I Am Zlatan

by David Lagercrantz

  There was another new guy in the team. His name was Robson de Souza, but people called him Robinho. I’d been involved in that transaction. Galliani had asked me while I was still at Barcelona: “What do you think of Robinho? Can you play with him?”

  “A brilliant player, just bring him here. The rest will work itself out.”

  The club paid 18 million euro for him, which was seen as cheap, and Galliani gained a lot of prestige for that as well. He’d managed to buy both me and Robinho at knock-down prices. Not long ago, Manchester City had paid far more than twice that for Robinho. But the purchase had been something of a risk. Robinho was a prodigy who’d lost his way a bit. There’s no greater god in Brazil than Pelé, and in the ’90s he was in charge of the Santos youth organisation – Santos FC had been Pelé’s home club and they’d been going through a rough patch for many years. People dreamt that he’d discover a new super-talent, though not many believed it would really happen. A new Pelé! A new Ronaldo, the kind of player that only comes along a few times in a hundred years. But even in the first training session, Pelé just stood there, totally blown away. He even called time out, so the story goes, and went over to a skinny, impoverished kid on the pitch.

  “I’m about ready to cry,” he said. “You remind me of myself.”

  That was Robinho, a guy who grew up and became the big star everybody was waiting for, at least at first. He was sold to Real Madrid and later to Manchester City, but more recently he’d had quite a bit of negative publicity. There had been a lot of drama surrounding him. We became close at AC Milan. We were two guys who’d grown up in difficult circumstances, and there were parallels in our lives. We’d both received bollockings because we dribbled too much, and I loved his technique. But he was a little too unfocused on the pitch, and did too many tricks on his own over near the touchline.

  I was on him a lot about that. I was on everybody in the team, and before my first match away at Cesena I was sizzling with energy, and you can imagine the hype surrounding me. The papers wrote page after page: now I was going to show what I meant for my new club.

  It was me, Pato and Ronaldinho in front, and that seemed strong. Robinho started on the bench. But it was useless. I was in overdrive, just like in my early days at Ajax. I wanted too much, so we ended up with too little, and at half-time we were behind Cesena, 2–0. Losing to Cesena, when we were AC Milan! That was mental, and I was angry and completely crazy on the pitch. But damn it, nothing worked. I worked like a dog, and towards the end we got a penalty. Who knows, maybe we could turn it around? I was going to take the penalty, and I stepped up and shot – into the goalpost. We lost, and how do you think I felt? I had to do a doping test after the match, and I came into the room so furious that I trashed a table, and the doping guy in there was totally terrified.

  “Calm down, calm down.”

  “Listen,” I said. “You don’t tell me what to do. Otherwise you could end up like that table down there.”

  That wasn’t a nice thing to do; he was an innocent doping tester. But that’s the attitude I brought to Milan, and when we lost, the red mist descended. That’s when you need to leave me to wreck stuff in peace. I was boiling with rage, and was just happy when the papers had a go at me the next day and gave me miserable reviews. I deserved it, and I clenched my fists. But things didn’t loosen up in the next match either, or the one after that, even though I scored my first goal away against Lazio, and it looked like we were going to win. But in the final minutes we let in an equaliser, and that time there was no doping check.

  I went straight into the changing room where there was a whiteboard that the manager writes the game plans on, and I kicked it with all my strength. The board went flying like a missile and struck a player.

  “Don’t play with fire. It’s dangerous,” I roared, and the room went silent, because I guess everybody understood exactly what I meant: we were supposed to win, nothing else, and we bloody well shouldn’t let in any unnecessary goals at the end. We couldn’t carry on like that.

  After four matches we had only five points, and Inter were at the top of the league table, same as always, and I was feeling more and more pressure resting on my shoulders. We were still living in the Boscolo Hotel, and we’d managed to settle in a bit. Helena, who had been staying out of the public eye, gave her first interview. It was for Elle magazine, and that became a complete circus. Every word about us made headlines. I could say totally meaningless stuff, like, “There’s been less meatballs and noodles since I met Helena.” In the papers that became Zlatan’s great declaration of love for Helena, and it felt more and more like I was changing. Me, who’d always got a buzz from being the centre of attention – I was starting to become more shy and retiring.

