Maxwell is the nicest guy in the world, like I said. But he was driving me round the twist. We’d been following in one another’s footsteps ever since our first days in Amsterdam, and now we were in the same situation yet again. We were both heading for Barcelona. But he was one step ahead – or worse, he was really on his way, while the door might be about to close for me. And he couldn’t sleep. He just kept talking on the phone: Is it sorted? Is it? It was getting on my nerves. It was non-stop, Barça this, Barça that. He kept it up all the time, day and night, or at least that’s what it felt like. I was surrounded by this droning while I wasn’t hearing a thing about my own deal – well, not much anyway. It was driving me mad. I went mad at Mino – bloody Mino, sorting it out for Maxwell and not for me, so I rang him up.
“So you can work for him but not for me?” I said.
“Go fuck yourself,” Mino said, and it wasn’t long before Maxwell really was set for Barça.
Unlike me, where every single step in the process was followed in the media, he’d managed to keep the negotiations secret. Nobody believed he would go to Barcelona. But that day when we came into the changing room and everybody was sitting in a circle waiting for us, he told them what was going on.
“I’m set for Barcelona!”
People leapt up: You’re going? It’s true? The talk started. Things like that sets things off in people. Inter Milan wasn’t Ajax. The guys were more laid-back, but even so, Barça had won the Champions League. Barça were the best team in the world. Sure, some guys got jealous, and Maxwell looked almost embarrassed when he started to pack his kit and his boots.
“Take my boots as well,” I said in a loud voice. “I’m coming with you,” and everybody started laughing, like, good joke. I was too expensive to be sold, they thought. Or I had it too good at Inter. Nope, Ibra’s staying. Nobody can afford him. That’s what people thought.
“Sit down! You’re not going anywhere,” people yelled, and I joked around a little with them, but honestly, I was uncertain myself.
I only knew that Mino was doing the best he could, and it was going to be all or nothing. One day around that time we played Chelsea in a training match, and I got tackled by John Terry. My hand hurt afterwards, but I ignored it. My hand? I wasn’t too bothered about that. You play with your feet, and I had other things to think about. Barça was whirling around in my head, and I rang Mino again and again. It was like a fever in my body. But instead of good news, I got another kick in the teeth.
Joan Laporta was the president at Barcelona. He really was a big shot. It was during his time that the club had started to dominate again in Europe, and I’d heard he had flown to Milan in a private plane to have dinner with Moratti and Marco Branca, the sporting director. I’d had high hopes for that meeting, of course. But nothing came of it. Laporta had barely come in the door before Moratti said:
“If you’re here for Zlatan, you can turn round and go home! He’s not for sale.”
I went spare when I heard about that. What the fuck, they’d promised! So I phoned Branca and asked him, what’s Moratti playing at? Branca refused to take responsibility. The meeting wasn’t about you, he said. That was a lie. I knew that from Mino, and I felt betrayed. But sure, I also understood it was a game. At least it could be. ‘Not for sale’ could be another way of saying ‘expensive’. But I didn’t have a clue what was really going on, and the damned journalists were like rabid dogs.
They constantly asked: What’s going to happen? Are you set for Barça? Are you staying at Inter? I had no answers to give. I was in a new no man’s land, and even Mino, who was working like crazy, was starting to sound a little pessimistic:
“Barça are fired up, but they can’t get you out of here!” he said.
I was on tenterhooks, and LA was hot and noisy. There were a few things that happened which seemed to confirm I’d be staying. I was going to have the number 10 shirt for the next season at Inter, the same number Ronaldo had when he was in the squad. There were a few things like that, PR stuff and other things I was involved in. Everything was uncertain. The mood was unsettled.
