Carlo Ancelotti (10 page)

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.

The first season without Sacchi was destined to be my last with A. C. Milan. At first, I had a hard time accepting that I was relegated to being an extra, playing the occasional cameo role, and then I understood. Capello was a very serious manager, he demanded discipline and understood intuitively how to shape his team to disrupt his opponents’ play. He was a master at reading a match; that was his strongest skill. From that point of view, I had to tip my hat to him. But as a human being—well, that’s another matter. He was a grouch, he didn’t know how to talk to players, and, most importantly, he didn’t like discussing technical matters with us. A dialectical exchange of views on strategy was alien to him, and so it never happened. Maybe that’s why there were so many verbal clashes with the players. Maybe that’s why one day Gullit hung him up on the wall in the Milanello locker room. Once again, I had to tip my hat, but the Italian for hat is
“cappello,”
and Capello was dangling from a hat rack—it almost seemed predestined–dangling with his shoes just a few inches from the floor. (Before then, I’d only seen something of the sort in Rome, when Liedholm, by himself, had lifted Turone and Pruzzo
off the ground by their necks during an argument.) Anyway, that’s how it went that time in Milanello.

Capello, reading the newspaper: “Ruud, you said things here that weren’t true. You’re a liar.”

Gullit, without reading the newspaper: “Now I’m going to set you straight.”

Brawl. I’m pretty sure that a lot of the players were rooting for Gullit, but we all pitched in and separated them.

But to Capello’s credit, after anything of the sort happened he just canceled it from his memory. As if nothing had happened. He started over from nothing. He pretended not to remember, for the good of the team. And for his own good. I have to say that there are times when I am just like him. As a coach, I have witnessed a great many arguments between players; it’s routine. Usually, I just watch; I keep my distance. If the argument drags out, I intervene; otherwise, I wait for them to resolve it on their own. When Clarence Seedorf first joined A. C. Milan, he would pick fights with everyone. It was one quarrel after another with his teammates, especially during the first year. Clarence likes to talk a lot, and he likes to talk about soccer. At first, since he was a new player, this habit of talking freely wasn’t particularly welcome. He was considered a know-it-all, an egotist—somebody who would always tell you how to do it better. Kaladze and Rui Costa couldn’t stand him. Just days after he arrived in Milanello, Seedorf already wanted to tell Rui Costa how to take the field and how to play. No one wanted to acknowledge his leadership because he was a new recruit. Over time, though, things improved. Because, in reality, Clarence
is
a leader. He rallies the team in the locker room.

I was still a midfielder, but I was already thinking like a coach during that last year of my career as a player. This helped me a great deal psychologically: on the one hand, I knew that I was about to leave an enchanted world; on the other hand, my future was fully mapped out. During that season, I had the time to understand clearly what I wanted to do. The idea of becoming assistant coach to Sacchi was exciting. When Capello sent me up into the bleachers, in my mind I had an answer ready for him: “Fine, you coach A. C. Milan, I’m going to coach the Italian national team.” Which might not have been exactly true, but I liked to believe it.

When I decided that would be my last championship season, I never gave it a second thought. Even though Capello tried to change my mind: “You can’t quit. You have to stay. You have to play for another year.” Sorry, can’t help it. Sacchi needs me. And there was also the fact that, in the meantime, for his first game as head coach of the Italian national team, in Genoa against Norway, he summoned me—theoretically as a player, though in fact I spent my time helping him to train the midfielders. He wanted me to get a direct sense of what my future would be like; he wanted me to have a good idea of my next job.

My career as a soccer player was coming to an end, and I was clear-minded and relaxed. I knew one thing for sure: you need to quit when you feel it, not when other people tell you. Otherwise it’s too late. And I ended my career on a wonderful, positive note, at the San Siro playing against Hellas Verona F. C. under Liedholm, my first teacher. Il Barone and Il Bimbo, on the same field for the last time. As opponents, but only in theory, because he and I had never been enemies. Really, we shared a single heart in two
different bodies. We were joined together by our heartbeat and our passion. Two images reflected in a single mirror; only the periods of time that we occupied were different. That’s why I believe that, deep down, he enjoyed my last performance. We were already champions of Italy, and, since I wanted to play, Capello sent me in twenty minutes from the end. The others seemed more excited than me. I scored a goal. Then I scored another. My first
doppietta
, or double—in the last game of my career. Well, better late than never. A long ball up the field, then a nice little dummy. As I ran back to the middle of the field, carrying the ball, I saw Baresi and just tossed out—more as a joke than anything else—“Franchino, I can’t quit now.”

“Cut the bullshit.”

The captain’s words are sacred. That whole stadium was mine—even Berlusconi, who declared at the end of the match: “We are going to offer another year’s contract to Ancellotti.” That’s right—Ancellotti, with a double
l
. No sooner said than done: the proposed contract arrived, but I’d already made my decision. I’d had all the time I needed to work it through, and I was confident, certain that the time was right. I don’t remember crying, probably because I had no reason to cry.

As a soccer player, I’d won everything I’d set out to win. As a man, I had two wonderful children, Katia and Davide. As a coach-to-be, all I needed to do was imitate my mentors: Liedholm and Sacchi, two completely opposite ways of thinking, and yet two stars in the same constellation—my constellation, because I’d had the good fortune to meet them both. One tranquil, the other tense. One Swedish, the other from Romagna. The first slept on trains,
the second screamed and shouted in his sleep. Liedholm for the snow, and Sacchi for the beach. I had experienced two extremes, and each of them had taught me how to win. It would be enough to absorb a little here and a little there, with a tiny—teeny tiny—dab of Capello, and I’d have the time of my life. I wasn’t worried, I was just curious. I was finishing my first life and starting my second, and I didn’t even have time to rest. I was my own boss, chairmen aside. Moreover, if I ate an extra bowl or three of tortellini, no one would bust my ass over it. Goffredo Mameli, poet and author of the Italian national anthem, had become my new idol from one day to the next. “Let us join in a cohort / We are ready to die / Italy has called.” Arrigo’s Italy, the national team.