  I didn’t like having too many people around me, and we led a quiet life. I stayed indoors, and after a few months we moved into an apartment the club had arranged for us in the city centre. That was nice, of course, but it didn’t have our furniture and our things – it was nice, but really impersonal. In the mornings the bodyguard would be waiting for me down in the foyer and we’d drive out to Milanello, and I’d get breakfast before training and lunch afterwards, and then there’d often be a load of PR stuff, having photos taken and things, and as always in Italy I was away from the family a lot. We stayed in hotels ahead of our away matches, and we’d be shut up at Milanello before our home battles, and that’s when I started to get that feeling.

  I was missing out on a lot at home, Vincent was getting bigger, he was talking more and more. It was crazy, really. Maxi and Vincent had moved round so much they spoke three languages fluently: Swedish, Italian and English.

  Life was entering a new phase, and I often thought, what will I do when my career is over, and Helena starts hers up again? I had some thoughts like that. Sometimes I longed for the time after football. Sometimes I didn’t.

  But I was no less fired up, and very soon things also loosened up on the pitch. I decided seven, eight matches in a row, and the old ecstasy and hysteria returned. It was ‘Ibra, Ibra’ everywhere. The papers made this photo montage. There was me, and then the whole team above, as if I was carrying all of AC Milan on my shoulders. It was that sort of talk. I was hotter than ever.

  But there was one thing I knew better than most at this point: in football you can be a god one day and completely worthless the next, and our biggest league match that autumn was approaching, the Milan derby against Inter at San Siro. There wasn’t exactly any doubt that the Ultra fans were going to hate me. The pressure was going to get even greater. On top of that, I had issues with a guy in the team. His name was Oguchi Onyewu, he was an American the size of a house, and I told a mate in the squad:

  “Something serious is gonna happen. I just feel it.”

  27

  PEOPLE SAID HE WAS the nicest guy in the world. Oguchi Onyewu resembled a heavyweight boxer. He was nearly six foot five and weighed over 15 stone, close to 100 kilograms. Even though he didn’t gain a place in the starting team, he’d previously been voted the best foreign player of the year in the Belgian First Division and the US soccer player of the year. But he couldn’t handle me. He wanted to have a go at me.

  “I’m not like the other defenders,” he said.

  “Okay, good for you then!”

  “I’m not gonna be psyched out by your trash talking. By your mouth that’s going all the time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. I’ve seen you in matches, you do nothing but trash-talk,” he continued, and that annoyed me.

  Not just because I was sick of all the defenders who want to provoke me. I’m not the one who trash-talks, either. I get my revenge on the pitch. I’ve heard so much shit over the years, fucking Gypsy, stuff about my mum, all that stuff. The worst is: I’ll see you after the match! What the hell is that? Are we going to sort it out in the car park? It’s ridiculous. I remember Giorgio Chiellini, a c
entre back at Juventus. We’d played together, and later on when I was at Inter Milan we met on the pitch and he was on me all the time: “Come on now, it’s not like it was before, is it?” He tried to provoke me, and then he tackled me from behind. You realise, that’s a cowardly thing to do. You don’t see the bloke coming, and I went down in pain. I was in a lot of pain. But I didn’t say anything. I don’t in those situations. I think: I’ll get you back in our next encounter. Then I’ll go at him so hard he doesn’t get up for a long time. So no way, I’m not the one who trash-talks. I tackle instead. I go off like a bomb in encounters. But I didn’t get an opportunity that time, so after the final whistle I went up to him and took hold of his head and dragged him like a disobedient dog, and Chiellini got scared, I could see it.

  “You wanted to fight. So how come you’re shitting yourself now,” I hissed, and headed off to the changing room.

  No, I retaliate with my body, not with words, and I said that to Oguchi Onyewu as well. But he just kept on, and once when I yelled, “That was no free kick!” he shushed me with his finger, like, see, you’re just talking shit, and I thought: I’ve had enough, that’s it.

