Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius

by Aleesandro Alciato

  CHAPTER 9

  “Hello, This Is Silvio. I Want to Win Everything There Is to Win.”

  They made me sick of being part of that team. I lost my enthusiasm for the club, my passion for playing there withered and died. All kinds of odd things were going on, but most importantly, A. S. Roma had just bought two players—Lionello Manfredonia and Rudi Völler. They’d overspent, and it was time to sell a player to make up the difference. The only player anyone wanted to buy was me. A martyr to a fallen market.

  In 1987, A. C. Milan hired a young coach named Arrigo Sacchi, and for some reason or another he was obsessed with putting me on the team. He wanted me at all costs, even more than he wanted Ruud Gullit and Marco van Basten, who had already been bought by other teams. I was ticked off, I wanted the deal to go through right away, but I had to cool my heels; it was ratified on the last day of the transfer period. I was at the beach in Sardinia; the secretary general of A. S. Roma, Roberto Borgogno, called me: “You’ve been sold. Come back to Rome, I’ll give you an address, and you can go and meet with an executive from A. C. Milan.”

  Palazzo al Velabro. That was the address he gave me. It was a residential hotel in the historic center of Rome. I went straight over, walked in, my curiosity aroused. The concierge didn’t say a word; he just handed me the key to the room and gave me a quick wink. Right then and there, I couldn’t guess why. It became clear afterwards. I went upstairs, opened the door, and walked into a vast reception room. On the table was a nice little spread: champagne and finger pastries. I left the alcohol alone, but I ravaged the trayful of pastries, leaving only crumpled paper wrappers. Unexpectedly, out of nowhere, an A. C. Milan executive popped into the room; he looked young and vigorous, but there wasn’t a hair on his head. Not a single, blessed hair; I know, I checked carefully. This was Adriano Galliani, the managing director of the club. Also known as Lo Zio—Uncle Adriano. I thought back to the winking concierge. I put myself in his position, behind the reception desk, and it all made sense. In comes a bald gentleman who asks for champagne and a tray of finger pastries to be delivered to room such-and-such, then he sees me arrive, Carletto, aka Il Bimbo—the Kid, and ask for the keys to that same room. Now I understand the wink: he thought we were lovers.

  This was the first time I’d ever met Galliani. We talked about his philosophy, the team, and what he hoped to accomplish: “We have great ambitions.” That was a phrase I’d already heard a thousand times before. “We want to win the Italian championship next year, and play in the UEFA European championship; we want to win the UEFA Cup in two years, and in the third year we want to win the Intercontinental Cup.” Okay, that’s something I haven’t heard. I took a look at my watch. This guy is talking like he’s drunk, but it’s too early in the day to think he’s guzzled that much hard liquor. Maybe he’s just lost his mind. A short while later, I found myself on the phone with Silvio Berlusconi. For the first time. “Pronto? Yes, this is the chairman.”

  “Buon giorno.”

  “Buon giorno to you. How are your knees?”

  He wasn’t exactly beating around the bush. He came straight to the point, with his first question.

  “Mr. Chairman, my knees are fine.”

  “Well, we’re counting on you. We want to win the Italian championship next year, in two years we want the Champions’ Cup, and, for the third year, we want the Intercontinental Cup.”

  Okay, now it’s official. Everyone’s drunk. What the hell did they put in the water up in Milan? He was funny, though, joke after joke; it was invigorating to talk to him. “Arrivederci, then, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Arrivederci, Carletto. Let’s keep our fingers crossed; we don’t want any unpleasant surprises from your physical.”

  I crossed my fingers, and touched my balls to ward off evil while I was at it.

  No question about it, that physical was going to be a crucial rite of passage. It was me against my knees, my old archenemies. The following day, the A. C. Milan team physician, Monti, flew down to Rome. Actually, the physical examination was performed by Professor Perugia, the surgeon who had operated on my knees. I have to say that Monti expressed serious misgivings about my knees. Despite his doubts, the team accepted me.

