The Special One: The Dark Side of Jose Mourinho (6 page)

His way of dominating the ball, the co-ordination of body and object, his subtle touches – these were all a throwback to another era, to a time when children had no TV, no consoles, no McDonald’s, no mobile phones or Dolce & Gabbana – only footballs. For José Luis Mendilíbar, his coach at Valladolid, the lad seemed to have stepped out of a time machine.

Mendilíbar, born in Vizcaya in 1961, gets excited just thinking about it. ‘There are no players like Pedro León anymore,’ he says. ‘He’s from the last century. He’s like a child. Throw him a ball on the street and he’ll start to play with it. I had to practically call him in from training sessions.’

Pedro León was always a boy with slightly old-fashioned habits. Born in Mula, an inland town in Murcia, he had the reserved nature typical of highland people, and had had a strict upbringing from his father, a retired policeman permanently disabled after being the victim of a terrorist attack, possibly by ETA. There was a spartan regime in the house and sacrifice, physical courage and discretion were valued above all other qualities.

Pedro León detested jokes and abhorred electronic games. He paid very little attention to social life, to music, to bars or admirers, and settled down with his first girlfriend. Vicente del Bosque once said of Pedro Munitis: ‘Football is his vice.’ Football was also Pedro León’s vice, and he left evidence of his weakness wherever he went. When he played for Levante in the 2007–08 season, he trained with his team-mates in the mornings in Buñol and then travelled 200 miles to Mula to play indoor football with his friends.

The summer he signed for Madrid, after a somewhat inactive holiday period, he enrolled in a seven-a-side football championship despite running the risk of injury. It was one of those tournaments that lasts for 24 hours without interruption, like ‘The 24 hours of Caravaca’. A marathon. It began on a Saturday and ended on Sunday after some early-hours-of-the-morning play-offs. The Madrid scouts whose job it is to check out the private lives of potential signings could not have been clearer in their reports. Valdano shrugged his shoulders: ‘The boy is clean-living to the point of being naive.’

Pedro León possessed the spirit of an amateur but that contrasted with Mourinho’s rather industrial notion of football, where players were aseptic pieces on an assembly line to be put together as the coach saw fit. Pedro León would never put in an indifferent spell at training, despite the fact that his coach hardly ever used him for competitive matches. It was a new experience for the youth. Never before had he had such a peripheral role in a team and it burned him up inside. He was going to Valdebebas every morning like someone on his way into battle. Teeth clenched, he worked as if each session were his last chance to win his place in the team. His aim was to occupy the right wing, where the most expensive signing of the summer – the first transfer that turned a profit for Benfica Stars Fund – played: Angel di María.

That night at the Ciutat de Valencía – when Mourinho accused Pedro León of displaying a vain and selfish attitude in front of his team-mates – was only his second game of the season. In five rounds of league matches and one round of Champions League fixtures he had only played 60 minutes; Di María had already played 340. The press conference in Auxerre was the most explicit public attack that Mourinho had launched against one of his own players. It is probable that after hearing what he said Mourinho realised he needed to make what had happened seem like nothing special. Who better for the job than Pedro León himself?

Mourinho spoke to him two weeks after returning from Auxerre, asking him to give a press conference that he himself would supervise. The procedure was the same as he used when Karanka spoke in public and more often than not when one of his players held a formal press conference: he would meet the player in question, he would formulate the questions that he imagined reporters would ask and suggest answers, as if in a face-to-face interview. What Mourinho asked Pedro León can be worked out from the repetitive answers the player gave in the press room.

‘I spoke with the coach after the game against Levante and I knew I’d done some things wrong,’ he said, without specifying exactly what his mistakes had been. ‘There’s been no punishment. I’d even say I feel protected by my coach. He’s the boss. I know that when the boss gets along well with someone he usually tell them these things. At no time have I felt bad or offended. If I have to ask anyone for advice, then, with the friendly relationship I have with my coach, I ask him.

‘I get along with him very well. I’ve a very good relationship. I know that everything he does is for the good of the group and for me. And the team’s good …’

This was positive propaganda that favoured the powers that be. But still, Mourinho did not like some of the words used by the player. In time, the coach would forbid Madrid players from giving press conferences – something that they had hitherto done on an almost daily basis.

His public appearance did little to enhance Pedro León’s career prospects at Madrid, and he played less and less. On 3 October at the San Siro in the fourth round of the group stage of the Champions League, Milan led 2–1 when the coach brought him on with 10 minutes remaining. His contribution was explosive: he got the equalising goal in the last attack of the match. But there was no reward. This goal was the last thing Pedro León did on the pitch for a long while as he did not play a single minute in any of the following six league matches.