  “You, pass it,” I said.

  He shushed me again, and I saw red. But I didn’t say anything, not a word. That bastard was going to find out how I trash-talk in these situations, and the next time he got the ball I rushed towards him and jumped up with my feet and studs out in front, the worst type of tackle. But he saw me. He leapt out of the way and we both crashed to the ground, and my first thought was, shit, I’ve missed. I’ll get him next time. But as I got up and walked away I felt a blow to my shoulder. Not a good idea, Oguchi Onyewu.

  I headbutted him, and then we flew at each other. I’m not talking about a little scrap. We wanted to tear each other limb from limb. It was brutal, we were two blokes who each weighed over 14 stone, and we were rolling round, punching and kneeing each other, and of course, the whole team rushed over and tried to separate us. That wasn’t easy, not at all. We were crazy and furious, and sure, of course, I admit you need adrenaline on the pitch, you’ve got to do battle. But this crossed the line. It was like life and death. But the weirdest thing happened afterwards.

  Oguchi Onyewu started praying to God with tears in his eyes. He made the sign of the cross, and I thought, what is this? I got even more furious. If felt like a provocation, and at that point Allegri, the manager, came up and said, “Calm down, Ibra.” It didn’t do any good. I just moved him out of the way and ran towards Oguchi again. But I was stopped by my teammates, and I suppose that was a good thing. It could have turned out nasty, and afterwards Allegri summoned us both in. We shook hands and apologised. But Oguchi was cold as a fish, and that was fine by me. If he’s cold, I’ll be cold back, no problem, and afterwards I was driven home. I phoned Galliani, the boss, and there’s one thing you should know, which is that I don’t like to blame other people. It’s unmanly. It’s a shitty thing to do, especially in a team where you’ve taken on the role of a leader.

  “Listen,” I told Galliani. “An unfortunate thing happened at the training session. It was my fault, and I take responsibility. I want to apologise, and you can give me whatever punishment you want.”

  “Ibra,” he said. “This is Milan. We don’t work like that. You’ve apologised. Now we move on.”

  But it wasn’t over, not yet. There had been supporters along the sidelines, and the whole thing was in all the papers. Nobody knew the background story. But the fight became public knowledge. It took ten people to pull us apart, they wrote, and there was talk of unrest in the team and Ibra the bad boy and all the usual stuff. I didn’t care. Write what you want! But I was like, shit, my chest hurts, so we had it checked out. I’d broken a rib in the fight, and there’s nothing you can do about a broken rib. The doctors just bandaged me up.

  That was hardly the best thing that could have happened. Things were gearing up for the derby against Inter. We had Pato and Inzaghi injured, and of course the papers wrote pages and pages about it, not least of all about the duel between me and Materazzi. It was going to be particularly vicious, they said. Not just because Materazzi was a tough guy and we’d fought in the past and played in the same team. Materazzi had mocked me for kissing my Barça crest at Camp Nou. It was this and it was that. Most of it was just talk, but one thing was certain: Materazzi was going to go after me hard, because that was his job. It was important that the team stopped me, and in those situations there’s only one way to respond. You’ve got to hit back just as hard. Otherwise you lose the upper hand and risk getting hurt.

  No supporters are worse than Inter Milan’s Ultras. They’re not forgiving types, believe me, and to them I was Public Enemy Number One. Nobody had forgotten our fight from the Lazio match, and of course I knew there would be boos and trash talk. But bloody hell, that stuff is part of it.

  I wasn’t the first Inter player who’d signed to AC Milan, either. I was in good company. Ronaldo joined Milan in 2007, and then the Inter crew handed out whistles to put him off. The matches between Inter and AC Milan, known as the Derby della Madonnina, always stir up a lot of emotions, and there’s politics and shit involved as well. It’s a huge rivalry.

