“All of Italy was against us, but Zlatan Ibrahimović was the symbol of our struggle.”
I was voted the best player of the year in Serie A, and not long afterwards that stuff about me possibly being the world’s highest paid footballer came out, and everything went completely crazy. I could barely go out, and wherever I went there was a commotion. Of course, everybody thought I’d negotiated the contract after the match against Parma. But the deal had been agreed seven or eight months earlier, and I thought, my God, there’s no way Moratti could have any regrets now, not after that finish, and I felt like, things have turned round now. The clouds have cleared up. I’ve been able to strike back. But there were definitely signs for concern. I noticed right after the Parma match.
My knee had swollen up again. I’d never been completely fit, and I think it came as a shock to a lot of people when I was forced to sit out the Italian cup final, and of course that was no fun. We’d had a chance at the double, to bring home bother the Cup and the league title. But without me, Roma got their revenge in the final, and the Euro 2008 tournament was approaching and I had no idea whether my knee was going to hold out. I’d worked myself too hard that season.
I was going to have to pay a heavy price.
20
I DIDN’T GO OUT that often any more. I stayed at home with my family, and at that time I’d just become a father for the second time. Now we had little Vincent as well. Vincent! He was so lovely, and his name comes from the Italian word for ‘winner’, and of course I liked that. He’d been born amidst a whole circus as well. But he was Number 2, and the media were a bit more relaxed about it.
But really, two boys! That’s no game. I started to realise how things had been for Mum when I was younger, with all her kids and her cleaning job – no other parallels besides that, of course. We were very well off, me and Helena – shamelessly well off, of course. But at least I had some sense of how tough it must have been for Mum, and after the drama with Maxi I’d become really paranoid: what kind of rash is that? How come Vincent’s breathing is so heavy? Why’s his belly so swollen? All that.
We had a new girl to help with the kids then. Our previous nanny had med a guy while she was living with us in Malmö and had handed in her notice, and we went into a bit of a panic. We needed help, and we wanted a Swedish girl for the sake of the kids, so Helena phoned the foreign department of the employment agency to discuss the issue. How should we do it? I mean, we couldn’t just put out an advert: Zlatan and Helena are looking for a childminder. That would hardly attract the right people.
Helena pretended we were ambassadors or something. ‘Swedish diplomatic family seek nanny’, she put in the ad, and we got over 300 replies. Helena read them all. She was thorough, as ever, and I guess she expected it to be difficult. But she picked one out straight away. It was a girl from a little village in Dalarna in central Sweden, and apparently that alone was a point in her favour. Helena wanted somebody from the countryside. She comes from a small community herself, and this girl was a qualified nursery school teacher and could speak foreign languages and liked to keep fit, just like Helena, and generally seemed nice and hard-working.
I didn’t get involved. But Helena phoned up that girl without telling her who she was. She was still, like, the ambassador’s wife, and the girl seemed interested and easy to talk to, and Helena sent her an email, saying, “Come and have a week’s trial with us!”
They decided they’d take Helena’s hire car to the airport in Stockholm and fly to Milan together with the boys, so the girl was going to meet up with Helena in Lindesberg. Her dad drove her. But before they set off, Helena sent over the travel documents, and that made the girl wonder. According to the tickets, this diplomatic family’s children were called Maximilian and Vincent Ibrahimović, and that was a little odd. Maybe there could be diplomats’ families with names like that as well, couldn’t there? There could be lots of Ibrahimovićs in Sweden, for all she knew. She asked her dad about it.
“Have a look at this,” she said.
“It looks like you’re going to be nanny to Zlatan’s children,” he told her, and that made her want to back out. It was like, help!
She was scared. I’m sure it sounded daunting. Then again, it felt too late to back out now. The tickets were booked and everything, so they set off, she and her dad, and now she was really nervous, she told us later. But Helena … what can I say about Helena? She’s the Evilsuperbitchdeluxe when she gets all dressed up. It takes some courage to go up to a woman like that. But honestly, she’s incredibly laid-back. She’s an expert at making people feel comfortable, and during that journey she and the girl had a long time to get to know one another – far too long, in fact.
