Carlo Ancelotti: The Beautiful Game of an Ordinary Genius

by Aleesandro Alciato

  “Well, actually, yes, I am.”

  “Then you’ve lost your mind.”

  “We’ve already passed that point, we need to think ahead to the championship season …”

  “We are A. C. Milan, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, let me explain a thing or two.”

  He gave me a lesson in geography: “We’re in Madrid.”

  A lesson in history: “Whoever wins here will be remembered for all time.”

  A lesson in religion: “The Estadio Santiago Bernabéu is a temple, a shrine.”

  And a lesson in philosophy: “Power consists of conviction, and I am deeply convinced that you are getting everything backward.”

  Last of all, he gave me a warning: “And remember, I’m not an idiot.”

  I’ll keep that in mind. But, in the meantime, I’m sticking to my guns because, as I have mentioned once or twice before, I decide on the formation—me and nobody else. We lost, 3–1, and Galliani came charging back. With the usual warning, slightly modified from the pregame version: “And please remember, I am not an idiot”—even though the fans might have begged to differ, more than once, especially after the renewal of certain contracts for players who were certainly ready for retirement.

  In reality, Galliani understood perfectly that the secret to making A. C. Milan a great team is the sense of loyalty and identification on the part of the players—a sense that required training, like everything else. The more time they spend together, the better. Pride goeth before a high ranking. Even old age can serve a valid purpose, within reason. The air that you breathe at Milanello is special, a mixture of oxygen and pixie dust; in your lungs you can feel the gratitude toward those who have given so much to this team. Galliani is always there, he never wavers, 24/7 he is at the service of A. C. Milan. That’s passion, not work. Adriano Emergency Rescue Service: by day, by night, anytime.

  Galliani worked closely with me from the beginning, from the instant I arrived. On a Monday, I signed the contract; on Tuesday I was introduced to the team; on Wednesday I moved into my office, the legendary Room Number 5, the first door when you climb the stairs from the front door at Milanello. It’s the biggest office there, a bed on the left, bookshelves and a desk on the right, mini-fridge in a corner, and a heavy coating of history whatever direction you look. There’s a balcony—vast, really a terrace—looking out over the fields; stand up, open the window, and you’re on the job. If you have good eyesight, you can see even further and look into the future, because, all things considered, everything goes past that window and that desk. Everything that you can dream up at night, when you can’t seem to fall asleep. Room Number 5 has always been the coach’s office; the first time I walked into that room, I had a distinct impression. I could sense an array of presences. I was sleeping in the bed that had belonged to Nereo Rocco, Arrigo Sacchi, and Fabio Capello. And also Óscar Wáshington Tabárez, admittedly.

  In the old days, Capello—under the influence, I believe, of the director of the sports center, Antore Peloso—used to claim that there was a ghost in Milanello, wandering freely down the hallways, especially after sunset. I never understood which was crazier, Don Fabio or that ghost, who had decided to pick on him of all people. It really got to be a problem. I can still see Capello, shoulders thrown back, chest swelling with righteous indignation, as if in an imitation of Antonio Cassano: “Begone! Go fuck yourself, evil spirit. This is not a team of dead men.”

  My A. C. Milan in that first year, though, was not that far removed from a team of the dead: it was sloppy, ill thought out, halfhearted. Along with Terim, the team had acquired a number of first-rate footballers, such as Inzaghi and Rui Costa, but first one then the other was injured. I had already played with Maldini, Costacurta, and Albertini, and that helped me out at first, at least in terms of relations.