I heard that Joan Laporta and Txiki Begiristain, Barça’s sporting director, were in their private plane again. This trip had nothing to do with me. They were on their way to Ukraine to purchase Dmytro Chygrynskiy, one of the key players at FK Shakhtar Donetsk, who’d stunned everyone by winning the UEFA Cup that year. But their trip still had implications for us. Mino’s a sly one. He knows all the tricks. He’d just had yet another meeting with Moratti and sensed an opening, in spite of everything. So he phoned Txiki Begiristain, who was on the plane with Laporta. They were on their way back to Barcelona.
“You should land in Milan instead,” Mino said.
“Why?”
“Because I know Moratti’s sitting at home right now, and if you go and knock on his door, I think you can put together a deal for Ibrahimović.”
“Okay, wait a minute. I need to discuss it with Laporta.”
That minute dragged by, and the stakes were high. Moratti hadn’t promised anything, and he had no idea anyone might come knocking on his door. But now everything was happening at once. Txiki Begiristain phoned back. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll turn round. We’ll land in Milan instead,” and of course, I got word about that straight away.
Mino rang me. There were calls and texts going back and forth. Phones were ringing off the hook. Moratti was told, “Barça’s managers are on their way!” He might have thought it was a bit out of the blue, I don’t know, or that those guys could at least have booked a meeting ahead of time. But of course, he let them in. He had style. He didn’t want to lose face, and in that situation I didn’t hesitate. I had to do whatever I could.
I texted Marco Branca. I wrote: “I know Barça’s management are on their way to Moratti. You’ve promised me you’ll talk to them, and you know I want to join their club. Don’t mess this up, and I won’t mess things up for you,” and I waited a long time for a reply. I didn’t get any. I’m sure they had their reasons. It’s a game, like I said. But now I could sense it in the air, now it’s serious. It’s happening! Or the door will shut. It was one or the other, and the minutes passed. What were they talking about in there? I didn’t have a clue.
I knew what time they were meeting and I watched the clock, expecting it to take hours. But after 25 minutes Mino rang, and of course it made me jump. What now? Had Moratti sent them on their way again? My pulse was racing. My mouth went dry.
“Yeah,” I said.
“It’s set,” he replied.
“What do you mean, set?”
“You’re going to Barcelona. Pack your bags.”
“You can’t fucking joke about stuff like this.”
“I’m not joking.”
“How the hell could it have happened so fast?”
“No time to talk now.”
He hung up, and I couldn’t quite take it in. My head was whirling. I was at the hotel. What should I do? I went out into the corridor. I needed to talk to someone. Patrick Vieira was standing there, and he’s a guy you can trust.
“I’m set for Barça,” I said.
He looked at me.
“No way,” he replied.
“Yeah, I promise.”
“How much are we talking about?”
I didn’t know. I had no idea and I could tell he had his doubts. He thought I was too expensive, and that made me unsure. Could it really be true? But soon Mino rang me again, and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Moratti had been surprisingly cooperative.
He’d had just one condition – though it wasn’t just any condition, that’s for sure. He wanted to give AC Milan one in the eye and sell me for more than Real Madrid had paid for Kaká, and that was no small potatoes: it would mean the second most expensive transfer in history, and Joan Laporta clearly had no problem with that. He and Moratti h
ad reached an agreement quickly, and it took a while to sink in when I heard the sums involved. My old 85 million kronor in the Ajax deal – what was that? Small change by comparison. Now we were talking more like 700 million Swedish kronor.
Inter were getting 46 million euro for me, and along with that they’d receive Samuel Eto’o as part payment, and Samuel Eto’o was not just anybody. He’d scored 30 goals the previous season. He was one of the top goal-scorers in Barcelona’s history and was valued at 20 million euro. That amounted to 66 million euro in all, a million more than what AC Milan had sold Kaká for, and you can just imagine. There was a huge uproar when it came out. I’d never experienced anything like it.
