“He is a phenomenon, his name is Kabungaguti. You’ve seen him pway, I pwesume?”
The world famous Kabungaguti: who the hell is he talking about?
“Avvocato, sir, I actually don’t know anything about him, but I can find out. I’ll request videotapes right away.”
“He’s a gweat champion, I’m supwised at you, Cawwo. How on earth could you not know about Kabungaguti?”
I felt like an ass. I was tempted to put on a hat with donkey ears and wear it to the coaches’ technical meeting. I got dressed and went down to the lobby. I saw Moggi and hurried over to him: “Luciano, the Avvocato just called me.”
“Really? What did he want?”
“He asked me about a player from the Ivory Coast, some guy named Kabungaguti. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Have I ever heard of Kabungaguti? What a question. Everyone’s heard of Kabungaguti.”
“Everyone but me, apparently.”
“Well, you’d better study your players, Carletto; we’ve practically drafted him.”
Just then, I heard a familiar voice. His voice, the voice of the Avvocato, Gianni Agnelli: “But Cawwo, how can you not know about the gweat Kabungaguti?” At that moment, I thought only one thing: “I’m screwed, he’s going to send me away to coach Torino.” I turned around to grovel and apologize, and there stood Augusto Bellani, travel agent and tour organizer for the Agnelli family, almost paralytic with laughter. He couldn’t stop laughing. I had never heard about one of his greatest talents: he was the finest living imitator of Gianni Agnelli. He could, of course, only imitate Agnelli’s voice: physically, they only ever made one Gianni Agnelli. To tell the truth, I never really knew whether the Avvocato loved the Triad. He was a man who lived on sensations, thrills, and love affairs. Love affairs with everything that was beautiful, everything that pleased him. Incredibly wealthy and yet, at the same time, fond of the simple things in life—aside from Zidane. He never really connected with Moggi and Giraudo—maybe with Bettega.
One day, toward the end of my period in Turin, Agnelli asked to meet with me alone. He gave me an hour of his time, a conversation in which he expressed affection and confidence. “We didn’t win the championship, but we had a good season. You’re a good person, Carlo. And remember, that’s what matters most in life.”
Sure. And, in fact, the next day I was fired.
CHAPTER 18
The End of a Story that Never Began
One hundred and forty-four. That’s one-four-four. It’s like the old emergency hotline number of the last century—144. “Give us a call, Juventus fans. My name is Carletto, and, pig though I may be, I’ll make your wildest fantasies come true. All but one: winning the Scudetto.”
During my time as coach of Juventus, we scored 144 points in two seasons, and twice I took the team to second place. Other teams became champions of Italy, though. First Lazio, then in the second year, Roma. In that period, the Italian capital came alive. If you would like the universal deluge unleashed upon Perugia, please press one; if you prefer a goal by Nakata, press two; if you wish to speak with a (smooth) operator, call Moggi on a Swiss cell phone. The one thing you can be sure of is that he will always answer. We were beaten the first time by a rainstorm; the second time, the following season, by a goal put in by a Japanese player who technically wouldn’t even have been allowed to play if it weren’t for the fact that they managed at the last minute to get rid of the rules on players from outside the European Community.
Without delay, Juventus decided to get rid of me. They made the decision, but no one had the courage to inform me. No one but the sports journalists in Turin, who seemed to have known all about it in advance: “Carletto, you know that, after this season, they’re going to fire you, don’t you? They’ve already cut a deal with Lippi.”
“Stop pulling my leg.”
“We’re totally serious; you’re a dead man walking.”
Take that. I’ve always had excellent relations with Turinese sports reporters. Maybe the fact that almost none of them were Juventus fans helped.
“Boys, you’ve lost your minds. I have a contract in my office.”
“Take another look at it. Maybe it’s a cell phone contract. Maybe Moggi named you responsible for the bills for his seven cell phones.…”
Everyone was ready for their television appearance. I’ve certainly heard of coaches fired through the press—lots of them—but I’ve never heard of a coach fired by the mass media themselves. And that’s what was happening to me.