  It was a so-so season. The real story of that A. C. Milan began in Bologna. In the wake of a defeat: 2–0 in favor of the hosts of the game, while we were buried in shame. We played miserably. That match made me lose my temper in a way that hadn’t happened in the previous eight years; for the first and (almost) the only time, I turned the locker room on its head in a bout of fury. I was looking at a team without enthusiasm, without motivation, without ambition, and I just couldn’t hold my anger in. I slammed my fist down on the table, kicked the door with my foot, broke a bottle, and started to shout. I insulted everyone and everything. I attacked them on a personal level, I intentionally said cruel and abusive things, I reminded them that it’s one thing to do something stupid, it’s another thing to be stupid. Which is what they all seemed to be right then and there. That talk shook them up, and it changed the course of our history as a team, for the better. After that nightmarish ninety minutes, we were six points down from being in fourth place, just that far from the Champions League; at the end of the season, we came in fourth. But we lost Albertini, who decided to go in search of greener pastures after I benched him during the game against Juventus in Turin: “Carlo, I really didn’t expect this from you. We’ve played together as teammates, I thought we had a different relationship. This marks the end of everything.” He left, and I was sorry; it hurt me. He could have stayed as an alternative to Pirlo, who was just beginning to emerge.

  At the end of that first year, we were playing with a 4-4-2 formation, and the starting lineup was as follows: Abbiati in goal; four-man defense with Contra, Laursen, Costacurta, and Maldini; Gattuso, Pirlo, Ambrosini, and Serginho in midfield; Shevchenko and Inzaghi up front. Many of the same names play from the first minute even today …

  CHAPTER 20

  King in England, Thanks to the Christmas Tree

  It was a holiday every day of the year during my second season on the bench for A. C. Milan. I was the gardener who worked on Christmas Day. You turn the soil here and plant your seeds there, and you come up with a great invention: the Christmas Tree formation. One goalkeeper, four defenders, three midfielders, two attacking midfielders, and a striker; when you see them all together on the field, they really do look like a fir tree—shiny baubles included, colored lights extra.

  It was pure coincidence. The market had brought us Clarence Seedorf, Dario Šimić, and Rivaldo. After our victory in the early round of the Champions League against Slovan Liberec, we got Alessandro Nesta too. Shevchenko was injured, but Rivaldo, Rui Costa, Seedorf, and Pirlo had to play. The club philosophy demanded it: beautiful football, first and foremost.

  I got a lot of help from Pirlo, who came to see me in the locker room one fine day: “I can try to play as a defensive midfielder. I played that position with Mazzone, and it worked great.” From one Carletto (Mazzone) to another (me). I had my doubts: I was afraid that Andrea Pirlo might create problems in terms of timing, because he likes to take the ball and keep it. A safe with a slow combination. I wasn’t overly confident in this new approach, but I listened to him and gave it a try at the Berlusconi Trophy. I was astonished. He started playing with beautiful simplicity, and he became an unrivaled player. His name may have an unfortunate sound (pirla in Italian is an insult), but it’s a name to conjure with.

  And so it went until the away game against Deportivo de La Coruña in the UEFA Cup, a game in which A. C. Milan’s genetic mutation came to completion. Deportivo’s midfielders typically set the pace of the game, so in order to generate more space in the center of the field I told Rivaldo and Rui Costa to fall into more defensive positions. Inzaghi, further forward, was left unguarded, and he scored three goals. Our opponents were completely baffled: they weren’t sure whether they should send a midfielder or a defender out against Rivaldo and Rui Costa. They lost their equilibrium, they left huge gaps for us to take advantage of; we were nimble, danced on through, and scored. Bullets and tap-dancing, 4–0 on our tiptoes. We were magnificent, and we began winning against teams all over Europe. Even in Munich against Bayern and in Dortmund against Borussia; Germany lay at our feet. I was proud to be Father Christmas: here, enjoy the contents of this Christmas stocking. We were
the team of December 25, always ready for a little celebration, whoever might happen along.

  I’m proud of my invention. Our formation has even been translated into English: from Albero di Natale to Christmas Tree. I like the sound of that; it works for me. And it made us winners of the Champions League, though there was an element of sheer luck, because with Ajax in the quarterfinals we were out of the running: what saved us was a goal by Tomasson in the last minute: 3–2 in our favor, and the San Siro was packed. We played Internazionale in the semifinals: it was a real derby.