The problems started at Arlanda airport. They were going to fly Easyjet, because only Easyjet had a flight to Milan that day. But there was something wrong with the plane. The flight was delayed an hour, then two, three, six, 12, 18 hours. It was mental. It was an absolute scandal, and everybody was tired and irritated and climbing the walls, and finally I went spare. I couldn’t stand it. I phoned a pilot I know, the guy who flies the private plane I have access to.
“Go and fetch them,” I told him, and that’s what happened.
Helena and the girl collected their bags and were taken to the private plane, and I’d made sure there was catering on board with strawberries dipped in chocolate and all that stuff, and I hoped they enjoyed it. They deserved it after that ordeal, and then I finally got to meet the girl. She was really nervous then too, from what I understand. But we got on well and she’s helped us and lived with us ever since. She’s part of the family, you could say, and we wouldn’t manage for a day without her. The kids are crazy about her, and she and Helena are like sisters who exercise and study together. At nine o’clock every morning they go and train together. We gained some new routines and habits in general.
One year we went off to St Moritz. Do you think I felt at home there? Not exactly! I’d never skied in my life. The thought of going to the Alps with Mum and Dad was like going to the moon.
St Moritz was for posh people. They drank champagne with breakfast. Champagne? I sat around in my pants and wanted cereal. Olof Mellberg was there as well and tried to teach me to ski. It was no use. I was all over the place like an idiot, while Mellberg and the others in our gang danced down the slopes. I looked completely ridiculous, and to be on the safe side I put on one of those balaclavas and some massive sunglasses. Nobody would know who I was. But one day I was on a chairlift and there was an Italian kid sitting next to me with his dad, and the lad started staring. No worries, I thought. He won’t recognise me in this outfit. No way. But after a while the kid said:
“Ibra?”
It must have been my damn nose. I flat-out denied it. Ibra, what? Who’s that? But what did I get? Helena started laughing. That was, like, the funniest thing she’d ever experienced, and the kid carried on with his Ibra, Ibra, and finally I said, “Si, it’s me,” and then there was a bit of a pause. The guy was well impressed. But that was a problem. He wasn’t going to be so impressed when he saw me ski, and I thought about how I was going to solve it. I was the sporting star. I couldn’t reveal myself to be rubbish on the slopes. But things got worse than I feared. Word got round. A whole crowd turned up, and they all stood there to watch me ski. I had issues with my gloves. Paid special attention to how they fit around my fingertips.
I was thorough with my jacket as well, and my ski trousers and bindings – especially those, because that was something I’d seen. People were constantly fiddling with their bindings, fastening them and undoing them, and for all anybody knew, maybe I was an extremely thorough pro who needed to have everything done up just so before I went zooming off like Ingemar Stenmark. But it was annoying, obviously: the longer I kept it up, the greater their expectations grew. Like, is he gonna do some tricks? Shoot off like out of a cannon on those footballing legs?
I was forced to adjust my scarf and my cap and my hair, and finally that bunch got tired. They went away. Like, we’re not bothered about him. I was definitely Ibra, but that doesn’t mean you can stare at me forever, and I could ski down in peace and quiet like the newbie I was, and Olof Mellberg and the others were all wondering, “Where have you been? What were you doing?”
“I had to adjust a few things.”
But most of the time, it was hard work. The summer after our match against Parma and the second league victory with Inter, I was supposed to play in the Euro 2008 tournament in Switzerland and Austria, and I was still concerned about my knee. A lot was being written about my injury, and I spoke to Lagerbäck about it, and neither I nor anybody else knew whether I’d be able to give it a hundred per cent in the tournament. We had Russia, Spain and Greece in our group, and that didn’t look very easy. I’ve got a contract with Nike. Mino was against that deal, but I stood my ground, and sure, it’s been fun a lot of the time. We’ve made some fun videos together, like when I do tricks with a piece of chewing gum and kick it up into my mouth, and Dad’s even there pretending to be worried I’m going to choke on it – and above all, Nike was there and helped me build Zlatan Court in Cronmans Väg in Rosengård where I’d played as a kid.
