I Am Zlatan
Page 29
The problem was my status and my terms in Italy. I was seen as too expensive. I was the player who couldn’t leave. I heard that a lot. There was me at Inter and Kaká at AC Milan, Messi at Barça and Cristiano Ronaldo at Man United. It was thought that nobody could match our contracts. Our price tags were too high. Even Mourinho talked about it. “Ibra’s staying,” he said. “No club can pay the sums that are required. Nobody can bid a hundred million euro,” and that sounded absurd.
Was I too expensive for the market? A fucking Mona Lisa that couldn’t be sold? I didn’t know. The situation was difficult, and maybe it was stupid to be so open about it in the media after all. I suppose I should’ve come out with the same crap as a lot of other stars: I’ll always stay with my club, blah blah blah.
But I can’t do that. I couldn’t lie. I was uncertain about the future and I said so, and of course that annoyed a lot of people, especially the fans. They saw it as a betrayal, or at least something like it, and a lot of people started to worry. Would I lose my motivation in the team? Especially when I mouthed off with stuff like, “I’d like to try something new. I’ve been in Italy for five years now. I like technical football, and that’s what they play in Spain.” There was loads of talk and speculation.
But that was no tactic, no trick to get out of the club. It was just honest, but nothing was simple, not for a player at my level. I was the most important guy at Inter, and nobody wanted me to leave. There was an uproar every time I said something about it, and maybe the whole thing was a waste of time. We didn’t have any offers, and I wasn’t exactly getting any cheaper. Sure, I longed to go somewhere new. But it wasn’t impacting my game, not at all, I was free of injury now and better than ever, and I continued to do everything to get Mourinho to react.
For example, I made a nice rush against Reggina, a dribble almost from midfield. I made it past three defenders, and honestly, that was a performance in itself, and the spectators were probably expecting me to finish it off with a hard shot. But I saw that the goalie was standing too far out, and I got an image, an idea, and with my left foot I chipped the ball over the guy, and it couldn’t have been more perfect. The ball sailed in a beautiful arc into the top corner and the entire stadium cheered – everybody except Mourinho of course, who stood there in his grey suit, chewing his gum with a little frown. Same as usual, in other words. Still, that was better than most of my other goals, and it brought me up to joint first position with Bologna’s Marco Di Vaio in the league’s goal-scoring table. It’s a big thing in Italy to be the leading goal scorer, and I started to focus on that more and more. That was a challenge I needed. I became more aggressive than ever in front of the goal, and nobody loves goal scorers more than the Italian fans. Nobody hates goal scorers who want to leave their club more for that matter, and it didn’t help matters when I announced after the match:
“I’m completely focused on winning the league title this year, but as for next season, we’ll have to see.”
It goes without saying that the tension was ratcheted up: What’s up with Ibra? What’s going on? There was still a long way to go until the silly season, and we had nothing concrete. But the papers were already speculating. It was me and Cristiano Ronaldo at Manchester United. Would Real Madrid purchase either of us? And could they afford it? There were constant rumours. For example, people were speculating whether Real Madrid would do a trade and swap their star Gonzalo Higuaín for me.
That way, the club wouldn’t have to pay so much. Higuaín would become part of the price. But like I said, that was just talk, or rather, nothing in the media is just talk. It has an impact, no matter how false it is, and a lot of people wanted to put me in my place. There was a lot of stuff like, nobody is bigger than the club, and Ibra’s ungrateful and a deserter, all that stuff. But I didn’t care.
I kept up the pace, and against Fiorentina in extra time I shot an amazing free kick that was clocked at 109 km/hr and just slammed into the goal from far away, and it looked like we were going to clinch the league title, and like I said, it went hand in hand. There was a good and a bad side to everything. The better I was, the more agitated the supporters got about my wanting to leave the club, and before our match against Lazio on the 2nd of May 2009, the mood was explosive. The Ultra fans had written ‘Welcome Maximilian’ and that kind of thing. They could show love. But they could also hate – not just the opposing side but their own players as well, and I sensed as soon as I came in. San Siro was at boiling point.
