If I understood correctly, the paper had already heard I was furious. I think it was somebody from the national side who’d tipped them off, and now he wanted to apologise and get back to business as usual. There was already a load of money to be made off the back of my name in those days. But believe me, I wasn’t having any of it, and I guess I should be happy I restrained myself fairly well. I managed to restrict it to hissing, “What kind of clown are you? And what the fuck are you trying to say? That I’ve got problems with girls or something?” at him.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to…” He was just spluttering. He couldn’t utter a coherent sentence.
“I’m never gonna speak to you again,” I yelled and walked off, and honestly, I thought I’d frightened him, or at least got them at the paper to behave with more respect in the future. But it got worse. We won the international match 5–0 and I scored two goals. So what do you think Aftonbladet ran as a headline the next day: ‘Go Sweden’? ‘Next stop: the European Championships’? Not quite! They went with: ‘Shame on you, Zlatan!’ although it wasn’t exactly as if I’d pulled my pants down or thrashed the referee.
I’d hit a penalty – which went in. The score stood at 4–0, and I’d been fouled inside the penalty area. Okay, sure, Lars Lagerbäck had his list of penalty kickers and Kim Källström was at the top of that list, but he’d just scored a goal and I thought, this is my thing, I’m really on form, I’m up for it, and when Kim came up I moved the ball to the other side of my body, like, don’t take my toy away, and he put out his hand – like, give it here! I slapped his hand, gave him five instead, placed the ball on the penalty mark and shot, no more than that – it wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever done and I did apologise afterwards, but come on: it wasn’t the Balkan War. It wasn’t a council estate riot. It was a goal in a football match. Even so, Aftonbladet got six pages out of it, and I didn’t get it. What the hell, coming out with personal ads and ‘shame on you, Zlatan’ when we won 5–0?
“If anybody should be ashamed, it’s Aftonbladet,” I said at a press conference the following day.
After that, I boycotted that paper, and when the European Championship tournament got underway in Portugal, there wasn’t exactly cause for a thaw in relations. I continued the war, but I was running a risk. If I didn’t talk to them, they had nothing to lose, and the last thing I wanted was for the relationship between Helena and me to get out. That would be a disaster for our final preparations, so we had to be careful. But what could I do? I missed her. “Can’t you come down here?” I asked. She couldn’t. She had too much to do. But then some of her bosses had bought tickets to the championship and couldn’t go. They asked, “Does anybody else want to go instead?” and she thought, it’s a sign, I’ll go – and she came along for a few days. But as usual, we snuck around, and not even anybody in the national squad took any notice of her. The only one who seemed to suspect something was going on with her was Bert Karlsson, a Swedish media figure and businessman who bumped into her at the airport and wondered what a girl like her was doing among all the football fans in their replica shirts and silly hats. But we still managed to keep it under wraps, and I could focus on the football.
We were a great bunch in the national side. We were all good blokes – well, there was one prima donna among us. The prima donna was all like, “At Arsenal, you know, this is how we do it. That’s how you ought to do it. Because they know about that stuff at Arsenal, and I play for them.” Pretty much like that.
That made me furious. “My back is killing me,” he said. Oh dear, oh dear. “I can’t go in the regular bus. I need my own bus. I need this, I need that.” I mean, who the hell did he think he was, coming along and lording it over us? Lars Lagerbäck talked things over with me about him.
“Please, Zlatan, try to handle this professionally. We can’t have any conflicts in the squad.”
“Listen,” I said. “If he respects me, I’ll respect him. Full stop,” and there was a fair amount of fuss about that.
But otherwise, my God, the atmosphere was incredible. When we came on for our first match against Bulgaria in Lisbon it was like the whole stadium was in yellow, and everybody was singing Markoolio’s Euro 2004 song, it was all so awesome and we totally annihilated Bulgaria.