It was 40°C. It was as if the air was boiling. Everybody was after me, and it felt… honestly, I don’t know. It was impossible to think straight. We were playing a training match against a Mexican team, and I had that number 10 shirt at Inter for the first time – and the last, for that matter. My years with the club were over. It was starting to sink in. When I arrived, Inter hadn’t won a league title in 17 years. Now we’d triumphed three years in a row, and I’d won the Capocannoniere goal-scoring title. It was mental, and I looked at Mourinho, the guy I’d finally got to react to a goal, and of course I noticed he was furious and upset.
He didn’t want to lose me, and he put me on the bench for that training match, and I was feeling it too: no matter how happy I was to be going to Barça, it was sad to leave Mourinho. That guy is special. The following year he left Inter for Real Madrid, and at the same time he and Materazzi parted ways. Materazzi is, like, the world’s toughest defender. But as he hugged Mourinho he began to cry, and I can understand him in a way. Mourinho arouses feelings in people, and I remember when we bumped into each other the next day at the hotel. He came up to me.
“You can’t leave!”
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this opportunity.”
“But if you leave, I will too.”
My God, what can you say to that? That really hit me. If you leave, I will too.
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve taught me a lot.”
“Thank you,” he said.
We chatted for a bit, it was nice. But that guy, he’s like me. He’s proud and he wanted to win at any price, and of course, he couldn’t help himself. He had a little dig at me as well:
“Hey, Ibra!”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to Barça to win the Champions, huh?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“But we’re the ones who’re gonna bring it home – don’t forget. It’s gonna be us!”
Then we said goodbye.
I flew to Copenhagen and got back home to our house in Limhamnsvägen and saw Helena and the kids. I’d really been looking forward to having a chance to tell them about everything and get a bit grounded. But our home was practically under siege. There were journalists and fans sleeping outside our house. They were ringing our doorbell. People were yelling and singing out there. They waved Barcelona flags. It was completely crazy and my whole family got stressed out – Mum, Dad, Sanela, Keki, nobody dared to go out. People were after them as well, and I was rushing round, and sure, I noticed that my hand was hurting, but I didn’t pay much attention to it.
Things were happening all the time – details in my contract being ironed out, Eto’o being difficult and wanting more money, Helena and I discussing where we were going to live, all that stuff. There was no way I’d be able to get grounded or think things through properly, so after just two days I headed off to Barcelona. In those days I was used to flying on private planes. It might sound snooty, but it’s not easy for me on regular commercial flights. Everybody’s after me. It’s chaos, both in the airport and on board.
But this time I did take an ordinary flight. I’d spoken to the Barça gang on the phone, and as you know, Barcelona and Real Madrid are at war with each other. They’re arch-rivals, and a lot of it is to do with politics, Catalonia against the central power in Spain, all that stuff, but the clubs also have different philosophies. “At Barcelona we’ve got our feet on the ground. We’re not like Real. We travel on regular planes,” they told me, and sure, that sounded reasonable. I flew with Spanair and landed in Barcelona at a quarter past five in the afternoon, and if I hadn’t understood how big a deal this was before, I did now.
It was chaos. Hundreds of fans and journalists were waiting for me, and the papers wrote pages and pages about it. People were talking about ‘Ibramania’. It was mental. I wasn’t just Barcelona’s most expensive purchase ever. No new player had attracted this level of attention. I was going to be introduced at the Camp Nou stadium that evening. It’s a tradition at the club. When Ronaldinho arrived in 2003 there were 30,000 people there. Just as many had welcomed Thierry Henry. But now … there were at least twice that many waiting for me, and it gave me chills, honestly, and I was taken out through the rear exit of the airport and driven to the stadium in a security vehicle.
We were holding a press conference first. Several hundred journalists were crammed into the room. It was jam-packed and people were restless: why isn’t he coming? But we still couldn’t go in. Eto’o kept making things difficult for Inter Milan right down to the wire, and Barcelona were waiting for a final confirmation of the deal, and time was ticking and the voices in the room kept getting more agitated and worried; there was a riot brewing. We could hear it just as clearly as if we’d been in the middle of it. Me, Mino, Laporta and the other bigwigs sat behind the scenes and waited, wondering: what’s going on? How long are we going to have to keep sitting here?