All week there had been things in the papers about how I wanted to leave Italy and try something new. Nobody could have missed it. Early on in the match I worked my way into the penalty area. I struggled, but couldn’t get the ball, and in situations like that the supporters usually applaud. Like, good try. But now I was getting boos and jeers from the Ultra fans. I was like, what the hell, we’re working hard down here and we’re at the top of the league table, and this is what you bring. Who are you? I shushed them. Put my finger up to my mouth. But things didn’t get any better, and just before half-time the score was still 0–0 even though we’d kept up a lot of pressure, and then they started booing the whole team, and that made me go off on one, or more accurately, I got pumped up with adrenaline.
I’d show them, and like I said, I play better when I’m angry. Remember that – if you see me when I’m furious, don’t worry. All right, I might do something stupid and get a red card. But most of the time it’s a good sign. My entire career has been built on the desire to strike back, and in the second half I got the ball about 15 metres outside the penalty area. I turned. I rushed in. I feinted, and made a goal shot between two defenders. It was a shot of pure rage, a nice goal. But it wasn’t the goal people talked about.
It was my gesture, because I didn’t celebrate. I ran backwards into our half of the pitch with my face turned towards the Ultra fans, and all the time I was shushing them with my finger to my mouth again. It was like, shut your mouths. Here’s my reply to your shit. I score goals, and you boo. That became the big thing in that match, like, did you see it? Did you see it? It was something totally new.
It was a public battle between the fans and the team’s biggest star, and over on the sideline stood Mourinho – no victory gesture from him, of course. Who would’ve expected it? But he obviously agreed with me. Shit, booing your own team. He pointed at his head, like: you’re morons up there in the stands. Of course, you understand, if things were tense before, they were even worse now, there was a rumbling in the stadium. But I continued to play well. I was running on pure rage, and made a forward pass to make it 2–0. I dominated, and was happy when the referee blew the final whistle. But that wasn’t the end, not by a long chalk. As I left the pitch, I got word that the Ultras’ leaders were waiting for me down in the changing room. I have no idea how they got in there.
But there they were down in the passage, seven or eight blokes, and not the kind who say things like, excuse me, could we have a quick word? They were guys from the kind of streets I came from: guys brimming with aggression, and everybody around me got nervous, and my pulse went up to 150. I was really stressing out, honestly. But I told myself: you can’t chicken out now. Where I come from you don’t back down. So I went up to them and I saw right away, that made them uneasy, but they played it cocky, like, what the fuck? Ibra’s stepping up to us?
“Are there people who have some sort of beef up there?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, a lot of them are mad…” they began.
“Well, tell them to come down onto the pitch and we’ll sort it out right here, mano a mano!”
Then I walked away, and my heart was pounding. But it felt good. I’d coped with the stress. I’d stood up for myself, but the shit carried on. The supporters’ club demanded an official meeting. But come on. Why should I meet with them again? What was in it for me? I was a footballer. The fans might be loyal to their club. That’s nice. But a footballer’s career is short. He’s
got to look after his own interests. He moves around to different clubs. The fans knew that. I knew that, and I told them: apologise on your website for your boos and your jeers, and I’ll be happy. We’ll forget about this. But nothing happened – or rather, the Ultra fans decided they’d neither boo nor cheer me. They’d pretend I didn’t exist. Good luck with that, I thought.
I wasn’t easy to ignore, not then, not later. I was on form, and the talk continued. Is he leaving? Is he staying? Can anybody afford to pay? It was a tug-of-war, and I was afraid of ending up in a dead end. Of becoming one of those players who stay at a club with their tail between their legs. It was a game of nerves, and I rang up Mino. Were there any offers? Was anything happening? Nothing was happening, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that it was going to take a record sum to get me out, if even that, and I tried to shut my eyes and ears to all the stuff in the media. But it wasn’t easy. Not when you’re in that situation. I was in constant contact with Mino, and my hopes were resting more and more with Barcelona. Barça won the Champions League that season. They beat Manchester United 2–0 with goals by Eto’o and Messi, and I thought, wow, that’s the club for me, and I kept phoning Mino.