  My journey from Trigoria to Milanello was a voyage to a different planet. And when I landed on that planet, I met someone who struck me as insane at first: Arrigo Sacchi. Before long, though, it dawned on me that Sacchi was a genius, not a madman. Truly a great man. Another mentor, another maestro. My first training sessions with him were challenging, to say the least. Usually I spend the time between soccer seasons exercising and training. That summer, instead, since I knew I was being let go, I just lay around and relaxed. I was in terrible shape, and my first warm-up with Arrigo was a terrible experience. His methods were completely innovative. Let’s say that the benchmark for intensity of training had been twenty. Well, at Milanello the level of intensity was a solid hundred. There was just a world of difference, a tremendous and exhausting challenge. At the end of the day, we were all terrified at the thought of climbing the stairs to our bedrooms; we couldn’t face it. Grown men though we were, we broke down sobbing. It was an ordeal, we moved like a squadron of zombies. The short walk from the dining hall to the locker room was a struggle of the will: “We will go out for training … we can’t go out for training …” In the end, of course, we always went out for training; in fact, the pace only increased. The problem was that the day wasn’t over at seven in the evening, after our second training session. Then it was time for dinner, and after an espresso (and before we were allowed to go to bed), Sacchi held a team assembly. Not a technical meeting, a psychological meeting. There was a psychologist named Bruno De Michelis and another executive, a man named Zaccuri, who was director of human resources for Fininvest, Berlusconi’s holding company. De Michelis: “Give me a list of fifty objects, and I’ll write them on this blackboard, numbering them from one to fifty.” The first thing that came into everyone’s mind: “Okay, so they’re crazy, not us.” We decided to humor them, and began listing objects: loaf of bread, house, football, bowl of tortellini (guess who came up with that one), goal, stadium, pussy, car, cup of coffee, and so on, until we’d named fifty objects. De Michelis: “Now I’m going to turn the blackboard around, and I’m going to name them all, in order, without looking.” He did it, too: loaf of bread, house, soccer ball, bowl of tortellini, goal, stadium, pussy, car, cup of coffee … He didn’t miss a single one. “Now I’ll repeat all the words in reverse order: cup of coffee, car, pussy, stadium, goal, bowl of tortellini, soccer ball, house, loaf of bread.” Incredible. We thought we were smarter than him, we weren’t about to let him get away with it.

  “Pardon me, Doctor, but what was number thirty again?”

  “Sheet of paper.”

  What about number twenty? “Pen.”

  And number forty-seven? “Sofa.”

  New lesson: the brain can do an amazing number of things. Every night, after two daily training sessions, that’s what we did for an hour and a half. Then we started learning relaxation techniques. We would attain a state of complete relaxation through music and words. First we studied the theory of relaxation, and then we’d put it into practice. We’d listen to a piece of music, usually the theme song from Chariots of Fire, with the lights turned down low. De Michelis and Zaccuri would talk over the theme music: “Now, relax your body, listen to your heartbeat. Imagine that you’re on the soccer field, you see the stadium full of fans, the match is about to begin, you smell the aroma of the grass.” They were like a couple of celebrity hypnotists. I still use their techniques today when I’m in a stressful situation. The first team member to collapse was usually Francesco Zanoncelli. He didn’t just fall asleep, he fainted. We could have stuck a fork in him, he was so cooked. By the end of the relaxation session, half the team was sleeping.

  So that was A. C. Milan, the team that was scheduled to win the Italian Scudetto this year, the UEFA Champions’ Cup the next season, and the Int
ercontinental Cup the third season. Sem mis ben, as the Milanese would say: We’re all set. When they turned the lights back on, we’d pick up Zanoncelli’s lifeless body and head upstairs to bed. When training began, I weighed 84 kilos (185 pounds); by the time it was done, I was down to 78 kilos (171 pounds). After training camp, I went back home. I knocked at the door, and my own mother didn’t recognize me. There was a stranger at the door. “What have they done to you? Look at you, you’re just skin and bones …”

  Psychologically, we were becoming powerhouses. Part of it was the sheer challenge of tolerating Arrigo Sacchi. He’d explain game plans at night, just as you were falling asleep. He’d sketch them out on the door of your room. He was especially priceless when he had to explain strategy to Gullit and van Basten, who spoke no Italian. In that case, the fallback was English, which made it hard to keep a straight face. When we had to sit through the first meetings in English, it was pure torture to keep from laughing out loud. To avoid snorting, or just bursting into hilarity, we would pretend to clear our throats. Me and Tassotti started, and soon everyone was doing it. “Its nesessari tu ev a sciort tim”: if I had to write it down in black and white, that’s how it looked to me, as an Italian. It’s necessary to have a short team. “Uen de boll arraivs, uan go e uan cam.” When the ball arrives, one go and one come. It truly was impossible to understand.

