It seemed as though Moggi was putting pressure on the Italian referees to get good guys for our matches, and you can hear how he bollocks the ones who’ve performed badly, including one called Fandel who refereed Juventus’ fight against Djurgården. It was claimed that some other referees were held back in the changing room and given a bollocking after we lost to Reggina in November 2004, and then there was the thing with the Pope. The Pope was dying. No matches were supposed to be played then. The nation was supposed to mourn its Holy Father. But Moggi was said to have phoned the Minister of the Interior, no less, and asked him to let us play anyway, according to the allegations, because our opponents Fiorentina had two players injured and two banned. I have no idea how much truth there is in that. That’s probably the sort of stuff that goes on all over in this industry, and honestly, who the hell doesn’t yell at referees? Who doesn’t work on behalf of their club?
It was a mess – the scandal was often referred to as Moggiopoli in the Italian press, sort of like ‘Moggi-gate’, and of course my name came up. I hadn’t expected otherwise. Obviously they were going to drag the top players into it as well. People were saying that Moggi had talked about my fight with van der Vaart and said something like I was heading in the right direction to leave the club. The guy’s got balls, he’d said, or something to that effect. He even was alleged to have encouraged the fight, and people lapped that up, of course. That would be a typical Moggi thing, they thought, and a typical Ibra trick too, probably. But it was bullshit, of course. That fight was a thing between me and van der Vaart, and nobody else.
But in those days people could say anything at all, and on the morning of the 18th of May I got a phone call. Helena and I were in Monte Carlo with Alexander Östlund and his family, and I heard over the phone that there were police outside my door. The police wanted to come in. They even had a warrant to search my apartment, and, honestly, what could I do?
I left Monte Carlo immediately. I drove to Turin in an hour and met the police outside, and I have to say, they were gentlemen. They were just doing their job. But, still, it wasn’t pleasant. They were going to go through all the payments I’d received from Juventus, like I was a criminal, and they asked me if I’d accepted anything under the table, and I told them the truth: “Never!” and then they started poking around. Finally I said to them:
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
I handed over Helena’s and my bank statements, and they were satisfied with those. They said thanks, bye, we like your playing, and stuff. Juventus’ management, Giraudo, Bettega and Moggi resigned around that time, and it felt weird. They’d been landed right in the shit. Moggi told the papers, “I’ve lost my soul. It’s been killed.”
The next day, Juventus’ share price crashed on the Milan stock exchange, and we had a crisis meeting in our weight room, in the gym, and I’ll never forget that.
Moggi came down. On the surface he looked the same as usual, well dressed and dominant. But this was a different Moggi. Another scandal somehow involving his son had just emerged. This time it was some kind of infidelity thing, and he talked about it, and about how insulting it was, and I remember I agreed with him. That was personal stuff that had nothing to do with football. But that wasn’t what affected me most.
It was that he started to cry – him, of all people. I felt it in my gut. I’d never seen him weak before. That man had always had control. He radiated power and strength. But now… how can I explain it? It wasn’t long since he’d been throwing his weight around with me and declared my contract void and all that. But now, suddenly, I was the one who was supposed to feel sorry for him. This world had been turned upside down, and maybe I shouldn’t have been so bothered about him, and said, like, you’ve only got yourself to blame. But I really felt for Moggi. It hurt to see a man like him brought down, and I thought a lot about it afterwards, and not just the same old stuff: you can’t take anything for granted! I started to view certain things in a new light. Why had he kept postponing our meetings? Why had he made such a fuss?
Was it to protect me?
I started to think so. I didn’t know for sure. But that’s how I chose to interpret it. He must have known this was going to come out, even then. He must have realised Juventus wouldn’t be the same team as before, and that things would have been over for me if he’d tied me to the club. I would’ve had to stay at Juventus no matter what happened. I believe he was thinking about stuff like that. Moggi maybe didn’t always stop at red lights, or obey every rule and regulation. But he was a talented businessman, and he took care of his players, I know that, and without him my career would have got stuck in a dead end. I thank him for that, and when the whole world is criticising him, I’m on his side. I liked Luciano Moggi.