It was 5–0, and people’s expectations for us were ratcheted up. But it was like the championships hadn’t properly got underway yet. The big match everybody was waiting for was the one against Italy on the 18th of July in Porto, and it was no secret that the Italians were out for revenge. They’d only managed a draw in their first match against Denmark, and of course none of them had forgotten their defeat to France in the previous European Championship finals in Rotterdam. Italy were dead set on winning and they had an incredible team with Nesta, Cannavaro and Zambrotta at the back, Buffon in goal and Christian Vieri out in front, and sure, Totti, the big star, was out, having spat on an opponent in the match against Denmark, but still, I admit I was nervous, meeting these blokes.
This was my most important match up to that point, and my dad was sitting in the stands and it was a major occasion. Right from the start I sensed that the Italians respected me. It was like, what’s that guy gonna come up with next, and I battled with their defence. We weren’t playing around. The Italians put on a fierce offensive, and just before halftime Cassano, a young guy who’d taken Totti’s place, made it 1–0 on a cross from Panucci, and nobody can say they didn’t deserve it. The Italians pressed us hard. But we worked our way into the match and had some chances in the second half. Still, the match belonged to the Italians, and getting a draw against them is no game. Italy are often said to have a crazy defence. But with just five minutes remaining, we got a corner from the left.
Kim Källström hit it, and things started to get messy in the penalty area. Marcus Allbäck was on the ball, then Olof Mellberg as well and there was general chaos. But the ball was still up in the air and I rushed towards it, and at that moment I saw Buffon running up and Christian Vieri standing on the goal line, so I leapt up and gave it a kick. It was a bit like kung fu. In the photos, my heel is level with my shoulder, and the ball flew in a perfect arc over Christian Vieri who tried to head it, and there wasn’t much room to spare between his head and the crossbar. But it went in, right in the top corner, and that was against Italy.
It was the European Championship. It was a backheel with just five minutes left, and I ran out, completely mental, and the whole team came after me, just as crazy, all of them except one, who was running in the other direction. But who cares? I threw myself onto the pitch and everybody piled on top of me, and Henrik Larsson yelled, “Enjoy it!” Just like that! As if he immediately grasped the magnitude of it, and okay, the match ended in a draw. But it felt like we’d won, and we made it into the quarter-final against the Netherlands, and of course that one was tense as well.
The Dutch fans in their orange outfits and hats were booing and jeering at me, as if I were playing in the wrong team, and the match was incredibly close with loads of chances. But it was still 0–0 at full time, and we went into extra time. We had shots that hit the crossbar and the goalposts. We should have scored several times over. But we ended up having to go into a penalty shootout, and the entire stadium was, like, praying to God.
There were nerves on all sides, and as usual, many couldn’t even bear to look. Others booed and tried to psych us out. The pressure was incredible. But things got off to a good start. Kim Källström landed his penalty, and so did Henke Larsson. It was 2–2, and I was up next. I was wearing a black hairband. I had long hair, and gave a little smile, I dunno why. But I felt pretty cool, in spite of everything – I was nervous, but even so, there was no sense of panic, nothing like that, not at all, and Edwin van der Sar was in goal. It really should have gone in.
Nowadays when I take a penalty, I know precisely where it’s going to go, and it’s in the goal. But that day I had such a strange feeling, and that feeli
ng hit me just as I approached the ball. It was as if I was just going to shoot, and I did. I just shot, as if it would be a surprise where the ball ended up, and I completely missed. I was completely off target. It was a disaster, and we were out of the tournament – Olof Mellberg missed, too – and believe me, that’s not a happy memory. It was shit. We had a good team. We should have gone much further. But still, those matches set off an entire course of events.
August is an uncertain time. The transfer window closes on the 31st, and there are rumours of transactions buzzing all over the place. People talk about the ‘silly season’. It’s still the pre-season, and the papers haven’t got much else to write about. Is he going to this team? Or that one? How much are the clubs willing to spend? Things get blown out of proportion, a lot of players get stressed out, and it was particularly evident with us at Ajax.