  We had lost our determination in Serie A, so our focus was now on the European championship. We were under enormous pressure, and I could feel my bench starting to wobble dangerously. Finally, I felt at ease; the customary burning sensation on my buttocks helped me to get comfortable. In terms of physical conditions, there were beginning to be a few problems, and so I told the team to take a prudent approach: to keep from scoring goals. I’d even written it in the handouts I distributed during the last technical meeting, shortly before the game: “Ensure effective possession, avoid frenzy, don’t carry the ball. Play two-touch football, and do your best to play deep behind the line of their midfielders whenever possible.” Here’s another one: “Don’t be in a hurry, everyone should be involved in constructing the game, including the strikers. Bide your time, wait to find an opportunity for sudden counterattacks … Play with confidence, remember that we’re the stronger team, we have the better ideas.”

  I’m still an old-fashioned guy; I write everything by hand, even today—pen on paper, including the notes that I hand out to my players. It gives a touch of humanity to what I do; you can’t write a love letter on a computer. That match ended with a score of 0–0, and I was happy about it. We had set aside a small advantage with a view to the return game, which we played the following week. I put pen to paper, and I prepared a second challenge for Inter. In among the technical suggestions and tactical tips, I added a heartfelt appeal: “This match is nothing more or less than the culmination of all our work, all our sacrifices. We should be happy that this moment has finally come.” A note written at the bottom of the page, just before the assigned markings: Costacurta–Di Biagio, Nesta–Crespo, Maldini–Materazzi, Kaladze–Coco, Inzaghi–Cordoba, and Shevchenko–Cannavaro. In black ink on white paper, I also jotted down a list of the penalty takers, just because you can never be sure: Pirlo, Rui Costa, Seedorf, Inzaghi, Costacurta, Shevchenko, Nesta, Maldini, Kaladze, and Gattuso. We never needed them; we were satisfied with the 1–1 scoreline. The final seven minutes, from when Martins evened the score to the end of the game, were the longest minutes of my life. Time seemed to stand still, my heart was racing, I probably actually had a heart attack without even realizing it. In the end, all that passes, too. Most importantly, we passed. Old Trafford, here we come. To the Theater of Dreams, against Juventus. An insane final.

  When I have to deal with situations of this kind, I rely on two principles: clarity and concentration. A few days before the game, instead of holding the usual technical meeting, I organized a sort of cineforum. I showed the players a scene from Any Given Sunday, the movie in which Al Pacino, as the coach of a football team, delivers an incredible speech just before a crucial game: “You find out that life is just a game of inches. So is football. Because in either game—life or football—the margin for error is so small. And either we heal now, as a team, or we will die as individuals.” Sends chills up and down your spine. On the night before the game, I took it a step further. I prepared a DVD showing every step of our charge toward Manchester: music, exultation, goals. It was us, our team, running headlong toward heaven. At the end I turned on the lights and I didn’t say much: “There’s just one more thing we need now.” I would have nominated myself for an Oscar, for best screenplay.

  Absolutely the last technical meeting was held at our training grounds just before we left for Old Trafford. All the players were there, in tracksuits, with a companion dressed slightly better than them—a little more elegant and distinguished. It was Silvio Berlusconi. He sat in the middle of the team, he wanted to take part. The fact that he was there made quite an impression on me. I handed out sheets of paper with the formations and the plays; he wanted copies for himself. (Later, I saw them published in a book by Bruno Vespa; the chairman passed them off as his own, but fair enough, because before every game in the finals, he always gave our morale a huge boost.) Berlusconi sat listening to the positions I was assigning to the team. If I know anything about him at all, he was wishing I’d send him out onto the field—as part of the starting lineup, of course. I was worried, I was afraid I’d said something idiotic. At the end of the meeting, I even asked him: “How did I do, Mr. Chairman?”

  “Beautifully, Carletto, you were great. You’ll see, we’re going to win.”

