Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius

by Aleesandro Alciato

  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.

  CHAPTER 13

  World Cup Dreams

  Paris. 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.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  He didn’t understand. “Let’s say that I had other things to think about.”

  And I wasn’t alone in that dilemma. I saw plenty of sports reporters cursing as they bent over to pick up their notes from underneath their desks—notes they had crumpled into a ball and discarded just a few minutes earlier. More or less the same thing I had done. Videotape in the machine, hit play, and review the last thirty minutes of Italy–Nigeria.

  I have wonderful memories of that 1994 World Cup, despite the weather. It was brutally hot, the humidity was intolerable, and after dinner all I felt like doing was going to bed and passing out. But every night after dinner, Sacchi would say, “Shall we go take a walk?” No, please, not The Walk, anything but The Walk … But there was no arguing; he always won, with only one saving grace, as far as I was concerned. There were no trees, there were no flowers. And no one spoke Latin.

  We would walk out of the hotel—me, Arrigo, Carmignani, the fitness coach Vincenzo Pincolini, and the Federation psychologist Viganò—and with that little group on the loose in America, anything could happen. Four zombies shuffling along listlessly, and Arrigo, who never ran out of zip and vim. He’d only faltered once, the year before, when the Federation had sent us to New York for a preliminary inspection. In Brooklyn, the Italian-American families had organized a celebration, with two guests of honor: him and me. We were given a magnificent welcome, consisting of just three words: “Please invite Toto Schillaci.”

  And hello to you, too.

  “He’s our paesano.”

  That’s when I whispered into Sacchi’s ear: “Arrigo, let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  But at the same time, they were screaming into his other ear: “Please invite Schillaci.”

  Thanks, we’re crazy about you too. There’s the Sicilian Mafia, the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta, the Neapolitan Camorra, and, let’s see, from Puglia, the Sacra Corona Unita: the gang, as they say, was all there.

  “Arrigo, listen to me, let’s get out of here.”

  “Yes, Carletto, you’re right. Let’s go, let’s go. It’s getting uncomfortable.”

  “Quickly, Arrigo, before somebody fires a tommy gun.”

  Good evening to one and all, thanks for the kind invitation.

  “Please invite Schillaci.”

  Oh, go fuck yourselves. Enough is enough.

  I had fun in the States, too—intervals of fun between one game and another. Sacchi never stopped, he constantly talked about work, he never quit thinking about ways to improve the national team and the work he was doing. He taught me how to be a coach: how you plan the program, how you schedule the training sessions, how you manage different periods of time and different players. Working alongside him was one of the most interesting things that ever happened to me. I was only sorry about losing the final match of the World Cup, but really, I doubt we could have done much better. The heat and the humidity were overwhelming. We had made it to the end of the line, and the final match still lay ahead of us. The evening before the Italy–Brazil final, in Pasadena, we understood that we were done for from the conversation between Arrigo and the masseur, Claudio Bozzetti.

  “Claudio, did you give the players their massages?”

  “Yes, Arrigo.”

  “And how are their muscles?”

  “Muscles, Arrigo?”

  They were completely wiped out. Cooked. The players just managed to stay on their feet, out of inertia, or perhaps by some miracle. They had been playing matches in conditions of 100 percent humidity. During halftime, the players—Nicola Berti, especially—all came back to the locker room saying the same t
hing: “Substitute me. I’m not going back out there.” They were red as lobsters. We’d put them in ice baths and try to get them back into shape. We played the first game, against the Republic of Ireland, in New York. We got to the stadium and went straight out onto the field. You couldn’t survive for long. It was 108 degrees, 90 percent humidity. Those geniuses from FIFA had decided to schedule the game for noon. To encourage the players, Carmignani and I lay down on the grass and exclaimed: “How nice. At last, it’s comfortable today. Cooler than usual, isn’t it?” At that point, the players took a good hard look at us and decided that the sun had fried our brains. After the World Cup of 1994, I worked with Sacchi for another year, for the qualifying matches for the European Cup. Then Reggiana called me.

  The American World Cup was fantastic—definitely more enjoyable than the two World Cups I experienced as a player, Mexico 1986 as a tourist and Italy 1990 without much excitement. In the United States, it was quite another thing—an endless thrill of happiness and joy. That’s why I’d like to experience another World Cup, as the coach of an African national team (there’s time for the Italian national team yet); that is, a team with nothing but potential—a team that remains to be discovered. A team that’s not short of talent or quality, and maybe one with a big shot from the Ivory Coast. Me and Drogba—now there’s a wonderful story in the making …

  CHAPTER 14

  Wobbly Benches

  There are times when I stand up in front of a full-length mirror and act like a contortionist. I twist my neck and I stare at my ass. My fat butt cheeks aren’t a particularly edifying spectacle, but that’s not really the point. I look at them and I think: “There are so many wounds back there, even if you can’t see them.” One tremor after another, tearing through my skin. An earthquake, with an epicenter right there, sharp and violent, without a shock wave, and over time it’s taught me a lesson: my ass is earthquake-proof. Sat on benches that have never stopped swaying and shaking, that ass has had to withstand every level of the Richter scale. Seismic shifts and jolts of voltage. A wave of irritation and annoyance that just won’t stop: first an itch, then a pinch, and things went downhill from there. Everyone else is seated comfortably, and I’m perched on a volcano. Always have been.