“What the hell are you doing? Napping?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Mino said. “You’re shit. Nobody wants you! You’ll have to go back to Malmö FF.”
“Fuck you!”
But obviously he was doing everything he possibly could to sort this, not just because he was always fighting my corner. This was the deal we’d both been dreaming of. Sure, it could all go tits up, end up with us not achieving anything other than pissing off the Ultras and the directors. But it could also be the greatest thing ever, and we were prepared to play for high stakes.
Meanwhile, I kept playing. We’d already secured the Scudetto. But I really wanted to win the goal-scoring title. Winning the Capocannoniere means getting a place in the history books, and no Swede had done it since Gunnar Nordahl won in 1955. Now I had a chance, though nothing was sure yet. It was level-pegging at the top. Marco Di Vaio at Bologna and Diego Milito at Genoa were tied, and of course, it was nothing to do with Mourinho, not really. He coached the team. But he stood up in the changing room and said:
“Now we’ll make sure Ibra wins the goal-scoring title as well,” and that became a thing. Everybody would help me. They all said it publicly.
But Balotelli, that bastard – in one of the last matches, he got the ball in the penalty area, and I came running. I was completely open. I had a perfect position. But Balotelli just kept dribbling, and I gave him a look. What are you doing? Aren’t you going to help me? I was furious, but okay, the guy was young. He’d scored goals. I couldn’t start yelling at him there. But I was angry, the whole bench was angry: damn it, running there and shooting a goal while Zlatan’s got a position, and I thought, if this is how it’s going to be, then fuck the goal-scoring title. Thanks for that, Balotelli. But I got over it.
I scored a goal in the next match, and with one match left to play, it was set to be a nail-biting finish. Marco Di Vaio and I had both scored 23 goals, and Diego Milito at Genoa was right behind us on 22. That was on the 31st of May. All the papers were writing about it. Who would win?
It was hot that day. The league title had been decided. We’d clinched it long ago. But there were tons of nerves in the air. With a bit of luck, this would be my farewell to the Italian league. That’s what I was hoping. I had no idea. But regardless of whether this was my swan-song or not, I wanted to play a brilliant match and win the goal-scoring title. Damn it, I had no intention of finishing with a scoreless draw.
But of course, it wasn’t just down to me. It depended on Di Vaio and Milito too, and they were playing at the same time. Di Vaio with Bologna were facing Catania, while Milito and Genoa were up against Lecce, and I had no doubts that those bastards were going to score goals. I was dead set on replying. I had to get it in there, and that’s not easy to do to order. If you try too hard, things seize up. Every striker knows that. You can’t think about it too much. It’s all about instinct. You’ve just got to go for it, and I could tell right away, it was going to be an eventful match against Atalanta. The score was 1–1 after just a few minutes.
In the 12th minute Esteban Cambiasso shot a long ball just outside our own penalty area, and I was standing up there on the line with the defenders. I set off, I was right on the offside boundary, and the defenders weren’t keeping up. I ran like lightning and reached the goalkeeper on my own. But the ball bounced. It bounced and skittled, and I bumped it ahead with my knee and was about to collide with the goalie. But just before then I shot a broadside, a shot to the right, and it was a goal, 2–1, and as of that point I was on top of the goal-scoring table. People were shouting that at me, and I started to hope, maybe it would work out. But things were happening, and I never really got it. Sure, people were shouting from the sidelines. “Milito and Di Vaio have scored,” something like that. But I didn’t believe it. It sounded like some of the guys on the bench were just coming out with crap. There’s a lot of that in football, trash talk to get people worked up and to annoy them, and I kept playing. I blocked out everything else, and I guess I thought one goal would be enough. But there was real drama going on in the other battles.