Juventus was a sinking ship, and people started saying the club was going to be relegated to Serie B or even down to Serie C. That’s how big a commotion it was. But it wasn’t possible to take in, not all at once. We’d built up such a team and won two league titles in a row – were we going to lose everything because of something that hadn’t meant a thing to our game? That was just too much, and it seemed to take a while before the new club management grasped the seriousness of the situation. I remember an early phone call from Alessio Secco.
Alessio Secco was my old team manager. He was the one who’d used to call me to arrange training sessions: “We’re starting tomorrow at ten-thirty! Be there on time.” That type of stuff. Now he was suddenly the new director – completely crazy! – and I had a hard time taking him seriously. But in that first conversation he gave me an opening:
“If you get an offer, Zlatan, take it. That’s my recommendation to you.”
Then again, that was the last nice thing that was said to me. Afterwards things got tougher, and sure, I can understand that. One after another, the players left: Thuram and Zambrotta to Barcelona, Cannavaro and Emerson to Real Madrid, Patrick Vieira to Inter Milan, and all the rest of us who were still left were ringing our agents, saying, “Sell us, sell us. What prospects are out there?”
Uncertainty and desperation hung in the air. Things were buzzing everywhere, and there were no more remarks like the one Alessio Secco had given me. Now the club was fighting for its life.
The management started doing everything it could to keep those of us who were still there, exploiting every loophole there was in our contracts. It was a nightmare. I was on my way up in my career. I was just starting to make a serious breakthrough. Was everything going to come crashing down now? It was an uncertain time, and with each day that passed, I felt it more and more: I was going to fight. No way was I going to sacrifice a year in the second division. One year! – it would be more, I understood that. One year to get back up if we were relegated, and another year or two to get back to the top of the league and gain a place in the Champions League, and then we probably wouldn’t have a team that could compete. My best years as a footballer were in danger of being wasted, and I told Mino over and over:
“Do whatever it takes. Just get me out of here.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You better be!”
It was June 2006. Helena was pregnant, and I was happy about that. The baby was due at the end of September, but other than that I was in no man’s land. What was going to happen? I knew nothing. During this time I was preparing with the Swedish national side for the World Cup that was being held in Germany that summer. My whole family were coming along: Mum, Dad, Sapko, Sanela, her husband and Keki, and as usual I was the one who was sorting everything out, hotels, travel, money, hire cars and all that.
It was already getting on my nerves, and at the last minute Dad decided not to come, it was the usual muddle, and there was a huge to-do with his tickets. What should we do with them? Who would get them instead? You can’t say I was getting more balanced as a result of that, and then I started getting pains in my groin again, the same shit I had an operation fo
r when I was at Ajax, and I spoke with the national team’s management about it.
But we decided I’d play. I have one fundamental principle: if things go badly, I don’t blame my injuries. That’s just ridiculous. I mean, if you’re no good because of an injury, why are you playing? Whatever answer you give, it’s wrong. You’ve just got to grit your teeth and go for it, but it’s true, it was especially hard in those days, and on the 14th of July the verdict was finally handed down in Italy.
We were stripped of our two league titles and lost our spot in the Champions League, but above all, we were relegated to Serie B and would start the season with a bunch of minus points, possibly as many as 30, and I was still on that sinking ship.
15
EARLIER, IN SEPTEMBER 2005, we’d played against Hungary in a World Cup qualifier at the Ferenc Puskás Stadium in Budapest. We basically had to win in order to qualify for the World Cup, and the pressure had been building for days before the match. But it turned out to be an anticlimax. Nothing happened, and I never really got into the game. I was out of sorts and off form, and when we’d played the full time the score was 0–0 and the spectators were just waiting for the final whistle.
