I Think Therefore I Play (8 page)

At the start of season 2000/01, I went back to Inter. Lippi was still there, but he didn’t last much longer, barely a single game. I missed that trip to Reggio Calabria through injury, but his post-match press conference has gone down in history. “If I was president Moratti, I’d sack the coach and give the players a good kick up the arse.” He got his way, at least with half of that recommendation. Our buttocks remained blissfully untouched.

It was a shame he left, because he and I were very much on the same wavelength. We could understand each other instantly, despite the fact we’d only just met. All it took was one look for me to trust him blindly. It was a real pleasure to work with him.

In his place arrived Marco Tardelli, the former manager of the Italy under-21s. We’d won the European Championship together, but perhaps he didn’t recognise me. Whatever the explanation, he never picked me and it really got me down. I lost count of the number of times I wanted to say to him, “you know where you can stick that roar that made you famous” but, being a well-mannered person, I always stopped myself in time.

I no longer had any desire to be near him or that club. He killed it for me, wiping out what could have been a love without limits. I had to escape and, as ever, I got on the phone to Tinti.

“Take me away from this madhouse. I’m done with Inter, for good. Never, ever again. Find me another club. Any club.”

I went back to Brescia, on loan for six months, and then I moved to Milan for 12 billion lire
²⁶
plus Andres Guglielminpietro. Who do you reckon got the better of that deal? I don’t like speaking ill of anyone, and that includes Tardelli, but the fact is he never gave me a chance. Every now and then he’d say: “I’m doing it for your own good; I don’t want you to burn out”, but it always seemed like an excuse. Back when he was coaching the under-21s, he said that youngsters were the future.

Had Lippi stayed on, I’d be telling you a different story. The same one brought out every so often by the guy under the next parasol along from me on the beach each summer. “Andrea, you know that if I could go back in time…”

I do know: he’d chain me to the walls of the dressing room at Appiano Gentile. My next door neighbour on the sand is none other than president Moratti. Leaving him behind was the one thing that saddened me when I moved. He’s a fantastic person, the exact same as he appears on TV. He’s the head of a family, a stately figure in an unseemly world, a slice of goodness in a sea of sharks. He’s also a fan, an extremely passionate one, and if that passion has often caused him to make the wrong decision, it can’t be considered a fault. If only all presidents were like him.

He does everything in his power to make his club great. It belonged to his father Angelo before him, and theirs is a dynasty of poets, of romantics, of people who still have a heart when they win. Just as importantly, they also have a heart when they lose. I still care about him a lot and always will. I know for certain that the feeling is mutual. Every time I see him, he pays me a thousand compliments. I appreciate them because they’re genuine. It’s thanks to him that I’ve never managed to consider Inter an enemy, whether I’ve been playing for Juventus or Milan. In simple terms, my time at Inter just didn’t start or finish as I’d have wanted.

During those long periods when it seemed my world was spinning in the wrong direction, my friends gave me some excellent advice. “When you can’t go on, think of something that relaxes you.” It turned out to be a precious tip. Whenever I was on the bench, or worse, in the stand, I’d close my eyes for a few seconds and picture myself with my bare feet (no studs, no socks, no shin guards and most of all no pressure) immersed in an enormous wooden barrel.

I was crushing grapes, dancing right on top of them. Pulling down the vines and turning fruit into wine. I thought back to my childhood days spent harvesting the grapes at my grandmother Maria’s farm out in the countryside near Brescia. It was me against the grape skins, fighting to save the juice. It’s the first metaphor that comes to mind if I have to explain the difference between good and bad; between the useful and the pointless. These were barefoot family reunions, with loads of relatives helping alongside me.

Perhaps it was during those flights of fancy, those daydreams that allowed me to still feel alive, that I learned to appreciate certain alcoholic drinks. Even now, I’ll sometimes come home after training, light the fire and pour myself a glass of wine. On our days off, I’ll stick on my Juventus tracksuit and go for a run amongst the vines. Where the farm once stood you’ll now find Pratum Coller, my father’s business. The house specialities are red, white and rosé, and we’re also dipping a toe into the world of sparkling wine.