That was great. The pitch was made out of the soles from old trainers. There was a nice rubber underlay and lighting and stuff. The kids wouldn’t have to stop playing like we did because it got too dark, and we put up an inscription there: My heart is here. My history is here. My game is here. Take it further. Zlatan. It felt fantastic to be able to give something back, and I was there and officially opened the pitch, and you can just imagine. “Zlatan, Zlatan”, the kids were screaming. It was a complete circus. It was a homecoming, and I was really touched, honestly, and I played with the kids in the dark and felt like, wow, you didn’t think this would happen to the snot-nosed kid from Cronmans Väg!
But at the Euro 2008 tournament, I was pissed off with Nike. Nike had made a strict rule that all of us who had a contract had to wear the same colour boots, and I thought, okay then, go for it, I don’t care. But then it emerged that another guy was still going to get his own colour. I took it up with Nike: how come you’re talking shit? Everybody was supposed to have the same. That’s what we decided, they replied, and then I told them what I thought of that, and then they changed their minds. Suddenly I was getting my own colour too. But it wasn’t fun any longer. You shouldn’t have to talk your way into stuff like that, and I kept my old boots. Maybe it all sounds kind of silly. But people need to be able to talk straight.
Our first match was against Greece. I had Sotirios Kyrgiakos on me. Kyrgiakos is a talented defender. He had long hair which he wore in a ponytail. Every time I jumped or made a rush, I got his hair in my face. I practically got hair in my mouth. He was marking me hard. He did a good job, no doubt about that. He locked me in. But he let up for a couple, three seconds and that was all I needed. I got a throw-in and started to dribble, and suddenly Kyrgiakos was far away, and then I got some space. I shot straight up into the top corner.
That was a perfect start to the European Championship tournament. We won 2–0, and my family, who were there, looked after themselves. We’d all learnt our lesson from the World Cup in Germany. I was playing football. I couldn’t be their travel coordinator as well. Everybody looked after themselves, and that felt good. But my knee was hurting and it was swollen, and we had Spain in our next match. Spain were one of the favourites to win the tournament. They’d beaten Russia 4–0 in their first match, and we knew it was going to be tough, and there was a lot of talk about my injury. Should I play or not? I wasn’t sure. It was painful, but sure, I was happy to ignore the pain.
It was the European Championship, and I could have gone out there with a knife in my leg. But like I said, in football there’s always a short-term and a long-term perspective. There’s the match today, and then there are the matches tomorrow and the next day. You can sacrifice yourself in a fight and make a big effort, but then be out of commission. We had Spain now and Russia after that, and then the quarter-final if we made it through, and there was talk that I was going to play on painkilling injections. I’d done it many times in Italy. But the doctor for the Swedish national side was opposed to that. Pain is the body’s warning signal. You can relieve the pain temporarily, but then you risk serious damage. It’s a bit like gambling. Gaming with injuries. How important is this match? How much should we risk to make the guy fit for today? Is it worth the risk that he might be out for weeks or months afterwards? It’s those kinds of considerations, and traditionally the doctors in Sweden are more cautious than on the Continent. They see the guy more as a patient than a footballing machine. But it’s never simple, and as a player you often put pressure on yourself. There are matches that seem so crucial that you want to say, fuck the future! I don’t give a damn about the consequences. The only thing is, you can’t escape the future, and if you’re playing in your national squad, your club is always in the background.
They’re the ones who are paying the big money, and I was a huge investment. I wasn’t allowed to break. It wouldn’t do to sacrifice me for an international match that had nothing to do with Inter, and Sweden’s doctor got a phone call from the club’s doctor. Those conversations can get heated. Two opposing interests are at odds. The club wants their player for the league, and the national side needs the same guy for the European Championship.