All the young guys at the club wanted to get sold, and people were casting nervous glances at each other. Has he got something in the works? What about him? And why isn’t my agent ringing me? There was a lot of tension and jealousy, and I was waiting and hoping myself, but I still tried to concentrate on football. I remember we played a match against Utrecht, and the last thing I thought would happen was that I’d get substituted. But that’s what happened. Koeman waved me over, and I got so furious I even kicked an advertising sign by the side of the pitch, like, what the hell are you doing, putting me on the bench?
Even in those days I was in the habit of phoning Mino after matches. It was nice to be able to talk everything over with him and have a little moan about things in general, but this time I really let loose.
“What kind of idiot takes me out of the game? How can he be so stupid?” and even though Mino and I were rough with each other, I was expecting some support in this situation, like, yeah, I agree with you, Koeman must have suffered a brain haemorrhage, poor you.
What Mino said was: “Of course he took you off. You were the worst one on the pitch. You were shit.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“You were useless. He should’ve put you on the bench sooner.”
“Listen,” I said.
“What?”
“You can go to hell. Both you and the coach.”
I hung up, showered and drove home to Diemen, and my mood did not improve. But when I got home, I saw someone standing at the door. It was Mino. He had some nerve, that idiot, I thought, and I hadn’t even got out of my car before we were yelling at each other again.
“How many times do I need to tell you?” he roared. “You were shit, and you can’t fucking kick over advertising signs. You need to grow up.”
“Go to hell.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Fuck you. I want out of here,” I screamed.
“In that case, you can move to Turin.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I might have Juventus lined up.”
“You what?”
“You heard me,” and I had. It’s just that I didn’t get it, not in the midst of that row.
“Have you sorted out Juventus for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you the most amazing thing ever, you bloody idiot?”
“Nothing is certain yet, but I’m working on it,” he said, and I thought, Juventus!
That was a little different to Southampton.
Juventus were possibly the best club in Europe back then. They had stars like Thuram, Trézéguet, Del Piero, Buffon and Nedvěd, and while the club had lost the Champions League final to AC Milan the previous year, on paper at least there was no team that was anywhere near them. The players were superstars, all of them, and the club had just signed Fabio Capello, the manager from Roma who’d been after me for several years, and I really started to hope. Come on, Mino, I thought, bring this one home!
Juventus was run by Luciano Moggi in those days. Moggi was a tough guy, a power broker who’d worked his way up from nothing to become one of the bigwigs of Italian football. He was the king of the transfer market.
That guy had transformed Juventus. The club won their league year after year under his leadership. But Luciano Moggi wasn’t exactly known for being whiter than white. He’d been involved in a bunch of scandals with bribes, doping and criminal trials and shit, and there were rumours that he belonged to the Camorra in Naples. Of course, that was bullshit. But the guy really did look like a mafioso. He liked cigars and flash suits, and as a negotiator he didn’t stop at anything. He was a master at making deals, and he was an opponent to be reckoned with. But Mino knew him.
They were old enemies, you could say, who’d become friends. Mino had arranged a meeting with Moggi back when he was trying to get his business off the ground. But it wasn’t a good start. Moggi’s office was like a damned waiting room. There were, like, 20 people outside, and everyone was impatient. But nothing happened. Time just ticked away, and finally Mino blew a fuse. He stormed out, absolutely furious: what the hell, blowing off a meeting like that? Most people would probably just have accepted the situation. Moggi was a big shot. But Mino has no respect for that kind of thing. If people are rude to him, it doesn’t matter who they are. So he went looking for Moggi later that day at Urbani, the restaurant in Turin frequented by the club’s staff and team members.
“You treated me badly,” he hissed.
“Who the hell are you?” Moggi asked.
“You’ll find out when you buy a player off me,” Mino roared, and he hated the guy for a long time after that.
He’d even introduce himself to other football bosses: “I’m Mino. I’m against Moggi,” and because Moggi was a man who made enemies easily, that was often a good line to use. The only problem was, sooner or later Mino was going to have to do business with Moggi, and in 2001 Juventus wanted Nedvěd, one of Mino’s big players. But nothing was finalised, nothing at all. Mino had Real Madrid in the works as well, and he and Nedvěd were only supposed to meet with Moggi in Turin to discuss things. But Moggi raised the stakes and rang round to journalists, photographers and supporters. He put together an entire welcoming committee before negotiations had even started, and neither Nedvěd nor Mino could wriggle out of it.