We’ll certainly make a saving on tasters: I’ll take care of that side of things, and not just because the ‘Pirlo’ is the most famous Brescia
aperitivo
going. The ingredients are simple: sparkling white wine, Campari and tonic water.

I started drinking it during my time at Inter. Or at least that’s what people say.

 

21.
A stalwart of the Inter and Italy defence in the 1980s and 1990s, one-club man Bergomi was known as
lo zio
(the uncle) because of the prodigious facial hair he sported from an early age

22.
Inter’s long-serving Argentina midfielder. Always has a shaven head

23.
As it was, he left for Milan in 2001 having been contracted to Inter for three years

24.
Key figure in the Grande Inter team that enjoyed sustained success under the charismatic Helenio Herrera in the 1960s

25.
Season 1998/99

26.
Around £9.6m

Chapter 10

I’ve allowed myself a few good blowouts in my time. The type of seriously heavy session that almost makes you want to dig out that Inter scarf (or Milan pen), look at yourself in the mirror and see a tall, beautiful blond guy with blue eyes staring back.

The perfect moment to let your hair down is usually after a triumph, because defeats deserve a different kind of reaction. Something less pleasant than a drink among team-mates; something far removed from a group toast. As a general rule, I’m more lucid when things go badly. When you lose, it’s all about thinking and reflecting. When you win, burping takes priority.

The Ballon d’Or presentation ceremony is the exception that proves the rule. It’s the most prestigious individual honour, I never win, and yet I can’t bring myself to get upset. They always give it to someone else and I just shrug my shoulders.

In 2012, hot on the heels of reaching the final of the European Championship and winning the
scudetto
, I came seventh with 2.66% of the vote. Practically nothing. Messi won, with 41.6%, and then came Ronaldo (the other one), Iniesta, Xavi, Falcao and Casillas.

I’m fine with that. There’s absolutely no doubt that Messi is No.1 and, as such, it was the right result. Over time I’ve realised that the managers, captains and journalists on the international judging panel all have a soft spot for goalscorers. As a consequence, when it comes to voting they’ve a preference for strikers, who are considered more influential than their team-mates. There are, of course, some rare exceptions, like King Cannavaro in 2006.

It seems the most important thing is to find yourself in the right place at the right time with the ball at your feet. The assist is a mere footnote. Without the final pass there wouldn’t be a goal, but I don’t get angry if people forget that fact when they fill in their ballot paper.

Prandelli and Buffon voted for me, but even I would have gone with the majority and chosen Messi. Granted he’s got people around him who run and sweat in his place, happy to serve those they know are simply better, but to perform at that sort of level for so many years is beyond every other human being.

As long as he and Cristiano Ronaldo are around, it’s a two-horse race. I’m now certain that winning the Ballon d’Or is a bridge too far for me. It’s a target I’ll never reach and I’ve come to terms with that.

I don’t even properly watch the awards ceremony, even if it’s only once a year and I could really make the effort. I’ll have Sky Sports on in the background and get on with other stuff. The time I finished seventh, I could hear FIFA president Sepp Blatter rambling on in the distance. The same guy whose self-evident dislike for Italy had led him to delegate what he considered the horrible task of presenting us with the World Cup in 2006. He was speaking from the stage of the Kongresshaus in Zurich while I played football with my son Niccolò in Turin.

“Daddy, over here, they’re about to say who’s won.”

“Okay.”

We carried on knocking the ball around, even though the fateful moment was getting closer.

“Come on Daddy, let’s go and watch on the TV.”

“Okay.”

“Hurry, hurry.”

“Okay, fine.”

We were wasting our time. I really couldn’t have cared less about what they were about to reveal. It could have been the fourth secret of Fatima or the first of Blatter. We didn’t sit down to hear the results; we stayed firmly on our feet. Truth be told, Niccolò paid much more attention than me, grabbing the remote control and turning up the volume.

“Messi won.”

“What a surprise.”

It was an inevitable, inarguable result. It crossed my mind that the World Cup and Champions League are worth a lot more than the Ballon d’Or, but I didn’t say it out loud. Otherwise I’d have had to add that I’ve won both while Messi hasn’t managed the World Cup yet. I’d have come across as an arrogant snob and that’s something I’m really not.

