Carlo Ancelotti (17 page)

They were clapping and cheering. We weren’t counting our chickens, we were just getting revved up, filled with positive energy. That happens. In the little dressing room next door, the players I had sent up into the stands were putting on our victory shirts under their team uniforms. Our victory—a victory that, however, remained to be won.

The air was sparkling and cool, which seemed appropriate. A. C. Milan, ready for the bubbly. So I let the team vent and applaud for a few minutes, then I told them to calm down: “Look, when you’re playing against Brits, a match is never really over, so let’s be careful here. Let’s make sure they don’t seize control at the beginning of the second half. We can’t, and we shouldn’t, collapse. Let’s manage our control of the ball and our control of the game. Go! Go, Milan!” That was my speech. Nothing more, nothing less.

That evening, Liverpool had begun the match with a single striker, Baroš which is why I would have expected Cissě to come onto the field at the beginning of the second half. It didn’t happen. Strange tactics Rafa Benítez was employing. And, in fact, everything looked great for us when the game resumed; we came close to ratcheting the score up to 4–0. Then, the unforeseeable happened: a six-minute blackout. The impossible became possible. (“Impossible is nothing” is a slogan that I’ve always hated, because it turned ugly on us that day.) We were our own worst nightmare. The world turned upside down. The second and minute hands of my watch started twirling in the wrong direction: ladies and gentlemen, we’re running on disaster time now. We were hurtling into the dreamworld of the English bookmakers, and well beyond. If we had bet against ourselves, we would have become richer
than we already were. The score: 3–1; 3–2; 3–3. I couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be happening. I was paralyzed, and I didn’t even have time to react. I was baffled; nothing made sense. Who could have kept their senses? In the course of just 360 seconds, destiny had changed the direction of the match, twirling it 180 degrees. A complete change of course, an inexorable and continuous decline. The light had gone out, and there was no time to change the bulb. It was moving too fast, there was no chance to run for shelter. A perfect piece of machinery in an irreversible nosedive. Incredible but true.

People often ask me what went through my mind during Liverpool’s recovery. The answer is simple: nothing. Zero. My brain was a perfect vacuum, the vacuum of deep space. I did my best to focus, to concentrate. We went into overtime and finally started playing like the team we were, the team we believed we were, the team that still could, and had to, beat Liverpool. Even then, deep down, I still hoped to pull it off. Right up to the very last minute, when Dudek made a miracle save against Shevchenko. Andriy headed the ball toward goal, and we were already celebrating sweet victory, but the goalkeeper managed to block the shot. Andriy regained possession of the ball, and Dudek blocked it again, just as he was getting back up from the ground. Corner kick. Ouch. It was then, and only then, that I began to see ghosts—not until then. My brain began functioning again, and I managed to put together a complete and coherent thought: “This is starting to look bad.”

In the meantime, the match had gone into a penalty shootout. I looked my players in the eyes, and I saw that something had gone wrong. They were overthinking it all. And right before you’re
about to kick from the penalty mark, that’s never a good attitude to have. At that point, I was practically certain we were done for. And to think that the designated penalty kickers, unlike what had happened at Manchester against Juventus, were our good ones: Serginho, Pirlo, Tomasson, Kaká, and Shevchenko. When I saw Dudek dancing before each one of our penalty kicks to try to shake our concentration, I was reminded of the final that we, Roma, lost to Liverpool in a penalty shootout. There, too, Grobbelaar, on the goal line, had done a creditable imitation of a hysterical belly dancer. One no better than the other, him and Dudek. In the locker room after the game, I had very little to say: “In moral terms, we won that game. If we do our best, someday we’ll have this opportunity again …”

I never watched that match again, and I never will. Not so much because of the pain, but simply because there is no point to it. I feel no need to watch it again. Now I think of the disaster of Istanbul as a loss like any other. My depression has lifted. Of all the players, Crespo is probably the one who took it the hardest; he’d never won a European Cup, and that evening in Turkey he thought his time had come—a feeling that only grew during the game, after he scored not one but two goals. For his effort and his gifts, he really deserved to go home with a major piece of recognition. Even today, he lives with the regret that he was unable to hoist that Champions League cup; he deserved it more than all the others.

Crespo had begun that season as a cadaver, and he ended it as a hero. He had improved vastly, and all credit was due to him. When we acquired him in the summer from Chelsea, he was
another man: ungainly, slow, depressed, he no longer seemed like a soccer player at all. (I still don’t know what they did to him.) He couldn’t even score; he didn’t get his first goal until November, in the Italian Cup games. He worked like crazy to recover, and, in the end, he succeeded. It was the old Crespo again, the one I’d known from my time at Parma. My prize student, my good close friend.

One step down, in the ranks of despair, was Gattuso, who was ready to leave A. C. Milan after the match against Liverpool. Some kind of psychic sinkhole had opened up inside him, sucking him down into darkness.

Then, all together, we came to a conclusion, even though it took us some time: we would return in triumph precisely because of that crushing defeat. Just when that would be, we still couldn’t say. We couldn’t possibly know. First, we had to gather up all the shattered pieces of us, ourselves, and our team, and reassemble them. It was the most complicated puzzle I ever faced. It was in that period that I went back to find the thesis I had written for my master’s degree at Coverciano to become a fully accredited, first-class soccer coach. I flipped through the pages, going directly to the chapter on psychology:

Another one:

I may have been a bad writer, but apparently the prescription for the team’s crisis was always clear to me. Tragedy can only produce better performance. Either you emerge, all rowing in the same direction, or you’re done for.