  It’s like Real Madrid and Barça in Spain, and I remember the players in the stadium. You could see it in their faces. This was big. This was important. We were at the top of the league table then, and a win would mean a lot. AC Milan hadn’t won a derby in several years. Inter had also brought home the Champions League trophy that year. It was Inter who dominated. But if… if we won, that would signal a shift in power, and I could hear the roar of the crowd in the stadium and music blaring from the loudspeakers. There was an atmosphere of hate and carnival at the same time, and I wasn’t nervous, exactly.

  I was just fired up. I sat and hoped I’d get to run in and do battle. But of course, I knew you can be bursting with adrenaline. You can still end up completely outside the game and not get a thing out of it. You never know, and I clearly remember the start of the match and the roar in there at San Siro. You never really get used to it. The place is at boiling point all around you, and Seedorf had a header over the goal almost straight away. The game surged back and forth.

  In the fifth minute I got a ball from the right side. I dribbled and got into the penalty area, and I had Materazzi on me. Of course, Materazzi wanted to, like, come right out and say: You’re not gonna get away, just you wait! But he made a mistake. He brought me down and I crashed down onto the ground, and obviously I thought: is that a penalty? Is that a penalty?

  It should’ve been. But I didn’t know. There was a horrible racket, and of course all the Inter players thrust out their arms, like, what the hell? But the referee ran towards the penalty spot and I took a deep breath. I was the one who was going to take it, and you can just imagine. My team were behind me, and you don’t have to wonder what they were thinking: don’t miss, Ibra! For God’s sake, don’t miss this one!

  In front of me was the goal, and the goalkeeper, and behind them were Inter’s Ultra fans. They were insane. They were booing and screaming. They were doing everything they could to derail me, and some of them had laser pointers. I got a green light right in my face, and Zambrotta blew up. He went to the referee:

  “Bloody hell, they’re interfering with Ibra. They’re blinding him!”

  But what could they do? Search through the whole stand? That wouldn’t work, and I was totally focused. They could’ve put me under headlights and spotlights. I just wanted to go up and shoot, and this time I knew exactly how it would go: the ball would go into the goalie’s right corner, and I stood still for a couple of seconds, and sure, it was like a little twinge inside me: I had to score. I’d started my season by blowing a penalty. It couldn’t happen again. But I couldn’t think about that. You can never think too much on the pitch. You just have to play, and I ran up and shot.

  I shot exactly as I’d imagined, and it went i
n, and I raised my arms up and looked the Ultra fans straight in the eyes, like: your damned tricks don’t work. I’m stronger than that, and I’ve got to say, when the entire stadium roared and I saw up on the big screen, ‘Inter – AC Milan, 0–1, Ibrahimović’, that felt good. I was back in Italy.

  But even so, we were just a few minutes into the match, and the fight was intensifying. In the 60th minute we had Abate sent off, and it’s no fun playing with 10 men against Inter Milan. We were working like dogs. Materazzi was on me like a leech, and in one encounter a few minutes later I rushed towards the ball and slammed into him and totally floored him. It was unintentional, of course. But he was still lying on the ground, and the doctor and all the Inter players ran out, and the hatred from the Ultra fans just grew, especially when Materazzi was stretchered off.

  In the final 20 minutes, the pressure on us was terrible, and I was completely worn out. I was ready to vomit from exhaustion. But we made it. We held on to our lead and won. The next day I was due to receive my fifth Guldbollen award in Sweden. I’d found out about it in advance, and I really wanted to get to bed early, as early as it’s possible to do when you’ve got a match like that spinning round in your head. But we decided we’d go out and party at the Cavalli nightclub. Helena came along. We sat pretty quietly in a corner with Gattuso while Pirlo, Ambrosini and all the rest partied like nutters. There was such a sense of relief everywhere, and really crazy joy, and we didn’t get home until four in the morning.

  In December, AC Milan purchased Antonio Cassano. Cassano has something of a reputation as a bad boy like me, he likes to be seen and to talk about what a brilliant player he is. The guy’s been through a lot and has often got into fights with players and managers, including Capello at Roma. Capello even coined a new term: Cassanata, which means sort of like irrational and crazy. But Cassano has a brilliant quality to his playing. I really liked him, and we got better and better as a team.