  Everything sort of culminated just before a friendly match in Parma. Technical pregame meeting: oh, Lord, sense of terror, what’s he going to say now? What are we supposed to do? We walked into the meeting room, there was a pillar in the middle of the room, all twenty-two of us clustered behind it, trying to hide; if we broke into laughter, how would he ever know? This was the first pillar in the history of the world to possess forty-four legs, in lines of six, with two left over. Sacchi was practically talking to himself, blathering on in English. We couldn’t take it anymore, so we leveled with him: “Coach, your English totally sucks.”

  He was number one, the best and the loudest. Even when he was sleeping. He didn’t dream, he screamed and shouted. While he was sleeping, he emitted terrifying sounds, as if someone were trying to cut his throat. Every so often, there would be a technical comment as well, even while he was fast asleep: “Run diagonaaalllll, diagonaaalllll!!!” or else, “go back, go back, go back, GOOOO BAAAACCCKKKK!” Jesus, the man never stopped. It was the secret of his success, and perhaps the source of great misery—to him and to others.

  Before slipping into his nightly cataleptic trance, around ten thirty, he’d make the circuit of the players’ bedrooms. He shuffled along in his slippers, we could hear him coming. We switched off the lights, jumped into bed, covered our heads with our blankets, and pretended we were sleeping. Daniele Massaro was the worst, he always did it. We thought—and said—terrible things about Sacchi at first; that is, until he finally obtained the level of play he was looking for. It wasn’t really clear what we would have achieved without his maniacal dedication to his work. Certain techniques weren’t natural; it was just inhuman how hard we practiced. One diagram after another, one play after the next. A relentless schedule of tactical exercises. He always told me: “You like to run, and you do a lot of running. But I want something more: I want you to become a conductor, with the team as your orchestra. You need to study music, tempo. We are performing a symphony, and you need to know every note by heart.” The tempo, the time, was made up of: stop the ball and pass the ball. Stop and pass. Stop and pass. Every so often, just to let off steam, I’d add a little touch of my own: stop without passing, in the sense that Sacchi would stop practice entirely and tell me to start over from the beginning. We practiced for hours, me and him on our own, doing the simplest things. Things out of soccer preschool. Could we try dribbling now and then? No, stop and pass. Stop and pass. In the end, I knew exactly what I needed to do; he’d taught me perfectly. He showed me how to be relaxed and confident. I possessed a series of standard movements; I knew exactly where I needed to go when Tassotti had the ball, or Maldini or Baresi or van Basten. Or an opponent.

  At the age of twenty-eight, I’d become a central midfielder. Sacchi had opened a new world to me. Between pressing and team play, I really started to see the fun in the game. It was no longer hard work. As often as not, we got angry when the match came to an end. We’d start yelling at the referee when he whistled the game over; we wanted to go on playing. We were A. C. Milan, “The Invincibles,” we just didn’t know it yet.

  CHAPTER 10

  Milan under Sacchi, Just Like Bologna Under Maifredi!

  If it’s fair to say that there’s always a new dawn, it’s also true that beyond the rose-tinted sunrise you can usually glimpse a gathering storm. And not only a gathering storm, but a thundering tsunami. And, out of the center of the tsunami, there was always a team chairman, borne aloft by a chattering helicopter. And the clouds parted, and Berlusconi descended from the heavens (he—or, rather, He—will like that detail …).