Murcia lawyer José Sánchez Bernal, one of the 16 men who sat alongside Pérez on the board, was quick to offer the official version of his fellow Murcian in the newspaper
La Verdad de Murcia
. ‘I have to clarify the fact that our coach has not put a cross against his name,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Pedro León will end up playing many games for Real Madrid and have lots of success.’

Sánchez Bernal’s vision offers up an idea of the type of information available to the board. The reality for Pedro León at Valdebebas was very different. His future in Madrid was unfeasible. Chelsea and Manchester City made contact with Valdano in December and January to inquire about the footballer, checking the possibility of a loan until the summer. Hearing this, Mourinho rejected the idea, saying he needed him. In the second half of the season, however, he used him even less.

For players, and for employees close to the first-team squad, the reasons for the relegation of Pedro León are the same ones that inspired the demotion of Kaká and Canales. Because of the way Mourinho lined up his team, the presence of these players would have been a serious threat to Di María’s place in the starting line-up. Since the Argentinian winger clearly could not compete with Ronaldo or Özil, it became clear that he had to play on the right wing. In order to keep Di María there, Mourinho had to edge out all serious competitors who performed well on that side of the pitch.

By Christmas 2010 Mourinho was fully aware that Pérez was withholding the power and the conditions from him that he had demanded to carry out his grand task. It was not enough for him to have converted Valdebebas, that once public exhibition of all things Madrid, into a fortress whose inhabitants increasingly believed that the interests of a privileged few were being served above all others. He needed much more power and something told him it would not be possible to progress in his mission without first causing a long conflict. The pacification of the club, which José Ángel Sánchez had spoken about, could not be achieved without violent transformation.

‘In short, there is nothing mysterious, romantic or necessarily laudable about leadership. Indeed, some of the most effective leaders have been those who, merely through having more than their fair share of psychopathic traits, were able to release antisocial behaviour in others. Their secret is that by setting an example they release a way of acting that is normally inhibited. This gives pleasure to their followers, thus reinforcing their leadership.’

Norman Dixon,
On the Psychology of Military Incompetence

José Mourinho skirted the technical area and, covering his mouth so no one could read his lips, turned to the Levante left-back and insulted him.

It was about 8.30 p.m. on 25 September 2010 and Madrid were playing their fifth league match of the season. The Levante left-back, Asier del Horno, had gone to the touchline to take a throw-in late in the first half. He held the ball in his hands when, from the visitors’ bench, Mourinho could be heard directing a tirade of abuse his way, referring to his private life.

Del Horno tried to ignore it but the coach hammered him throughout the whole match, making del Horno feel sorry primarily for the coaching staff and the substitutes. Just a few feet away, sitting on the bench, the players looked on, perplexed and embarrassed. They could not believe Mourinho was capable of so viciously insulting a footballer.

That night at the Ciutat de Valencía stadium they began to realise that the most powerful man at the club, the person they would depend on professionally in the coming years, had a mysterious and chaotic side. Something that verged on the delinquent. Granero, Mateos, Dudek, Pedro León, Lass and Benzema, lined up in the dugout and almost all stunned at what they saw, said they had never had a coach like this before. This taunting of an opponent was a new experience. The only one who was not surprised by his behaviour was Lass, who between 2005 and 2007 had played for Mourinho at Chelsea.

The game provided a summary of some of the main problems that Madrid would face from there on in. The league championship, with its draining routine, would be psychologically exhausting, as they would mainly be up against against modest opponents who would be inclined to give up all attacking ambitions.

In the Ciutat de Valencía tactical situations were encountered that, despite their extreme simplicity, were not easy to resolve. With Levante having fully retreated and seeming impenetrable in their own penalty area, Madrid had no choice but to try to pass their way around their opponents until a gap finally appeared. Committed to playing on the counter-attack, as had been the case since pre-season, it was not long before Madrid displayed symptoms of extreme sluggishness. The distance between Levante’s back four, led by Ballesteros, and the goalkeeper Reina was minimal.

Mourinho was immediately aware of the situation. That opening-day draw against Mallorca had left his team only one point ahead of Barcelona. They could lose their lead over Guardiola’s side, who were playing in Bilbao at 10 p.m. that evening.

The nerves in the Madrid camp were palpable, even at the team hotel. That same morning a group of journalists, alerted by Mourinho’s entourage, had gone to the stadium to discuss and film the state of the pitch. Levante’s press officer, Emilio Nadal, was astonished to see them take out a ruler and measure the exact length of the grass, which was long and dry to slow down the ball. It was nothing new in the catalogue of tactics employed by smaller teams to deprive their more skilful opponents of the advantage of a fast pitch. Nothing illegal. A detail, however, that hardly helped keep Mourinho calm. Once the game started it was not long before he left his seat. Seeing Del Horno clearly irritated him.