The process of psychological reconstruction is a lengthy one, perhaps even too long. It took us the entire 2005–06 season to complete it. We didn’t win a thing that year—an unusual situation for our group of players and one we’d never experienced before.

While I’m on the subject, let me say something about a notion that is of interest to many people I’ve spoken to: perhaps the decline of Alberto Gilardino—who had just joined the team—began at this very point. Alberto is a somewhat fragile personality, and it wasn’t the dream of his life to be acquired by a club like
A. C. Milan in the midst of such a troubled period. He was crushed by the ensuing pressure.

In any case, we emerged from the ordeal stronger. I may be crazy, but I think that the defeat at Istanbul wasn’t completely negative. It had its reasons and its value. We were ready to start over from scratch. All together, hand in hand, into the eye of the hurricane. The hurricane of the Italian soccer scandal: Calciopoli.

T
he nose. It’s long—incredibly long. In the summer of 2006, Pinocchio had come to terms with us; he was practically a member of the A. C. Milan team. We even had his uniform ready. Ready for Zlatan Ibrahimović, the perfect striker, arriving from the distant shores of Juventus. Perfect in and of himself, and perfect for my team. An assault weapon in my hands, with the ammunition clip entrusted to Kaká. In my imagination, I was already training him, the tempered-steel tip of our little Christmas Tree.

The problem was that Ibra lacked the strength of character to wait patiently. Haste makes waste, but Massimo Moratti pays good money; so one more world-class soccer player went to Inter. It disappointed me. This was the first sting of the Calciopoli scandal, and, more than ointment, I needed a suit of armor to deal with
what followed. In the summer of 2006, Ibra had been our major designated purchase, but we didn’t yet know whether we would be playing in Serie A or Serie B. He certainly didn’t want to drop down a ranking. So we asked him to give us a little more time until it became clear. He didn’t have any more time to give us, apparently. He changed his plans and his colors without changing his city. Too bad. He wanted to win the Champions League; we could have served that to him on a silver platter just a year later.

I was to console myself over our loss with a new acquaintance, Warrant Officer Auricchio, the great discovery of that period. Every day I read sensational new reports in the daily press; from time to time, the versions would change, usually for the worse. A. C. Milan in Serie A; Milan in Serie B; it could even go down to Serie C; Milan won’t be penalized; Milan will be penalized; Milan is going to compete in the Champions League; Milan out of the running for the European Cup; Milan guilty; Milan very guilty. I was ready at this point for anything, even the revelation that Galliani had assassinated JFK. It was the end of the world.

One day I was at home with a group of friends; we were talking about everything that was happening. I said I was amazed that the police hadn’t called me yet. They were questioning everyone they could think of. As if by stage direction, my cell phone rang at that very moment. It was from an unlisted number, caller unknown, which is like the signature of the classic prankster: “Hello, this is the carabinieri of Rome, I’m Warrant Officer Auricchio.”

“Oh, come on. You trying to pull my leg? Who is this?”

“Sir, believe me, I’m telling you the truth. I really am Warrant Officer Auricchio.”

Sure, Auricchio, like the brand of provolone cheese. Mmmm-mmm … Auricchio—tastes good, and good for you!

“Look, you can give me all the plausible details you want, my dear Auriemma.…”

“Auricchio!”

“Sure, right—Auricchio. But your surname is obviously a little too cute. I’m pretty sure this is a prank call.”

My friends were all there; I wondered which one was trying to fool me by arranging for this anonymous prank call. “Listen, Ancelotti, this is serious business; we need to talk.”

“Sure, but I don’t know who you are.”

“My name is Auricchio.”

“Again? I got that part. I just don’t know who you really are.”

“This is the carabinieri of Rome.”

“What is this, a broken record? If this really is the carabinieri of Rome, send me something official—a warrant, a radiogram.”

“Ancelotti, the Italian police haven’t used radiograms since World War II.”

“Listen, Auriemma …”

“Auricchio!”

“Right, okay, Auricchio, send me anything you want, but I want something from you to prove that you’re telling the truth. How about this: send a fax to the carabinieri in my hometown, and they can contact me.”

I addressed him with the informal
“tu,”
while Auricchio continued to use the formal
“Lei.”
Something didn’t really make sense; as a prank, it was verging on the excessive.

“Signor Ancelotti, you are a public figure. We’d really prefer to
keep this private and confidential. It’s for your own good. Come to Rome in two days.”

“Why would I want to come to Rome? Will you cut this out or not? What do you want from me? Who is this, anyway?”

“This is Auricchio.”

We sounded like Jiminy Cricket and Pinocchio. Or maybe Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, because Pinocchio was already training over at Internazionale.

“Listen, Ancelotti, let’s do this. I’ll call you back in two or three days.”

“Do as you like.”

“Buon giorno
, Ancelotti.”

“Buon giorno
, Auriemma, or whatever the fuck your name is.”

I had induced an identity crisis in the poor policeman. I was increasingly certain that it was all a joke, partly because the timing was just too perfect. Auricchio had called me at the exact moment in which I was talking about the investigation with my friends.

Just out of curiosity, I started asking around. And it turns out there really was a Warrant Officer Auricchio. Even worse: he was a big wheel, a major figure in the ongoing investigation. I suddenly imagined myself in handcuffs, being indicted for insulting a public officer in the pursuit of his duties, moving steadily away from the coach’s bench of Milan, and closer toward a bench in the prison of San Vittore. A bench that maybe didn’t even wobble.

In the end, I had to go to Rome to the carabinieri barracks. Once I got there, a young man with short dark hair was waiting for me. It was him, the original, the one, the only, the inimitable Warrant Officer Auricchio. And he was really a very nice guy.