  In practical terms, though, the painting was actually the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: we were enjoying ourselves, but results were not forthcoming. That was the worst imaginable outcome for the man who was footing the bills. Himself, no less. He had a hard time landing on the field at Milanello, what with turbulence and air pockets. The weather reports seemed to point toward turmoil and change, especially after we were eliminated from the UEFA Cup by R. C. D. Espanyol, even though it was only the beginning of the season. Sinister clouds began to swirl around the Milan bench. What else is new? But, since He Himself had chosen Sacchi, and since Sacchi remained his favorite—his avatar here among us ordinary mortals—He kept his temper that time. He held it together very well. He believed deeply in his handpicked coach, and so He defended him tirelessly, especially against attacks from the sports press. The Communist sports press, I would have to imagine. There were a number of old-school journalists—Gianni Brera at the head of the pack—who questioned and criticized continually and relentlessly. Arrigo Sacchi was an innovator, and they failed to understand him. They had no patience with the things he tried to do. Sacchi was in the crosshairs, but he had a powerful shield of protection: Himself. He would often come to visit in training camp, He’d talk to us, ask us about work. He’d spend the whole day at Milanello, chatting with the whole team and then meeting with players for individual conversations, exploring our relationships with the coach. He conducted his first exit polls with us, and we already knew who had won: “Boys, I’m not getting rid of Sacchi.” On that point, He had been clear from the very beginning, and he was right. We weren’t winning, but in the locker room we all shared the same strong feeling: things were about to take a turn for the better. It was mathematically certain. Every week we knocked ourselves out, training hard, but, still, we were happy. Things couldn’t go badly forever. Our style of play was carefully planned out; it would just take time for our movements as a team to become natural. That was the only problem.

  In the past, He had been a reliable presence. But that was in the past. He was ultimately responsible for all decisions, and, before making those decisions, He consulted with the players. Often just with me and Franco Baresi. Once, in the spring of 1988, we were running into real problems as a team, on account of Claudio Borghi, the Chairman’s latest infatuation—and, in reality, a complete waste of time as a player. He had discovered Borghi during the Intercontinental Cup of 1986; it was a bolt from the blue. He’d acquired him, but, since the two slots allowed by Italian law for foreign players were already occupied by Gullit and van Basten, He’d stationed Borghi on the Como team. Stay there, be good, and we’ll be back to get you. At the end of the season, we were allowed to acquire another non-Italian player. And so He was pushing for Borghi, while Sacchi requested Frank Rijkaard.

  Himself: “Arrigo, we’re keeping Borghi.”

  Sacchi, with an expression of disgust on his face: “Mr. Chairman, taking for granted first of all that you are always right, that you are the greatest expert on soccer that the world has ever
seen, that your choices are always spot on, as demonstrated by your decisions regarding coaches, it still may be that the player who could do the most good for the team is Rijkaard.”

  Himself: “But Arrigo, Borghi is Borghi.”

  Sacchi: “My point exactly.”

  So they came to a compromise: Borghi came to work with us at Milanello for the final training sessions of Sacchi’s first season at A. C. Milan, as well as to play in a couple of exhibition games: one at home against Real Madrid and the other at Manchester against Manchester United. It was a double test, but we already knew, by his style of play, that he wasn’t really in tune with the rest of the team. Just to make things more challenging, right before the A. C. Milan–Real Madrid match, Borghi injured his ankle, but insisted on playing all the same. He was clearly in pain on the field, but he managed to score a goal.

  Himself: “You see Arrigo? He scored a goal.”

  Sacchi: “Yes, but aside from the goal, he didn’t do a thing.”

  He was hobbling across the field, bent over in pain. He seemed like a soccer Lazarus, but with a substantial difference. He might have risen from the dead, but he couldn’t seem to walk. It was hard to watch him. His ankle was swollen up like a cantaloupe, Manchester United vs. Milan was getting closer all the time, and Borghi refused to accept defeat. “I’m playing in this match.” Sacchi: “I’m on your side, go ahead and play.” We all understood that Sacchi wanted to send him out on the field, confident that Borghi would wind up with egg on his face.

  So he started the game right by my side: he was charging forward, zigzagging as he went, a drunk in soccer shoes, but apparently fate was on his side. A pair of goals, both by Borghi: one, and then the other. Borghi-Borghi, li mortacci sua—damn his eyes. Playing at Manchester, against Manchester United. He smiled and said nothing: a bad sign. Sacchi neither spoke nor smiled: a very bad sign. At that point, we got involved. Sacchi frequently came to talk with us; he’d do his best to persuade us that Borghi had nothing in common with A. C. Milan, that he was a player out of place. “Coach, we couldn’t agree with you more. That’s exactly what we all think. We’re on your side.”