What Del Horno really liked was
pelota vasca
, a traditional, fast-moving Basque sport played with a small rubber ball. Football was not so much his passion, more his trade. He had always been a formidable athlete and stood out at youth level for his strength, his power and his ability to arrive late in the penalty area. He was a tenacious man-marker and was surprisingly good in the air. He also stood out for his audacity, both on and off the field. The qualities that enabled him to face any game without the fear of failure also allowed him to live carelessly. A native of Biscay – and wholly attached to the town of Gallarta in the mining heart of the Somorrostro Valley – he would do anything so as not to miss the annual local festivities. One day he signed for Chelsea, Mourinho having personally requested the signing.

‘I signed for Chelsea for four years in 2005,’ he recalls. ‘In 2006, after a season in London, Valencia offered me the same salary but for twice as long. It was an important club – it was Valencia – and it meant returning to Spain. The offer was very good and, although it was a difficult decision, I accepted.’

For the Basque, Mourinho was the coach who opened the doors to the Premier League, the most attractive market in world football, a showcase that allowed him to transform his career. ‘Mourinho was a very accessible coach who took care of everything,’ he says. ‘He was great with me and my family when we arrived in England. I have a very good memory of that year because I had the opportunity to win two trophies. I was very young, and the truth is that he and the people working with him welcomed me and helped me. I’ll always be grateful for the opportunity he gave me to be part of a team like Chelsea. For the way he took a chance on me and how he behaved towards me.’

Between 2006 and 2008, Del Horno became the best left-back in Spain. He was regularly called up to the Spanish national squad by Luis Aragonés, participating in the process of qualifying for the World Cup but missing out on the final cut. Sources from the Spanish Football Federation confirm that he suffered a chronic inflammation in his right Achilles tendon during his season at Chelsea, the kind of injury that requires rest to prevent the irreversible deterioration of the affected tissue. The player played on with pain-killing injections. A year after signing his contract at Stamford Bridge, Del Horno could not jump without experiencing severe pain. He did not go to the World Cup but joined Valencia for €8 million. The tendon was badly torn. The two operations that he had on it could, at best, only prolong his career a little, and at great cost. He would have very few games left by the time he came to play Madrid: just 34 more matches in the top division.

On the night of 25 September an enduring football discovery was made as to how to frustrate Madrid. Levante’s game plan was an exercise in renunciation, a strange approach in the Spanish league, where pride in retaining possession of the ball usually prevails over any recognition of inferiority, any dedication to defending or playing on the break. Directed by Sergio Ballesteros, Levante sat back, allowed their opponents to have the ball and dug an impassable trench. They had just three shots on Casillas’s goal, each going wide. But Madrid only managed two shots on target. Never again that season did they have fewer than three shots at goal, proof of the success of Levante’s tactics, and a symptom of the deficiencies in Madrid’s functioning that would persist in subsequent years. These were the reasons for Mourinho’s exasperation and why he turned his anger towards Del Horno. But unlike his colleagues and several members of the opposition, the player did not take Mourinho seriously.

‘Everybody knows,’ says Del Horno, ‘that everyone takes their own path, and when you come together on a football pitch things completely change. That day we had a chance to get the draw; they just couldn’t figure us out. They weren’t counting on dropping two points at a ground like Levante’s. We made things difficult for them and in order to do that we had to use all the weapons available to us. Just as Mourinho used the weapons available to him. He saw he could unsettle a player to get a response from his own team, that’s all there is to it … He is a coach who likes to be close to the players, the matches … Well, he looks after his own interests.’

Mourinho’s attempt to rebuke his former player caught everyone’s attention as the night went on. Del Horno clashed with Ronaldo, claiming a foul, and provoking a free-for-all involving players from both teams. The Madrid coach intervened again against his former player. They exchanged insults. The tension continued until the end. Violence is contagious.

But referee Carlos Delgado Ferreiro only dared to send off Dr Juan Carlos Hernández. A sports medicine specialist with over 10 years of honest service to Madrid, if there was one thing you would never associate with Dr Hernández it was brawling.

More attentive to the developments than Delgado Ferreiro was Sergio Ballesteros, the Levante captain, who had just turned 35. His story is one of local boy made good, although he had to first leave his home town before he could enjoy success. Emerging from somewhere in the ‘Garden of Burjassot’ in Valencia, his talent honed in the harbour club’s youth team, he made his début in 1994 and then went in search of his fortune: four years in Tenerife, one at Rayo Vallecano, three in Villarreal and eight in Mallorca. Then he returned home, well worn both inside and out. He signed a contract with Levante in the summer of 2008, after the club filed for bankruptcy. The alternatives were both extreme: end his career surrounded by debris and decay, or get the team promoted against all odds. On 13 June 2010 the impossible happened. The club with one of the lowest budgets in the second division, and still in administration, won its fourth promotion. At the head of the company stood Ballesteros.

