He couldn’t deal with it. He completely avoided me, and I would often lie awake at night thinking about the whole situation. What’s going to happen next? And what should I do? One thing was clear: it was like in the Malmö FF youth squad. I was seen as different. So I had to become an even better player. I had to get so damned good that not even Guardiola could put me on the bench. But I had no intention of trying to become a different person any more, no way. Screw that. ‘We’re like this here. We’re ordinary guys here.’ I was realising more and more how immature it was. A proper manager can deal with different personalities. That’s part of his job. A team works well with different types of people. Some are a bit tougher. Others are like Maxwell, or like Messi and the gang.
But Guardiola couldn’t take that, and felt he had to get back at me. I could sense it. It was hanging in the air, and apparently he didn’t really care that it was going to cost the club hundreds of millions. We were going to be playing our last match in the league. He put me on the bench. I hadn’t expected anything else. But now, suddenly he wanted to speak to me. He called me into his office at the stadium. That was in the morning, and on the walls in there he had football shirts and photos of himself and that sort of thing. The atmosphere was icy. We hadn’t spoken since my outburst. But he was nervous as well. His eyes were darting around.
That man has no natural authority, no proper charisma. If you didn’t know he was the manager of a top team, you’d hardly notice him entering a room. In that office now, he was fidgeting. I’m sure he was waiting for me to say something. I didn’t say a thing. I waited.
“So then,” he began.
He didn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m not really sure what I want to do with you next season.”
“Okay.”
“It’s up to you and Mino what happens. I mean, you’re Ibrahimović. You’re not a guy who plays in every third match, right?”
He wanted me to say something. I could tell. But I’m not stupid. I know very well: whoever talks the most in these situations comes out worst off. So I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t move a muscle. I sat still. Of course I understood: he had a message, exactly what wasn’t clear. But it sounded like he wanted to get rid of me, and that was no small matter. I was the club’s biggest investment ever. Still, I sat there in silence. I did nothing. Then he repeated:
“I don’t know what I want to do with you. What do you say to that? What’s your comment?”
I had no comment.
“Is that it?” was all I said.
“Yes, but …”
“Thanks then,” I said and left.
I guess I looked cool and hard. That’s how I wanted to look, at least. But I was fuming inside, and when I came out I rang Mino.
25
SOMETIMES MAYBE I GO too hard on people. I don’t know. That’s been a thing with me from the very beginning. My dad would go off like an angry bear when he drank, and everybody in the family would be scared and get out of there. But I stood up to him, man to man, and I’d shout things like, “You have to stop drinking!” He’d go mad. “Bloody hell, this is my home. I’ll do what I want. I’ll chuck you out!”
Sometimes it was absolute chaos. The whole flat would shake. We never came to blows. He had a big heart. He’d be prepared to die for me. But honestly, I was prepared to fight.
I was prepared for anything, and sometimes, sure, I understood there was no point. It’d just lead to confrontation and rage. We wouldn’t take a single step in the right direction – quite the opposite. Still, I kept it up. I took those fights, and don’t think I’m trying to brag about me being the tough guy in the family. Not at all. I’m just telling it like it was.
That’s a trait I had from early on. I stepped up. I didn’t run away, and not just with Dad. It was everywhere. My entire childhood was filled with tough people who would go off on a hair-trigger: Mum, my sisters, the lads around the estate, and ever since then I’ve had it in me, that watchful side: What’s happening? Who wants a fight? My body is always ready for battle.
That’s the path I chose. The others in our family took on different roles. Sanela was the one you went to with emotional things. I was the fighter. If anybody gave me shit, I’d give them shit back. That was my way to survive, and I learned not to sugar-coat things. I said things straight out, none of this “You’re really good, you’re great, but…” It was straight in there: “You’ve got to get a fucking grip.” Then I’d take the consequences. That’s how it was. That was how I grew up, and sure, I’d changed a lot by the time I got to Barcelona. I’d met Helena and had children and calmed down, and said stuff like, “Please pass me the butter.” But most of it was still in there. Those days at the club I clenched my fists and prepared to defend my corner. This was in late spring, early summer 2010. The World Cup was coming up in South Africa, and Joan Laporta was leaving Barça.
They were choosing a new president for the club, and that kind of thing always generates unrest. People get uneasy. A guy called Sandro Rosell was appointed. Rosell had been vice-president up until 2005 and he’d been mates with Laporta. But something had happened. Now they were enemies, people said. So of course, people were concerned. Was Rosell going to clear out all the old gang? No one knew. Txiki Begiristain, the sporting director, resigned before Rosell could sack him, and of course I was wondering: what would this mean for my conflict with Guardiola?
Laporta was the one who’d bought me for a record amount, and it wasn’t unreasonable to think that Rosell might give him one in the eye by showing it was a stupid investment. Many papers even wrote that Rosell’s first task was to sell me. The journalists definitely had no clue about what had happened between me and Guardiola, and in a way, neither did I. But they’d twigged that something was wrong, and really, you didn’t need to be a football expert to understand. I went round with my head hanging, and I didn’t react the way I usually did on the pitch. Guardiola had wrecked me, and I remember Mino phoned the new club president. He told him what Guardiola had said in that meeting.