“I’ve had enough,” said Mino.
“We need confirmation …”
“Screw that,” he said, getting the others on side, and then we finally went in. I’d never seen so many reporters, and I answered their questions, but the whole time I could hear the roar out in the stadium. Everything was nuts, I’m telling you, and afterwards I got out of there and changed into my Barça kit. I’d been given number 9, the same number Ronaldo had when he was at the club, and now things were getting really emotional. The stadium was at boiling point. There were sixty or seventy thousand people out there. I tried to take a few deep breaths, and then I went out. I will never be able to describe it.
I had a ball in my hand, and I went out to that stand they’d set up, and the crowd were roaring all around me. Everybody was screaming my name. The entire stadium was cheering, and the press guy was running around saying stuff to me all the time, like, “Say ‘Visca Barça’!” which means ‘Go Barça’, and I did what he said, and I did some tricks, up and down, on my chest, on my head, backheels, all that stuff, and the spectators were screaming for more so I kissed the club’s crest on my shirt. I have to tell you about that. I got a lot of shit for that, like, how could he kiss the club’s crest when he’d only just left Inter? Didn’t he care about his old fans? All kinds of people grumbled about that. There were comedy sketches on TV and crap. But the press guys had asked me to do it. They were going crazy, like, “Kiss the crest, kiss the crest,” and I was like a little boy. I obeyed. My whole body was vibrating, and I remember I wanted to go back into the changing room and calm down.
There was too much adrenaline. I was shaking, and when it was finally over I looked over at Mino. He’d never been more than ten metres away. At times like that he’s everything to me, and together we went into the changing room and looked at all the names on the wall: Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, Henry and Maxwell, all of them, and then mine, Ibrahimović. It was already there, and I looked at Mino again. He was blown away. It was like he’d become a parent. Neither of us could take it in. It felt bigger than we could have imagined, and just then a text pinged on my phone. Who was it? It was Patrick Vieira. “Enjoy,” he wrote. “This doesn’t happen to many players,” and honestly, you can hear all kinds of things from all kinds of people. But when a guy like Vieira sends you a message like that, you know you’ve been i
nvolved in something incredible, and I sat down to catch my breath.
Afterwards I told the journalists: “I’m the happiest guy in the world!” “This is the greatest thing that’s happened since my sons were born,” the sort of things I’m sure other sportsmen have said before in similar situations. But I really meant it. This was big, and I went to the Princesa Sofia hotel, which was also besieged by fans who thought it was a massive deal just to have a chance to see me drinking coffee in the lobby.
That night I had a hard time getting to sleep, no wonder really. My whole body was jumping, and sure, I did feel that my hand wasn’t all right. But I didn’t give it much thought then, either. There was so much other stuff going round in my head, and I didn’t think there would be any problems at my medical the next day. When you join a club it’s routine that they give you a thorough check-up. How much do you weigh? How tall are you? What’s your body fat percentage? Do you feel match-fit?
“My hand hurts,” I said at the medical, and the doctors did an X-ray.
I had a fracture in my hand. A fracture! That was insane. One of the most important things when you join a new club is that you get to be there in the pre-season and get to know the guys and their game. Now that seemed to be out of the question, and we had to make a quick decision. I spoke to Guardiola, the manager. He seemed nice and said he was sorry he hadn’t been there to welcome me. He’d been in London with the team, and just like everyone else he declared that I needed to get match-fit as quickly as possible. They couldn’t take any chances, so they decided to operate on me straight away.
An orthopaedic surgeon implanted two steel pins in my hand to hold the fracture in place and help it heal faster. The same day I headed back to the training camp in Los Angeles. It seemed absurd, somehow. I’d just been there with Inter Milan. Now I was arriving with a new club and a huge plaster cast round my hand. It would take at least three weeks before it healed up.
I Am Zlatan Page 30