I couldn’t believe it; my contract had just been renewed—at the end of a ferocious battle, not a negotiation. As soon as we were eliminated from the Champions League, in December 2000, I was summoned to club headquarters. Moggi, Giraudo, and Bettega on one side of the table, and me on the other side. Three against one— not sportsmanlike. It was obvious they were going to win. They began the meeting with: “We’ve been eliminated from the finals, but we don’t care about that. You’re doing a wonderful job, so we want you to stay on with us. In your contract, there’s an option for a renewal; we’d like to exercise it. How much do you want?”
“Two and a half billion lire, thank you.”
The least I expected was a “you’re welcome.” But that’s not what I got. Since they did everything at the same time, like a synchronized swimming team, they all stood up brusquely—all three at the same moment—turned on their heels, and left the room. Every movement was perfect, not a second’s hesitation, perfect coordination. I wonder if they practiced that little exercise. First the right leg, then the left leg, torso erect, head turned toward me, ferocious expression, about-face, hup-two, three, four, parade-step toward the door. Moggi swung the door open, Giraudo and Bettega moved their arms like Moggi, as if they were going to open the door too, and then … they were gone, slamming the door behind them. Oh, lovely routine; I’d give that a solid ten. Perfectly synchronized. That wasn’t the Triad, those were three little mermaids at the Olympics. And me? An asshole, sitting there all alone in the meeting room. Twenty minutes later, Moggi stuck his head in the door: “What are you still doing here?”
“Could we agree on two billion lire? …”
“Beat it.”
“How about 1.7 billion?”
“Get the hell out of here!”
Beginning the following day, our discussions moved to the pages of the newspapers, in the sense that they would issue statements and I would read what they had to say—including the statements of Umberto Agnelli: “Here we seem to be dealing with someone who’s gotten a swollen head.” That wasn’t exactly fair. My head was oversize, no question, but it had been since birth. Anyway, we came to an understanding after another couple of meetings. Me and the black-and-white synchronized swimming mermaids.
Still, I couldn’t relax. It was all the fault of my friends the sports journalists; they kept pestering me about it: “You’re out, Carletto, resign yourself to it. They made a deal with Lippi back in December.”
I heard them say it so many times that, just before the time came to put my signature on the renewal, I decided to put in a call to Milan’s team manager, Ariedo Braida: “Listen, I’m about to complete negotiations for a renewal of my contract. If there are any opportunities for me to come coach for you next year, I’ll wait.” I wanted to send a signal, create an alternative for myself. But I’d only created an alternative universe in my head, because Braida started to stammer and hesitate: “Well, Carletto, see … you understand … how can I put this … I’m not sure we can go against Juventus.” And in fact, they couldn’t: the two teams were practically a single entity. Mil-entus. Or Juv-ilan. “We can’t take away their coach; it would be crossing a line.”
Moreover, Braida had left out a few details; he’d already hired Fatih Terim, aka Imparator, but he couldn’t tell me that yet.
Before long, the Triad would torpedo me. One morning, after the Juventus–Roma match, which ended with a 2–2 draw—the match with Nakata’s goal, the match of the reve
rsal from a 2—0 lead, the match where Edwin van der Sar showed off the team specialty, penalties ad ballseam—I received a phone call from Umberto Agnelli’s office: “Come to Fiat headquarters, please. It’s urgent. The Dottore wants to speak to you.”
Since I didn’t know all that much about manufacturing automobiles, I had a funny feeling I already knew what the topic of conversation was likely to be. To make sure, I called Moggi.
“Ahò, Carletto, e che vuoi?” he greeted me on the phone: Carletto, what do you want now?
“Listen, Luciano, the Dottore called me on the phone. He wants to see me. Do you have any idea what he wants?”
Click. Boom. He slammed the phone down in its cradle. Just as I thought: he wants to fire me.
I showed up for the appointment. Umberto Agnelli didn’t waste words: “My dear Ancelotti, the new Juventus coach is Marcello Lippi.”
