, I belonged to Real Madrid, not Milan. I was a Madrid player in my head, my heart and my soul. I had a five-year contract sitting waiting, and a salary that was out of this world.

It seemed that certain people at Milan had got themselves into one too many scrapes – or at least that was the story doing the rounds.
Calciopoli
⁶
was the second most popular topic of conversation back then, a close second to Italy’s penalty shootout triumph in Germany. One day you’d read that we were going to be relegated to Serie B, the next that we were looking at a 15-point penalty. The next again day they’d be talking about us handing back trophies and having our titles removed from the record books. After a while I began to suspect that it wasn’t Mark David Chapman who killed John Lennon. It had been one of the Milan directors.

The whole thing was an absolute shambles. Nobody, least of all me, had a clue what was going on and what Milan’s fate would actually be. One thing I was sure of, though: I would never drop down to Serie B. And if I had to leave, I wouldn’t feel like a traitor. You always want to be ambitious and play for a noble cause. There was no way I was going to pay for other people’s sins, if that’s what they turned out to be. I’ve always believed that those who make the mess are responsible for cleaning it up. If you break something, you pay.

The Madrid coach Fabio Capello phoned. And then Franco Baldini, their director of football. Everyone wanted to speak to me. I had a word with my agent and asked him to find out what Milan were saying about it all.

Shortly after, I was due back at Milanello. To make the Champions League proper, we had to get through a qualifier against Red Star Belgrade. I was trying to reach the very top of the skyscraper and here we were on the ground floor. Those of us who had been at the World Cup were in line for only 10 days’ holiday before training started again, but it was at that point Tullio said to me: “Hold off on going back. Let me speak to Real. If you really want a change of scene from Forte dei Marmi, head back to your house in Brescia. And keep your mobile on – in a little while you’ll get a call.”

No sooner had he said it than the phone started ringing. Nostradamus was a mere amateur compared to our Tullio.

“Hello Andrea, it’s Fabio Capello here.” Only one of the most successful coaches in the history of the sport.

“Hello, coach. How are you?”

“I’m great, and I imagine you’re even better. Come and join us. We’ve just signed Emerson from Juventus and you’re the man to play beside him in midfield.”

“Okay then.”

He didn’t need much time to convince me. Less than a minute, I reckon. Not least because I’d already seen the contract. My agent had studied it in great detail and then shot off to Madrid. We were like two young lovers, Tullio and I. Teenagers with each other on speed dial. The phone lines were red hot.

“Andrea, we’re on.”

“I’m really happy about that, Tullio.”

I pictured myself in that white jersey. Pristine, and at the same time aggressive; a mean streak running through its unusual purity. My thoughts often wandered to the Santiago Bernabeu, the temple, a ground that struck terror into opponents. Bruised and battered slaves at the king’s banquet.

“What do we do now then, Tullio?”

“Let’s go for lunch in a few days.”

“Where? Meson Txistu in Plaza de Angel Carbajo?”

“No, Andrea; not Madrid. Milanello.”

“What do you mean ‘Milanello’? Are you stupid?”

“Nope, you heard right: Milanello. We haven’t got Galliani’s approval yet.”

Ah yes, the pen guy.

The menu was always the same: I knew it off by heart. Antipasto, starter, main course and then the legendary ice cream with crunchy bits on top.

We met in the room used for team meals, halfway between the kitchens and the hall with the hearth where Berlusconi would pound away on the piano and tell various kinds of jokes. Equidistant between the most modest part of the complex and the richest. Between a symbol of humility and one of unabashed power. Between a place where people sweat buckets earning relatively little, and a spot where they earn a fortune sweating just the right amount.

I, meanwhile, was floating between Milan and Real Madrid.

Tullio spoke first. “Andrea’s going to sign for Real.”

Then me: “Yes…”

Then it was Galliani, staring straight at me. “Andrea, my friend, you’re not going anywhere.”

He pulled out a little case from under the table. That made me smile, thinking it had been just as well hidden as Monica Lewinsky under Bill Clinton’s desk in the Oval Office (every now and then I’m carried away by these crazy trains of thought).

A contract then appeared from the case, with Mr Biro adding, “You’re not leaving, because you’re going to sign this. It’s for five years, and we’ve left the salary details blank so you can write in whatever you like.”

Tullio just about ripped it out of my hands. “I’ll keep hold of this.”