Diego Milito was in third place in the table. He’s an Argentinian. He had a fearsome scoring record. Only a few weeks before, he had been cleared to join Inter Milan. So if I didn’t get out of the club, we’d be playing together. But now against Lecce, his flow was incredible. He scored two goals in just 10 minutes and was now on 24 goals, same as me, and there was a definite sense that a third goal could come at any time. But it wasn’t just Milito. Marco Di Vaio had also scored. I knew nothing about that one. But now the three of us were level at the top, and that’s no way to win. You can’t share it. You have to bring it home alone, and even though I didn’t know for sure, it started to dawn on me that I needed another goal. I could tell by the mood. I read it in people’s faces on the bench, in the pressure in the stands. But the minutes passed. Nothing happened. It looked like it was going to be a draw. The score was 3–3 with just 10 minutes remaining. Mourinho substituted in Hernán Crespo. He needed new blood.
He wanted to go on the offensive, and he was waving his arms, like, move up and go for it! Was I about to lose my chance at the goal-scoring trophy? That’s what I feared, and I worked hard. I screamed for the ball. A lot of the players were tired. It had been a close match. But Crespo still had strength. He dribbled on the right side and I ran towards the goal. I got a long cross, and there was an immediate struggle for the ball. I pushed one guy away and ended up with my back towards the goal while the ball bounced around, and I saw a chance. But like I said, I was facing the wrong way, so what do you do? You backheel it. I backheeled it at a backwards angle, and sure, I’d made a lot of backheel goals in my career – the one against Italy in the European Championship of course, and that karate move against Bologna. But this one, in this situation, this was just too much.
It couldn’t go in. This was a performance like in Mum’s old neighbourhood, and you don’t win the goal-scoring trophy with a move like that in the very last match. That just doesn’t happen. But the ball rolled into the goal. The score was 4–3 and I tore off my shirt, even though I knew it would earn me a warning. But my God, this was big, and I went and stood down by the corner flag with my shirt off, and of course everybody was piling on top of me, Crespo and everybody. They were pressing down on my back. It looked almost aggressive, and they were all shouting at me, one after the other: now you’ve won the goal-scoring trophy!
And slowly it started to sink in, this was historic, this is my revenge. When I came to Italy, people said: Zlatan doesn’t score enough goals. Now I’d won the goal-scoring trophy. There could be no more doubt. But I still played it cool. I strolled back towards the pitch, and there was something completely different that really made me stop short.
I was forced to win the goal-scoring trophy with a backheel.
23
ON THE THIRD OF JUNE, Kaká went to Real Madrid for 65 million euro, and later on Cristiano Ronaldo was sold to the same club for a hundred million. That said a lot about what level we were talking about, so I went up to Moratti. Moratti was pretty cool after all. He’d been around for a while. He knew the business.
“Listen,” I said. “These years have been incredible, and I’m happy to stay, and I don’t care whether United or Arsenal or anybody else comes along. But if Barça should happen to turn up…”
“Yes?” he said.
“Then I want you to at least talk to them. Not that you should sell me for such-and-such a figure, definitely not. It’s up to you. But promise me you’ll speak to them,” I added, and he looked at me with his glasses and his ruffled hair, and sure, he understood there was money to be made, no matter how unwilling he was to let me go.
“Okay,” he said, “I promise.”
We headed to training camp in Los Angeles soon after that. It was the start of the pre-season. I was sharing a room with Maxwell, and that was promising, just like old times. But we were tired and jet-lagged, and the journalists were out of control. They crowded round the hotel, and the big thing of the day in the media was that Barça couldn’t afford me. They were planning to take on David Villa instead – not that the papers knew a damn thing about it, but still, I had misgivings as well. Things had been up and down the last few weeks. I despaired. I’d hoped, and now things seemed to be going down the pan again, and that bloody Maxwell wasn’t helping matters.