You don’t say. Who’d have thought it? My last game with Juventus was in Turin, against Atalanta. At the end of the match, I entered the press room and the journalists—the ones who knew what was going to happen long before I figured it out—burst into a lengthy applause. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it, but that moment moved me deeply. Like a child. Because I understood that they loved me and that—aw, shucks—I loved them. That I loved Marco Ansaldo and Fabio Vergnano of La Stampa. That I loved Luciano Bertolani of the Corriere dello Sport, who was a bigger Lazio fan than Claudio Lotito. That I loved Paolo Forcolin of La Gazzetta. That I loved Vittorio Oreggia and Camillo Forte of Tuttosport. And that I loved Emanuele Gamba of La Repubblica, a claret-colored fan of Torino from head to foot, just like Aurelio Benigno, who wrote for a thousand different papers. Very simply, I thought of them as fellow adventurers. Over the years, I told a bushel of lies to journalists, too, but it was a survival technique. Between them and the three-headed monster, I often chose the three-headed monster. Still, that burst of applause was a sign of affection—the last good thing I remember from my time as the Juventus coach.
Not even the journalists were able to help me answer one question. And that one doubt remains even now: if the Triad had already rehired Lippi, why did they renew my contract anyway?
Envelope A: because we were on a tear for the championship season, and they wanted to keep my morale up and let me do my job without distractions.
Envelope B: they were about to acquire Buffon and Thuram from Parma, and I was on excellent terms with them.
Envelope C: they didn’t want me to go to a major club like Milan, which is something that couldn’t have happened anyway, since the rossineri had already picked Terim.
I never could make up my mind between envelopes A, B, and C. I never quite understood it, but maybe the solution of the puzzle is simpler than I thought. They tricked me, to keep me on their side. A stratagem to make me still feel I was the best.
The Dottore, however, attempted to give me an explanation, at least about why he decided not to renew my position as coach: “Ancelotti, you don’t get along with people. There’s a problem with the atmosphere.” Okay, then maybe you should call Greenpeace. I never believed that. My theory? I think they fired me because I hadn’t managed to win.
During my time coaching Juventus, I met one of the players who was destined to make me a success: the legendary Pippo. Pippo Inzaghi who, though he is pushing forty, still eats Plasmon biscuits. The discovery of the century. When I first arrived at Juventus, he was out of commission with a sports hernia. Still, we immediately hit it off; we had an instinctive understanding.
Pippo has always been something of an animal. If I think of the perfect striker, he’s certainly not the first one to come to mind. He’s an incomplete player. Still, inside the penalty area, no player on earth can compete with him. He woos and seduces the soccer ball. Inside that limited area, he scores in every way imaginable: striking with his right foot, his left foot, with cannon shots, ricochets, shots off the thigh, the shin, back heels, with eyes shut tight, shots off his ass (often off his ass), with his fingertip, goals off of penalty kicks gone astray, off his ear, his big toe, through mind control, and even with his shoelace. There are times when another player scores and he celebrates anyway. My favorite description of Inzaghi is by Emiliano Mondonico: “Is Pippo in love with goals? No, goals are in love with him.” And it’s a red-hot passion.
Inzaghi and Del Piero made a good pair, but they got along only in theory. The problem was always the usual problem between players. One of them was the least selfless player on earth (and I’m not talking about Ale)—a shortcoming that only reinforced Del Piero’s standing as a great player. Now, it’s not like Pippo and Ale fought all the time, but they weren’t exactly in love either. The team locker room managed to sand down some of their rough edges. It was a hell of a locker room, tough to the point of brutality, with a roster of bad boys like Antonio Conte, Ciro Ferrara, and Gianluca Pessotto. Not to mention Montero and Zidane. Ale and Pippo might not have been a dream couple—if anything, they looked more like a common-law couple, living under the same roof but without an excessive level of commitment. It wasn’t an enduring love; they were both just punching the clock and making the union minimum.
That’s how it was between me and Juventus: a love story that was over before it began. We were too different—different in every way. I was a boy from the country, they were managers—executives in jackets and ties. A Swatch up against three Rolexes—plastic versus gold. Still, I respected them from the very first to the very last day. When they sent me to Felegara for the winter, I didn’t really suffer much. In fact, I didn’t mind in the slightest. Often, when a door closes, the gate swings open. And just when you least expect it, off in the distance, with an awe-inspiring echo, you hear the voice of a chairman repeating a phrase you heard a few years earlier: “I want to win everything. We’ll become the masters of Italy, Europe, and the world.” Oh, Lord, he still hasn’t stopped drinking.