“Ronaldo came second.”

“Really?”

“Iniesta third.”

A few months previously, Iniesta had been named player of Euro 2012. Before the final against Spain, the guys from UEFA had blabbed to me that “you’re the best, but we’ll only give you the award if Italy win”. Needless to say we lost 4-0.

“Daddy, Daddy, Falcao fifth, Casillas sixth. And Pirlo, Pirlo! That’s you Dad!”

“You’re right.”

“You came seventh, ahead of Drogba, Van Persie and even Ibrahimovic.”

“Come on, let’s keep playing.”

The headline news was that the first two places had both gone to forwards. Very much in keeping with how the wider world ranks the importance of different positions. The really big mistake that some club presidents make is not realising that it’s a different story when it comes to building teams.

Big name collector cards sell season tickets, but it’s the glue they have behind them that wins games. The defence is the most important part of a team: in military terms, success starts in the zone behind the lines. Put more simply, the team that concedes fewest goals wins the match.

In terms of pure technical ability, Ronaldo (the real one) is the most gifted guy I’ve had the pleasure of playing with. He was an absolute machine. But overall, Paolo Maldini is the best. A defender. A peerless defender. The best defender going.

Both physically and mentally, he had everything, and the enjoyment he got from playing was as obvious at 40 years of age as it had been the day I first walked through the door at Milan. His passion is an example and an inspiration, a compass that I’ll carry with me not just for the rest of my playing days, but for the rest of my life. No cardinal points; just points in the league table.

He taught me how to conduct myself. Taught me how to win, lose, sniff out a goal, come up with an assist, sit on the bench, suffer, celebrate, play, behave, get angry, forgive, turn the other cheek, land the first blow, be myself and sometimes someone else. Showed me how to stay quiet, speak, decide, trust, turn a blind eye, have both eyes wide open, take stock of a situation, act on instinct, stand on my own, welcome others in, be the captain, steer the ship, change course, lead the way. Everything and the opposite of everything. Maldini is himself, but he’s also a part of me. And not seeing him at Milan after he retired, even as a director, really got to me. How can you possibly decide not to hang onto a piece of your heritage? What makes you stick him on the market and risk losing him like that?

I’ve no answer because there isn’t one. We’re still good friends and, as such, we’ve talked a fair bit about what went on. It’s no secret he and Galliani didn’t see eye to eye from the moment problems arose in his contract renewal negotiations. Mr Bic offered a one-year deal and Paolo wasn’t having it: he felt hard done by and diminished. Not offering him a role that was worthy of him (and we’re not even talking something massively glamorous) was like biting off part of his being. It was Tyson against Holyfield and, as usual, it was the bald guy who won. It doesn’t seem to matter if he’s the one doing the biting or being bitten.

Billy Costacurta is another man I have a great relationship with. He and Paolo were a dual reference point for everyone at Milan, whatever the situation. It could be something stupid: what shoes should I wear? I’ll ask Costacurta. Which tie goes better? I’ll ask Maldini. What’s my best position? I’ll ask them both. How should one behave at the dinner table? I’ll ask both of them again.

Sometimes, particularly back in the early days, we’d ask them stuff simply for the pleasure of having their attention. They’d talk and we’d win – there was a magic in the air that anyone who came near could feed off. It was just like Christmas, when all you need to feel involved is to hear Jingle Bells and see some old guy dressed as Santa Claus. Suddenly Christmas belongs to you as well.

Over the years, Milan have had Franco Baresi, Mauro Tassotti, Nesta and Thiago Silva in defence. Truly outstanding players; human shields to protect against the errors of others. If a forward makes a mistake, he can try again. If he scores, he’s in with a shout of the Ballon d’Or. But when it’s a defender who slips up, it’s a far more delicate situation. In percentage terms, the people who play at the back make fewer mistakes than those further forward. If not, games would end up 5–4, 6–5 or along those lines. Let’s discount teams coached by Zeman,
²⁷
because we’re talking the very limits of reality there.