Long and wide like a piece of industrial pipe, Ballesteros stands six foot two. His body resembles a turret from which a leathery head sticks out, turning, featureless, on his not inconsiderable neck. The nickname of ‘
Papá
’ sums up everything he means to the dressing room. Ballesteros is their natural leader: his presidential voice, his watchful green eyes commanding respect. Everyone see him as the great provider. He misses nothing – and that includes the provocations from the Madrid coach, to whom he quickly conveyed a simple warning. At the final whistle he approached him in the tunnel and repeated it several times.

‘Respect your fellow professionals,’ he said. ‘Respect your fellow professionals …!’

In the 2010–11 season Levante’s players were the lowest paid in the first division. According to a report by Professor José María Liébana Gay for the University of Barcelona, spending on Levante’s staff for that year amounted to €7 million in total. This was followed by €11.7 million at Almería, and €14.4 million in salaries and bonuses at Real Sociedad. All a world away from Barcelona, who set aside €240.6 million of their budget for the payment of salaries, and from Madrid, with €216.1 million as the second highest spenders on personnel in the league behind Barça. Mourinho’s salary alone – about €14 million – was double the wage bill of the Levante team. In this time of fiscal crisis Levante were the club with the smallest total debt to the government. The bankruptcy action had forced them to settle their accounts with the tax authorities.

‘The professionals’ to whom Ballesteros was referring live according to the law of the marketplace; a law that is crueller to the smaller clubs. Eight of the eleven Levante players who played against Madrid in 2010 were in the final days of their careers in the top flight. Del Horno has been without a club since 2012; David Cerrajería, right-back, signed for Cordoba in 2011; Sergio González Soriano, midfielder, retired in 2011; Xisco Nadal signed for Alqueires in the third tier in 2011; Nano, who played in the centre of defence alongside Ballesteros, went to Guizhou in the Chinese league in 2012; the goalkeeper Manolo Reina ended up at Atromitos, a team on the outskirts of Athens in 2011; Nacho González, midfielder, played for Standard Liège and in 2012 signed for Hércules in the second division; after a brief period in the Chinese League, Rubén Suárez, the striker, returned to play for Almería in the second division.

Levante’s training ground is located in the Comarca region of Hoya de Buñol on a plateau surrounded by mountains, dotted with almond trees and lined with ditches. The horizon is marked by the giant metal cylinders of the Cemex cement plant, closed due to a lack of demand. In early 2013 the future of the 150 workers at the plant hung in the balance of rather grim negotiations. Dust particles of crushed materials floated in the air. It was a cold February day with a chill wind, normal in the microclimate of the plain of Buñol, and Vicente Iborra sat in a small room next to the dressing room to explain what kind of club he served.

‘We’re aware of our limitations,’ says Levante’s second vice-captain. ‘The club cannot pay transfers and we’re forced to wait for loan players or free transfers. Because the club that pays the most is the first to choose, we have to wait until the end of the summer. It’s an uncomfortable situation because you start the season with only half the squad guaranteed, and after the league starts two or three more players come in.’

Born in Moncada, Valencia, in 1988 and brought up through Levante’s youth team, Iborra spent his formative years at the club during that crucial time of administration and promotion. Since he was 24 years old he has been a loyal lieutenant to Ballesteros and Juanfran, sharing a sense of administrative duty and talking about the club with the solemnity of an entrepreneur speaking about his investments. Listening to Quico Catalan, the president, was not much different to listening to the players. In his conversation he referred to the crisis, the austerity and the structural problems that constitute the daily struggle in the vast majority of Spanish clubs.

‘We often resort to players who don’t have an important role at the clubs they’re at and who are keen to continue enjoying their football,’ Iborra says. ‘They come here and I think the club’s friendliness is a great calming influence – and now we also have economic stability. People who come feel very comfortable, and they perform to a much higher level. It’s very easy to become committed to the cause.’

The match on 25 September plotted the course for the years ahead when Madrid would come up against many teams who surrendered most of the pitch, together with the ball. It was also an indication of how Mourinho would go about explaining such bad results. The coach’s explanations of the draw in the press room at the Ciutat de Valencía drew subtly on his players’ lack of accuracy in front of goal, obscuring the fact that Madrid had had fewer chances to score than he acknowledged: a meagre balance of just two shots on target meant Mourinho had to avoid recognising that his team had played poorly.