Still, when Berlusconi calls, I can’t help it; I’m there.
CHAPTER 19
How I Lost my Temper and Gained my A. C. Milan
Fatih Terim doesn’t know it, but the reason that he was replaced at A. C. Milan was primarily culinary in nature. His downfall had a lot to do with the delicious Italian cold cut culatello. It was November 2001, just a few days after the Day of the Dead: in memoriam for the Imparator, relieved of his post and replaced by me. Galliani started laughing after he chose me as his new coach: “My dear Ancelotti, I’m happy.”
“Thank you. Your expression of esteem fills me with joy.”
“I was saying I’m happy because at last, with you, we can change the menu at Milanello.”
In other words, Galliani had picked me because, with that other coach, the food was so bad. Maybe he’d found me in the Michelin guide: Trattoria Da Carletto, reservations suggested. Perhaps he decided to call ahead. “Pronto, this is Adriano. Could you add one guest to the party? We’ll probably be ordering culatello and Felino salami for the whole table.”
Maybe the most important consideration was that he could start guzzling wine again. Whenever Galliani orders a meal, there’s plenty of wine.
Terim, in contrast, maintained a steady diet of thin broth and tap water, an intolerable affront to Galliani’s senses. There was another thing: Terim was a Big Brother addict, so he’d often leave Galliani to finish lunch alone and run back to the privacy of his room, alone in front of the television set. He wanted to see if the people in the House were having sex. They did, as it happened—then Milan screwed him. To avoid any risk, when I signed the contract, I raised my right hand and put my left hand on my heart: “I swear that I’ll always put A. C. Milan ahead of any and all cast members of Big Brother. Cross my heart.”
In a not-too-distant past, for that matter, I had sworn an oath that one day I’d coach the rossineri. I had just started coaching Reggiana, and I was a guest at Sebastiano Rossi’s wedding. In the church, I went over to Galliani and started whispering sweet blandishments in his ear: “Adriano, everything I do in the
years to come will be nothing but an apprenticeship. One day, I’m going to coach A. C. Milan, and you’re going to hire me.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, Carletto. But now get your lips off my ear, please. It looks like we’re the ones getting married.”
It was like that time in Rome, at the Palazzo al Velabro, the first time we met. I was starting to develop a taste for this. Rossi was at the altar, exchanging vows; Galliani and I were just beginning our courtship.
I kept the promise I’d made. I went back to Milanello, and there was a bench waiting for me. Also waiting for me was the manager of the Milanello sports center, Antore Peloso: “Welcome back home, Carletto.” Galliani was still there, such a permanent fixture that the answer to that persistent question is shrouded in the mists of time: Did Berlusconi build Adriano Galliani before he built Milanello? Which came first: his egg-shaped head or the hen that laid golden eggs? Over the years, I’ve gotten to know Galliani. He has red-and-black blood flowing through his veins. His mood and his very existence depend exclusively on the score at the end of the match. If A. C. Milan wins, then everything’s fine. If they lose, then good luck to everyone. He’s a manager with a desk; he’s a soccer fan with a stadium—two souls compressed into a single body. Someone planned him out the way he is, without a wig. When A. C. Milan scores a goal, he is transfigured, he celebrates as if he were in a movie: Poltergeist. He’s a first-class executive, extremely competent, unrivaled in his mastery of the art of administration. For the things that he has accomplished, the people of the Milan tribe should be eternally grateful. He is Berlusconi’s right-hand and left-hand man: if the chairman is absent, Galliani is all too present.
Galliani and I have always enjoyed an excellent relationship; we’ve never exchanged harsh words, we’ve never been on terms of anything less than complete respect, even if over the years there have been arguments at times, always over the use of this player or that. There was one argument in particular, in Madrid, during my second season as coach. We were playing in the Champions League, and we’d already progressed into the second round. We were scheduled to play against Real Madrid. During training, I was trying out a formation filled with reserve players. Galliani watched without saying a word. Then we went back to the hotel and ate dinner. After the meal, he took me aside: “You aren’t seriously planning to field that formation are you?”
Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius Page 11