“What the hell did the guy mean?” he asked. “Does he want to get rid of Zlatan?”
“No, no,” Rosell replied. “Guardiola believes in him.”
“Then why would he say that?”
Rosell couldn’t answer. He was new, and nobody seemed to know. The situation was uncertain. We won the league title, and then we went on holiday. I needed a holiday more than I had done in a long time. I needed to get away, so Helena and I travelled around to LA, Vegas, all over, and the World Cup was on then. I barely watched it. I was too disappointed. Sweden wasn’t in the tournament, and really, I didn’t want to think about football at all. I tried to block out the whole mess with Barça. But it couldn’t last forever, of course. The days went by. I’d be going back soon, and no matter how much I tried to stop them, all the questions came back. What’s going to happen? What should I do? My mind was buzzing, and of course I realised there was an obvious solution. I could make sure I got sold. But I didn’t want to let go of my dream that easily. Never, ever. I decided to work like a dog in training sessions and get better than ever.
Nobody was going to crack me. I’d show them all. But what do you think happened? I didn’t get a chance to show anybody anything. I hadn’t even put my boots on when Guardiola called me in again. This was on the 19th of July, I think. Most of them hadn’t come back from the World Cup yet. It was pretty quiet around us, and Pep attempted some small talk. He clearly had an agenda. He was nervous and awkward. But he probably wanted to be a bit pleasant first, for the sake of things.
“How was your holiday?”
“Good, good!”
“And how do you feel, ahead of the new season?”
“Fine. I’m up for it. I’m going to give a hundred per cent.”
“Look …”
“Yeah.”
“You should be prepared to sit on the bench,�
�� he said, and like I said, this was the first day. The pre-season hadn’t even got underway yet. Guardiola hadn’t even seen me play, not even for a minute. There was no way to interpret his words other than as a new personal attack.
“Okay,” I merely replied. “I understand.”
“And as you know, we’ve acquired David Villa from Valencia.”
David Villa was a hot property, no doubt about it. He was one of the stars of the Spanish national side who were down there winning the World Cup, but still, he was a winger. I played in the centre. He was nothing to do with me, not really.
“And what do you say to that?” he continued.
Nothing, I thought at first, beyond, like, congratulations. But then it struck me: why not test Guardiola?
Why not check whether this has anything at all to do with football, or whether it’s all just about driving me out of the club?
“What do I say to that?” I began.
“Yes.”
“Well, that I’ll work harder. I’ll work like a madman to earn my place in the team. I’ll convince you I’m good enough,” and to be honest, I could hardly believe it myself.
I’d never sucked up to a coach like that before. My philosophy had always been to let my playing do the talking. It’s just ridiculous to go round saying you’re going to give a hundred per cent. You’re paid to give a hundred per cent. But this was my way of trying to understand. I wanted to hear what he’d say. If he said, okay, then we’ll see if you make it, that would mean something. But now he just looked at me.
“I know that. But how are we going to continue?” he asked.
“Just like that,” I replied. “I’ll work hard, and if you think I’m good enough, I’ll play in whatever position you want, behind or in front of or underneath Messi. Wherever. You decide.”
“I know that. But how are we going to continue?”
He kept repeating the same thing, and not once did he say anything that made sense. He has no aptitude for that. But it wasn’t necessary. I understood. This had nothing to do with whether I earned a spot or not. This was personal, and instead of coming out and saying he didn’t like my personality, he was trying to sugar-coat it in a single obscure phrase.
“How are we going to continue?”
“I’ll do like everybody else, I’ll play for Messi,” I said.
“I know that. But how are we going to continue?”
It was ridiculous, and I supposed he wanted me to go off on one and shout, I won’t accept this, I’m leaving the club! Then he’d be able to come out and say, Zlatan was the one who wanted to leave, it wasn’t my decision. Maybe I am a savage, a guy who goes in for confrontations too often. But I also know when I need to restrain myself. I had nothing to gain by announcing I was for sale, so I thanked him calmly for speaking to me and got out of there.
Of course I was furious. I was seething. But still, the meeting had been productive. I understood where things stood. He had no intention of letting me play, even if I learned to fly, and the real question now was: would I be able to cope with that, go to training sessions every day and have that guy standing in front of me? I doubted it. Maybe I needed to change tack. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time.
We headed to South Korea and China for pre-season training, and I got to play a few matches out there. It meant nothing. The key players hadn’t returned from the World Cup yet. I was still the black sheep, and Guardiola was keeping his distance. If he wanted anything, he’d send others to speak to me, and the media were completely out of control. It had been like that all summer: What’s happening with Zlatan? Will he be transferred? Will he stay? They were constantly after me, and it was the same for Guardiola. He got questions about it all the time, and what do you think he told them? Nice and straight, like, I don’t like Zlatan, I want to get rid of him? Not exactly. He looked uncomfortable, and came out with his waffle.