There was also just a month to go before the pre-season would get underway, and I was Inter’s most important player. But both doctors were reasonable people. It was a totally calm discussion, I think, and they came to an agreement. I wouldn’t play on injections, and I got hours of treatment from a sports osteopath, and it was decided that I would play against Spain after all.
It was me and Henrik Larsson in front, and that felt good. But Spain were skilful. They got a corner early on. Xavi made a short kick to David Villa, who played it diagonally back to Silva, who was free and made a cross to Fernando Torres. Torres struggled for the ball with Petter Hansson, but Torres was one step ahead and nudged it, almost pushed it in to make it 1–0, and of course that was tough. It’s not easy to equalise against Spain. But the Spaniards backed off and tried to secure their win and their place in the quarter-final, and they provided us with chance after chance, and I forgot all about my knee. I went for it. I worked hard, and in the 34th minute I got a nice long ball from Fredrik Stoor in the penalty area, and I was on my own with Casillas the goalkeeper, and I tried to kick the ball straight into the goal. That was the sort of position van Basten had talked to me about and Capello and Galbiati had trained me for, because you’ve got to be able to exploit those sorts of situations. But I missed, I didn’t get a good shot at the ball and a half-second later I had Ramos in front of me, the young star defender at Real Madrid.
But I damn well had no intention of giving up. I blocked it, I kept away and shot again through a little gap between him and another defender, and the ball went into the goal. It was 1–1, and the match was in full swing and I was definitely on form. I’d made a brilliant start to the tournament, but still, it didn’t help. When the referee blew the whistle for half time and my adrenaline subsided, I realised I was in pain. My knee was no good at all. What should I do? It wasn’t an easy decision. I’d been crucial for the team, but I had to last. There was at least one match to go, and our prospects looked good. We had three points from the match against Greece, and even if we lost this one, we could play our way into a place in the quarter-final in the last group match against Russia. So I went over to Lars Lagerbäck during the break.
“I’m really in pain,” I said.
“Damn.”
“I think we’ll have to make a choice.”
“Okay.”
“Which is more important to you: the second half now, or the Russia match?”
“Russia,” he said. “We’ve got more of a chance
against them!”
So I was put on the bench for the second half. Lagerbäck put Markus Rosenberg in instead, and that seemed promising. Spain had a lot of chances in the second half. But we kept them away, and sure, you could tell I was out. There was a quality that had gone from the game, some intangible momentum. I’d been on fine form, and I was cursing my knee. Bloody hell. But the guys fought on, and when 90 minutes were over, the score still stood at 1–1. It looked like things would turn out all right, and we nodded encouragingly to each other on the bench. Were we going to pull this one off after all? But two minutes into extra time, someone took the ball off Markus Rosenberg in a really nasty way, far down in our side of the pitch. Lagerbäck stood up and was furious. Fucking idiot referee!
It was a blatant free kick, he thought. But the referee let play continue, and there were agitated gestures. Many on the bench had already taken the view that the referee was against us, and people were screaming and ranting, but not for long. Disaster struck. Joan Capdevila, who’d taken the ball from Rosenberg, hit a long cross and Fredrik Stoor tried to stop it. But he was totally exhausted. Everybody had worked themselves into the ground, David Villa rushed past him and past Petter Hansson as well and scored 2–1, and almost immediately after that the referee blew the final whistle. I can safely say that was a difficult loss.
In our next match against Russia we were crushed. I was in pain, and it felt like Russia were better at everything, and we were out of the tournament and incredibly disappointed. What had started so well came to nothing. It was terrible. But as always, as soon as one thing is done something new comes along, and just before the European Championship I’d heard that Roberto Mancini had been sacked as coach of Inter.
He would be replaced by a guy called José Mourinho. I hadn’t met him yet. But he’d already surprised me. He formed an attachment to me even before we met. He would become a guy I was basically willing to die for.
I Am Zlatan Page 27