Not that it bothered Mino, really. He wanted Nedvěd at Juventus, and that coup gave him the opportunity to bargain for a better contract, but for the first time he was impressed by Moggi. The bloke may have been a bastard that time, but he knew his game, and the two of them declared peace and became friends – “I’m Mino. I’m with Moggi,” sort of. Not that they exactly cosied up together. But there was a certain respect there, and clearly a number of other clubs had dissed me. Moggi was the only one who’d been seriously interested. But it wasn’t going to be easy.
Moggi didn’t have a lot of time for us. We’d be able to meet with him in secret for half an hour in Monte Carlo. That was when the Formula 1 Monaco Grand Prix was on, and I guess Moggi was in town on business. The Fiat Group owns both Ferrari and Juventus, and we were going to meet him in a VIP room at the airport. But traffic was terrible, and we couldn’t get there by car. We had to run, and Mino isn’t exactly in tip-top physical condition. He’s overweight. He was huffing and puffing. He was all sweaty, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for a business meeting.
He was wearing Hawaiian shorts. He had on a Nike shirt and running shoes with no socks and was drenched in sweat, and we came barging into the VIP room there at the airport, and the air was thick with smoke. Luciano Moggi was puffing on a fat cigar. He’s a bit older and bald, and you realise instantly that this guy has power. He’s used to people doing what he says. But now he just stared at Mino’s clothes.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“Are you here to check out what I look like?” Mino hissed back, and that was where things started.
Around that time, we had an international match against the Netherlands in Stockholm. It
was just a friendly, but none of us had forgotten our loss in the Euro 2004 tournament and naturally we wanted to prove we could beat the Netherlands. The entire squad was out for revenge – it was offensive, quite aggressive football, and early on in the match I got a ball outside the penalty area. I immediately had four Dutchmen on me. One of them was Rafael van der Vaart, and all of them were going for me. It was a tough situation, and I powered my way through and got the ball to Mattias Jonson, who was standing open.
He made it 1–0, and afterwards van der Vaart was lying in pain on the pitch. He was stretchered off with a torn ligament in his ankle, nothing serious. But he might miss a match or two, and he went and claimed in the papers that I’d injured him on purpose. I gave a start. What kind of shit was that? There wasn’t even a free kick awarded, so how could he say that stuff about doing it on purpose? And that guy was supposed to be my team captain!
I phoned him up and said, “Listen up, I’m sorry, it’s a shame about your injury, I apologise, but it wasn’t intentional, you got that?” And I said the same thing to the journalists. I said it a hundred times. But van der Vaart carried on, and I couldn’t understand it. Why the hell was he going round trashing his teammate? It didn’t make any sense. Or did it?
I started to wonder – because don’t forget, this was August and the transfer window was open. Maybe he wanted to fight his way out of the club? Or fight me out as well, for that matter? It wouldn’t exactly be the first time somebody tried that kind of trick, and the guy had the media on his side down there.
I mean, he was the Dutchman. He was the darling of the gossip pages, and I was a bad boy and all that, the foreigner. “Are you serious?” I asked him when I saw him at the training ground. He clearly was.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll say it one last time. It was not intentional. D’you hear me?”
“I hear you!”
But he didn’t back down even a millimetre, and the atmosphere in the club got more and more heated. The whole team divided into two camps. The Dutch were on Rafael’s side, and the foreigners were on mine. Finally Koeman called us in to a meeting, and by that time I was completely obsessed with this thing. What the hell, accusing me of something like that? I was absolutely seething, and we all sat in a circle there at the meeting in our lunch room on the third floor, and I could immediately sense it in the air. This was serious. The management insisted that we should patch things up. We were key players, and we had to get on. But there weren’t any openings right away. Rafael came out harder than ever.
I Am Zlatan Page 16