He took his time, brought it home, read it and read it again. I went off to the national team training camp at Coverciano
⁷
and, for a few days, I didn’t hear anything. I thought it was a done deal: I was thinking in Spanish, dreaming in Spanish. My imagination was in overdrive, flying off to Madrid and landing somewhere between Plaza Mayor and Puerta del Sol.

And then my agent phoned me.

“Sign for Milan. Right now, they’ll not let you leave.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

“Ok, fine.”

People maybe think decisions like that take an eternity – hours, days, or even months, sapping your physical and mental energy. It’s almost never the case, because often your instincts will be telling you one thing but a clause in your contract obliges you to do something else entirely. In that sort of scenario, it doesn’t take long to say ‘no’, even if you’re doing so reluctantly.

You’re then forced to tell the media a lot of crap; provided, of course, that they manage to ask you the right question. If they enquire whether it’s right you’d practically signed for Madrid, you’re duty-bound to respond hiding behind well-worn clichés and half-truths. You read a dull, lifeless script written by press officers with no talent or creative spark.

“No, that’s not the case. I’m perfectly happy at Milan.”

Fuck off!

It’s a pity it went the way it did. I’d have signed for Real in a heartbeat. They’re a club with more glamour than Milan; more prospects, more appeal, more everything. They strike fear in their opponents, whoever they happen to be.

All that said, I had the consolation of winning the Champions League at the end of the season. It could have gone a lot worse.

Capello and his assistant Franco Baldini weren’t exactly happy when Tullio told them I wouldn’t be emigrating. The idea has always stuck with Baldini, however. Every time I see him, he comes over, smiles and launches into the same story. “I’ve never managed to bring you to a club where I’ve been working. Sooner or later, though…”

He tried to take me to Roma before I signed for Juventus. I just wasn’t sure of the situation and the circumstances, even though I trusted him. He’s great at his job; he’s got style. The new ownership structure was what concerned me – I just wasn’t convinced by it. “We’re going to build a great Roma,” Baldini kept insisting, but he couldn’t tell me much, if anything, about the Americans who had bought a majority stake.

I got suspicious. If the “new” club had been up and running, had it been a reality and not just words, perhaps I would have signed. Rome is a beautiful city. The people are special and the climate’s fantastic. But the fact is that at that point, nobody had even seen the future president, Thomas DiBenedetto. And the hypothetical trio of new directors, Pallotta-D’Amore-Ruane, sounded like something from the credits for a song at the San Remo Music Festival. “Composed by Pallotta-D’Amore-Ruane, conducted by Vince Tempera.”
⁸

Surrounded by the flowers of the Ariston Theatre, the MC could easily have introduced that night’s singer with those words. The name of the song? Thanks anyway, Roma.
⁹

And thanks also to Spain.
Siempre
. Because as well as Real Madrid, I was courted by Barcelona, the other half of the dream.

 

5.
A seaside resort in northern Tuscany, popular with tourists

6.
A match-rigging scandal that saw Juventus relegated to Serie B and stripped of the 2005 and 2006 Serie A titles. Milan, Lazio, Fiorentina and Reggina also received points penalties.

7.
Located on the outskirts of Florence

8.
A prominent figure in Italian music, Tempera is known for his output as a producer, arranger, conductor and performer

9.
Grazie Roma
by Antonello Venditti was a big hit in the wake of the club’s 1983
scudetto
win and is still sung by fans today

Chapter 4

After the wheel, the PlayStation is the best invention of all time. And ever since it’s existed, I’ve been Barcelona, apart from a brief spell way back at the start when I’d go Milan.

I can’t say with any certainty how many virtual matches I’ve played over the last few years but, roughly speaking, it must be at least four times the number of real ones.

Pirlo v Nesta was a classic duel back in our Milanello days. We’d get in early, have breakfast at 9am and then shut ourselves in our room and hit the PlayStation until 11. Training would follow, then we’d be back on the computer games until four in the afternoon. Truly a life of sacrifice.

Our head-to-heads were pure adrenaline. I’d go Barcelona and so would Sandro. Barca v Barca. The first player I’d pick was the quickest one, Samuel Eto’o, but I’d still end up losing a lot of the time. I’d get pissed off and hurl away my controller before asking Sandro for a rematch. And then I’d lose again.

It’s not like I could use the excuse that his coach was better than mine: it was Pep Guardiola for him and Pep Guardiola for me. At least in terms of our manager we set out on a level footing.