Certain papers had clearly given me a failing mark. I was a disappointment, and I’m sure many people saw it as confirmation that I was just an over-hyped diva, after all. But then I got a ball in the penalty area, I think it was from Mattias Jonson, and I didn’t seem to know what to do with it either. I had a defender on me and I dribbled out towards our half of the pitch without gaining anything from it. But then I turned, just like, bam – because don’t forget, these are the kind of situations I play for, and that’s why I seem to just wander around on the pitch so often. I save my energy so I can burst out with fast, aggressive moves, and now I took a few quick steps towards the sideline and the defender couldn’t keep up, not at all, and I got a chance to shoot, not a good angle. It was too steep, and the goalie was well positioned, and most people were expecting a cross or a pass.
But I thundered on and from that position, the ball doesn’t usually go in. Chances are it’ll go into the side of the net, and the goalie didn’t react. He didn’t even raise his arms, and for a fraction of a second I thought I’d missed. I wasn’t the only one. There was no eruption in the stadium, and Olof Mellberg was hanging his head, like, shit, so close and in overtime. He even turned his back. He was waiting for Hungary to kick it back in, and down in our goal Andreas Isaksson was thinking, it’s too quiet, and Olof is shaking his head. The ball must have gone into the side of the net. But then I raised my arms and rushed round the net, and the stadium came alive.
The ball hadn’t gone into the side, not at all. It flew straight into the top corner from an impossible angle, and the goalie didn’t even have a chance to lift a finger, and not much later the referee blew the final whistle, and nobody was giving me a failing mark any more.
The goal became a classic, and we made it to the World Cup, and I really hoped it would be a success. I needed it, and really, it felt good down there in our World Cup village in Germany, despite the concerns at Juventus. We had a new assistant coach since Tommy Söderberg had left, and it wasn’t just anybody. It was Roland Andersson, the guy who’d told me, “Time to stop playing with the little kids, Zlatan,” the guy who’d called me up into the first team, and I was honestly touched. I hadn’t seen him since he’d got the sack from Malmö FF, and it felt great that I was able to show him, you were right, Roland. It was worth it to invest in me. He’d taken some flak for it. But here we were now, Roland and me. Things had worked out for both of us, and in general the atmosphere was good. There were loads of Swedish fans, and everywhere you could hear that song that little guy sang, you know the one that goes, Nobody kicks a football like him, Zlatan, I said Zlatan.
It had a good beat. But my groin didn’t feel good, and my family were making a fuss. It was nuts, really. It doesn’t matter that I’m the little brother – only Keki is younger than me – I’ve become like a dad to all of them, and there was always something going on there in Germany. There was Dad who’d cancelled and his tickets were still unclaimed, and then there was the hotel that was too far away, or Sapko my big brother, who needed money and then when he got some he couldn’t get round to exchanging it into euros. And then Helena was seven months pregnant. She could look after herself, but she was surrounded by chaos and uproar. When she was getting off the bus before our match against Paraguay, all the fans swarmed around her like lunatics, and she felt unsafe and flew home the next day. There was one thing after another, both big and small.
“Please, Zlatan, can’t you sort out this and that?”
I was my family’s travel coordinator in Germany, and I couldn’t focus on my game. My phone was ringing constantly. There were complaints and everything you can imagine. It was completely nuts. I was playing in the fucking World Cup. Yet I was supposed to sort out hire cars and shit, and I probably shouldn’t have been playing at all. My groin was giving me trouble, like I said. But Lagerbäck was certain. I was going to be in, and our first match was against Trinidad and Tobago, and of course we were supposed to win, not just with one goal, but with three, four, five. But nothing went our way. Their goalkeeper was on incredible form and we couldn’t score, even when one of their guys was sent off. The only positive thing that came out of that match happened afterwards. I said hello to the Trinidad and Tobago coach.