P
aris. When I met Abramovich, I looked out over the city skyline and glimpsed London. When I was there with Sacchi, on the other hand, I saw trees and flowers, more than anything else. On the field, I was his assistant coach; off the field, I was a traveling salesman. One match after another, players to study and analyze, constantly traveling around Europe—I liked it all. I learned a lot; and in Paris I even brushed up on my Latin. Early one morning, we were in the lobby of a hotel (decidedly not the Hotel George V …), with time to kill before catching the plane late that afternoon. Arrigo was even crazier than usual: “Carletto, have you ever visited the Louvre?”

“No, is he in the hospital? I hadn’t heard he was sick …”

I was trying to be funny, but he was determined to take me to
a museum: “Come on, Carletto, let’s go to the Louvre, let’s go to the Louvre.”

“That’s fine with me, fine with me.”

We hopped into a taxi, and, before I could even dream of seeing the
Mona Lisa
, we pulled up in front. It was closed, locked tight, no admittance. “Arrigo, you’re not thinking of going to the airport this early?”

“No, Carletto, let’s go for a walk.” Unfortunately, right next to the Louvre is an enormous park. Trees and flowers, stretching off into the distance. “Look, Carletto, it’s beautiful. Let’s go take a stroll in the park.” Me, him, Paris, strolling together in the park, the birdies singing. One thought humming through my brain: please don’t let anyone see us.

“Carletto, this will only take a few minutes.” Just a few minutes. Well, 240 minutes, to be exact. Four full hours. A botany lesson like no other. Apparently, Sacchi knows every tree and every flower on earth. He knew everything. “Carletto, this is
Crataegus monogyna.”
Well, of course it is; I’d know it anywhere. Perhaps if he’d told me it was a hawthorn tree, it might have been easier to work up some enthusiasm. “Wonderful, Arrigo. Just wonderful.” I really didn’t give a hoot, but I was afraid to tell him that. He stopped every three feet, craning his neck and explaining in detail: “Incredible, Carletto, there’s
Narcissus pseudonarcissus.”

Well, I guess it must have been incredible, because I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was blabbering on about.

“It’s a trumpet narcissus, Carletto.”

Hold the presses. I missed seeing the
Mona Lisa
, and you’re trying to show me a trumpet narcissus? Is that like a Black Narcissus?
Questions started to form in my mind. Deep, searching questions. Questions like: Why does time drag along so slowly in this goddamned park?

“Oh, there’s
Rhodothamnus chamaecistus
 … and
Impatiens glandulifera
.… Now, let me tell you a thing or two about
Ligusticum mutellina.”

Thank you, Arrigo—thanks from the heart. I really wanted to know all about
Ligusticum mutellina
.

I. Was. Losing. My. Mind. It was like
The Scream
, by Edvard Munch, except with a slightly chubbier face. When we got to
Ficus benjamina
, I raised the white flag. I just gave up. Nothing personal against
Ficus benjamina
, but enough is enough. At the end of the fourth hour, I glanced at my watch: “Arrigo,
annamo
—let’s go.”

“Yes, Carletto, we’ll miss our plane.”

Long live Alitalia.

It was during that same period that I began to see Sacchi in a different light. I was still intimidated, but our relationship became a little warmer, a little more personal. There was a new intensity. I felt a genuine love for the man. In the professional sphere, he continued to demand the utmost of himself, but also of those who worked alongside him. For me, that was the best way to learn. I liked it. Pietro Carmignani and I were his assistants, his deputies: Carmignani sat next to him on the bench while I watched the match from the stands and prepared the match report. The terrible match report … It was a detailed report on everything that happened on the field. Nowadays, it’s simple; everything’s computerized. But back then it was grueling, maddening work. Maddening—in fact, people probably thought that I
was
mad,
because I talked out loud while my assistant made notes of everything I said. Pass by Baggio, shot by Albertini, Mussi breaks free, Baggio makes a run, Baggio takes a shot. A steady stream of words, exactly like that, from beginning to end, without a pause. Anyone who was unlucky enough to have seats near us eventually moved away. We were intolerable, but we did it out of necessity. It’s what Sacchi wanted.

And, all things considered, as long as we were doing the match reports for the Italian team, it really wasn’t a problem. The real problems began at the 1994 World Cup, in the United States. It was my job to prepare statistics on our opponents, but here’s the thing: often, it was just two or three days before a match when we found out who we’d be playing against. Once we did, I had to watch the videotapes of that team’s last three matches and, while I watched, do the match reports. And I had to do it all in a single night. But I learned a lot from it: I learned to focus on details. That went on until the Italy–Nigeria game in the quarterfinals. The usual routine, me in the bleachers annoying my neighbors: pass from Oliseh, Oliseh has a shot, Amunike picks up the ball … In the sixtieth minute, with Nigeria leading, 1–0, I started to have the nagging thought: what’s the best way to get back into Italy unobserved? How can we avoid a blizzard of overripe tomatoes at the airport? Maybe we can take a ferry from the island of Lampedusa. Or else, come south through Como. Whether to return from the north or the south—a difficult choice. I stopped doing the match report, but I hadn’t counted on Roberto Baggio: two goals, one in extra time, and Italy was ahead. More important, I hadn’t counted on Sacchi: “Carletto, where are my statistics?”

“Well, Arrigo, I only kept track until the sixtieth minute.”