“Zlatan will decide his own future.”
What rubbish. Something started ticking inside me. I felt under fire, and I was furious. I wanted to do something explosive. But also – how can I put it? Something was sparked off inside me as well. I understood, things had entered a new phase. Now it wasn’t just war. Now the fight on the transfer market had begun, and I like that game, and I had the guy who’s the best of them all at that on my side – Mino. He and I talked all the time, and we decided to play tough and hard. Guardiola deserved nothing else.
In South Korea I had a meeting with Josep Maria Bartomeu, the club’s new vice president. We sat in the hotel and talked, and at least that guy was clear.
“Zlatan, if you’ve got any offers, think them over,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied. “I’m a Barcelona player. I’m staying at Barça.”
Josep Maria Bartomeu looked surprised.
“But how are we going to resolve this?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I replied.
“Have you?”
“You can phone up Real Madrid.”
“Why should we phone them?”
“Because if I really have to leave Barça, I want to go to Real. You can make sure I get sold to them.”
Josep Maria Bartomeu was horrified.
“You’re joking,” he said.
I looked deadly serious.
“Not at all. We’ve got a problem,” I continued. “We have a coach who isn’t man enough to say he doesn’t want me here. I want to stay. But if he wants to sell me he’ll have to come out and say so himself, loud and clear. And the only club I want to go to is Real Madrid, just so you know.”
I left the room, and now there was no more messing about. It was game on. Real Madrid, I’d said. But of course, that was just the kickoff, a provocation, a strategic bluff. In reality we had Manchester City and AC Milan in the works.
Sure, I knew all about the incredible things that had happened at Man City and all the money that seemed to be there since the crew from the United Arab Emirates had taken over. City could surely become a big club within a few years. But I’d soon turn 29. I didn’t have time for long-term plans, and money was never the key thing. I wanted to go to a team that could be good now, and there was no club with a history like AC Milan.
“Let’s go for Milan,” I said.
Now when I look back on it, it’s really incredible. Ever since that day Guardiola called me in and told me I’d be sitting on the bench, we’d played a tough game, and of course we realised we were stressing Guardiola and the management out. That was entirely according to plan. The idea was that those guys would become so demoralised they’d have to let me go cheap, which would help us get a good personal contract! We had a meeting with Sandro Rosell, the new president, and we could sense it right away: Sandro Rosell was in a tight spot.
He hadn’t understood what the problem was between me and Guardiola either. He only realised that the situation was untenable and he was going to have to sell me at any price, unless he was going to sack the manager. But he couldn’t do that. Not after all the successes the club had had. Rosell had no choice. Regardless of whether he loved me or hated me, he had to get rid of me.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “But things are the way they are. Do you have a particular club you want to go to?”
Mino and I gave him the same line we’d played against Bartomeu.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said, “I do.”
“Good, very good.” Sandro Rosell’s face brightened. “Which club?”
“Real Madrid.”
He went pale. Letting a Barça star go to Real is tantamount to high treason.
“Not possible,” he replied. “Anything but that.”
He was shaken, and both Mino and I could tell: now we’re playing our game. I continued calmly:
“Well, you asked a question and I gave you an answer, and I’m happy to say it ag
ain: Real Madrid is the only club I can see myself going to. I like Mourinho. But you’ve got to phone them up and tell them yourselves. Is that okay?”
It was not okay. There was nothing in the world that was less okay, and of course we knew that, and now Sandro Rosell was starting to panic. The club had purchased me for the equivalent of 700 million Swedish kronor. The guy was under pressure to get the money back, but if he sold me to Real, which was Mourinho’s new club, Rosell would basically get lynched by the fans. This wasn’t easy for him, to put it mildly. He couldn’t keep me because of the manager. He couldn’t sell me to their arch-enemy. The bloke had lost the upper hand, and we kept up the pressure.
“But think how smoothly it’ll go. Mourinho’s said himself how much he wants me!”
We knew no such thing. But that was the line we took.
“No,” he said.
“That’s a shame. Really! Real Madrid is the only club we have in mind. ”
We left the room and smiled. We’d gone on and on about Real Madrid. That was our official line. But we had AC Milan on the go, and we were working on them. If Rosell was desperate, that was no good for Barça. But it was good for Milan. The more desperate Rosell was to sell, the cheaper it would be to buy me, and that would benefit us in the end. It was a game, and it was being played on multiple levels, one in public and one behind the scenes. But the clock was ticking. The transfer window was closing on the 31st of August, and on the 26th we had a friendly match against none other than AC Milan at Camp Nou. Nothing was set yet. But the matter was out in the media anyway. There was speculation everywhere, and Galliani, vice president of AC Milan, formally announced that he was not leaving Barcelona without Ibrahimović.
I Am Zlatan Page 32