  And that’s exactly what happened, with a camouflaged Christmas Tree; let’s call it a slightly dirty 4-4-2, with Rui Costa on the right and Seedorf inside, moving actively around the field. We became European champions at the last penalty kick, even though it wasn’t as easy as you might think to find players willing to take that penalty kick. If I think of the lineup of penalty takers, even now I get the chills: the first was Serginho, followed by Seedorf, Kaladze, Nesta, and, fifth, Shevchenko. Inzaghi had vanished; we couldn’t find him, he’d simply dematerialized. I listed him as sixth, but we didn’t need him. Shevchenko was decisive. Luckily, incredible but true, Juventus managed to put together a lineup that was even worse: Trezeguet, Birindelli, Zalayeta, Montero, and Del Piero. A second before Shevchenko kicked, I thought: “Okay, it’s over.” Then it happened. A second later—and this is what I’ll never forget—it was incredible to see the entire Juventus end of the stands motionless. It looked like a poster. I wanted to take it off the wall and carry it home with me, but unfortunately I didn’t have a wall big enough to hang it on. In any case, my dear Milan fans, best wishes from the everlasting instant. What enormous satisfaction.

  At four in the morning, I was scarfing down my second bowl of pasta all’amatriciana, prepared for me by Oscar Basini, our team chef. At five in the morning, we were all drunk in the hotel, completely snookered on English beer. We went out and started playing soccer on the hotel golf course, tearing up the green. The hotel staff was distraught: they were tempted to toss us out, but they couldn’t. We were the masters of all Europe, and so, for that one magical night, we were the masters of Manchester as well. We wanted to be considerate—we’d taken all possible precautions, we had even decided to take off our shoes to keep from ruining the green—but accidents happen. Even barefoot, Gattuso is a bulldozer. He tore up everything, even the hole in the middle of the green. In the meantime, Galliani had taken away the cup. He had locked himself in his hotel room with it. He’d taken the Champions League to bed with him. The poor little thing.

  CHAPTER 21

  Kaká, the Greatest Unknown Player on Earth

  Another round, another gift. An incredible, wonderful gift. Completely unexpected. You should never look a gift horse in the mouth, that much is certain. But after you’ve untied the bows and unwrapped it, you can certainly thank heaven. And you can thank the horse. That seems to me the very least you can do. Summer 2003 is when that horse—no, more like that Martian—landed. Scholars of extraterrestrial life, lend me your ears: We are pleased to introduce you to Kaká—an absolute world premiere. A child prodigy at play on the fields of the European champions.

  I had certainly heard something about a young man from Brazil, a pretty talented kid, but I didn’t know anything more than that: a certain Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite. From the name, if I had to guess, I would have assumed he was a young preacher, and, in a way, I was pretty near the mark. He was spreading the gospel of soccer and faith: Listen to his word and you shall discover eternal bliss. The club wasn’t sure whether to invite him to come to Milanello immediately or else leave him to mature in Saõ Paulo for another six months. After thinking it over, we decided to speed up the process, to
bring him over as soon as possible to allow him to train with us—and to let me get an idea of just who we were dealing with. As far as I could tell, we were buying something with our eyes closed, based on a lot of pretty promises and a frothy tide of high hopes. That’s all well and good, but what I need is concrete evidence.

  Kaká landed at Milan’s Malpensa Airport, and I felt like pulling out tufts of my hair: he was wearing schoolboy glasses, his hair was neatly brushed, he had the scrubbed, rosy-cheeked face of a straight-A student. All he lacked was a book bag and a lunch-box. Oh, Lord, what have we done? He’s not ready to pick a major, much less play professional soccer. Welcome to the international exchange student program; now let’s find out if you even know how to dribble and kick.

  Kaká looked nothing like a Brazilian footballer; if anything, he looked like a Jehovah’s Witness in the industrial belt outside Milan. I started asking around, and everyone told me the same thing: “Sure, he has potential. He’s an attacking midfielder, but he’s not superfast. If he plays in an Italian championship game, he could run into trouble when things get tight.” I’m going to keep the names of my sources confidential, to keep from making them look like donkeys.

  In the meantime, Moggi began lobbing grenades from Turin, and the shrapnel all spelled out the same general notion: “With that nickname, he’s done for in Italy, it’s like calling him Poopy.” “We don’t need to go caca OR Kaká.” “At Juventus, we’re all constipated.” “We’re the Triad, and we don’t pay good money for stinky Kaká.” It was like a vaudeville act, and I started to have a sneaking sense of doubt: just wait and see, maybe Lucianone is right about this one too. It wouldn’t be the first time.