The coach’s name was Leo Beenhakker. It was fantastic to see him. God knows, there are a lot of people who want to take credit for my career. Almost all of it is bullshit – ridiculous attempts by people to ride on my coattails, but there are a few guys who’ve really meant a lot. Roland Andersson is one, and Beenhakker is another. They believed in me when others doubted. I hope I can do similar things myself when I get older. Not just complain about those who are different, like, look, now he’s dribbling again, now he’s doing this and that, but think a step ahead.
There’s a photo of that encounter with Beenhakker. I’ve taken off my match shirt and my face is beaming, despite the disappointment of the match.
Things never loosened up for me during the tournament. We managed a draw against England, and that was good. But Germany destroyed us in the final of the group stage, and my playing sucked, and I’m really not going to try to defend myself. I take full responsibility. Your family is your family. You’ve got to take care of them. But I shouldn’t have been their travel coordinator, and the World Cup was also a lesson for me.
Afterwards I explained it to them all: “You’re welcome to come along, and I’ll try to organise things for you, but once you’re there you’ll have to sort out your own problems and look after yourselves.”
I returned to Turin, and it no longer felt like home. Turin had become a place I needed to leave, and the atmosphere in the club hadn’t exactly improved. There had been yet another disaster.
Gianluca Pessotto had been a defender in the squad since back in 1995. He’d won everything with the club and identified with Juventus. I knew him pretty well. We’d played together for two years, and the guy was really not the cocky sort. He was incredibly sensitive and kind, and stayed in the background. Exactly what happened after that, I don’t know.
Pessotto had just retired from playing and became the new team manager, replacing Alessio Secco who’d been promoted to director, and maybe it wasn’t easy to switch to an office job after life as a player. But more than anything, the match scandal and the relegation to the second division had hit Pessotto really hard, and then some things had happened in his family.
One day he was sitting in his office, four floors up, as usual. But that day he climbed up to the window with a string of rosary beads in his hand, and threw himself backwards out of the window, landing on the asphalt between two cars. It was a fifteen-metre drop. Absolutely unbelievable that he survived! He ended up in hospital with fractures and internal bleeding, but he pulled through, and peopl
e were happy, despite everything. But of course his suicide attempt was seen as yet another bad sign. It was a little like, who’ll be the next one to lose it?
Things felt really desperate, and now the new club president, Giovanni Cobolli Gigli, issued a declaration: the club was not going to let any more players go. The management would fight to keep each and every one, and of course I talked to Mino about it. We discussed it all the time, and we both agreed there was only one way. We had to hit back. So Mino told the press:
“We are prepared to use all legal means to free ourselves from the club.”
We weren’t going to show any weakness, no way. If Juventus took a hard line, we’d come back just as hard. But this was no simple battle. There was a great deal at stake, and I spoke to Alessio Secco again, the guy who was trying to be the new Moggi, and I realised straight away that his attitude had changed now.
“You have to stay with the club. We demand it of you. We want you to show loyalty to the team.”
“Before the off season, you said the opposite. That I should take an offer.”
“But the situation is different now. We’re in a crisis situation. We will offer you a new contract.”
“I’m not staying,” I said. “Not under any conditions.”
Every day, every hour, the pressure increased and it was really unpleasant, and I fought with everything I had, with Mino, with the law, with everything I could. But it’s true. I couldn’t be that pig-headed. I was still getting paid by the club, and the big question was: how far should I go? I talked it over with Mino.
We decided I would practise with the team, but not play any matches. Mino claimed there was a possibility of interpreting the contract that way, so in spite of everything, I headed off to the pre-season camp in the mountains with the rest of them. The players in the Italian national side hadn’t arrived yet. They were still in Germany. Italy went on to win the World Cup. That was an incredibly impressive achievement, I thought, when you consider the scandals they had going on at home, and I had to congratulate them. But, of course, it didn’t help me. Our new manager at the club was Didier Deschamps. He was a former player as well, a Frenchman. He’d been the captain of the French national side when they won the 1998 World Cup, and now in his new job he’d been given the task of getting Juventus back into the top division again. The pressure on him was enormous, and on the very first day at camp he came up to me.
I Am Zlatan Page 21
