The Special One: The Dark Side of Jose Mourinho

by Torres, Diego

  ‘The coach,’ said Sánchez, ‘is like Kant. When Immanuel Kant went out for his walk in Königsberg everyone set their watches because he always did it on time. When the coach arrives in the morning at Valdebebas everyone knows that it’s 7.30 a.m. without looking at the clock.’

  Sánchez felt that Madrid had its first coach who could be trusted to sign wisely. He cited the example of Khedira and Di María, whom the coach – showing what a clinical eye he had – asked for before the 2010 World Cup. He argued that his compendium of virtues made him exactly the solid figure that the club had needed for so many years. Mourinho, in the opinion of the chief executive, had ‘brought calm’ to Madrid.

  The sports complex Valdebebas, known as Real Madrid City, is one of the most advanced centres of football technology in the world. It occupies an area of 1.2 million square metres, of which only a quarter has been developed, at a cost of some €98 million. The work of the architectural studio of Antonio Lamela, it has 12 playing fields, a stadium and, at its heart, a ‘T-shape’ of standardised units whose functionalist design of flat layers and clean lines projects a mysteriously moral message.

  The main entrance, at the foot of the ‘T’, is at the lowest point of the facility. From there the complex unfolds, beginning with the dressing rooms of the youngest age categories (8- to 9-year-olds) and going through, in accordance with age group, the dressing rooms of each category, using the natural slope of the hill on the south side of the valley of Jarama. The architects, in collaboration with the then director of the academy, Alberto Giráldez, gave the main building an educational message for young people: the idea of an arduous climb from the dressing rooms of the youngest to those of the professionals. On top of this great parable of conquest – and indeed of the whole production – sits the first-team dressing room. And above the dressing room, with the best views of all, sits the coach’s office, defining its occupier as the highest possible authority. As Vicente del Bosque said of his predecessor as head of the academy, Luis Molowny: ‘He was a moral leader.’

  Something in Mourinho’s arrival at Valdebebas surprised those who worked there. As well as Rui Faria, fitness coach, Silvino Louro, the goalkeeping coach, Aitor Karanka, the assistant coach, and José Morais, the analyst of the opposition, the Portuguese coach brought his agent and friend, Jorge Mendes. Gradually, the squad became convinced that Mendes worked in the building. Not so much as another one of the coaches but as the ultimate handyman.

  Impeccably fitted out in a light woollen Italian suit, with a tie that never moved and a fashionable but unpretentious haircut, tanned even in the gloomiest of winter days, Jorge Paulo Agostinho Mendes was the first players’ agent who saw himself as a powerful businessman, often speaking as a self-styled agent of the ‘industry’ of football. Mourinho also used the term ‘industry’ in his speeches, seasoning his turns of phrase with expressions from the world of financial technocracy. For many other football agents, this was an artificial pose. ‘They think they’re executives at Standard & Poor’s,’ said one Madrid player’s FIFA agent.

  Born in Lisbon in 1966, Mendes was raised in a working-class neighbourhood. His father worked in the oil company Galp and he won his first trophies selling straw hats on the beach in Costa Caparica. He played football at junior championship level and, determined to make it as a professional, migrated north to Viana do Castelo. He ran a video rental store, worked as a DJ and opened his own nightclub in Caminha, before discovering that he had a gift – the talent of first being able to gain the trust of players, and then being able to value them, generally above market prices. His first major transaction was the transfer of goalkeeper Nuno from Vitória de Gimarães to Deportivo de la Coruña in 1996. With the commission obtained from the deal, the foundation was laid for Gestifute to become the football industry’s most powerful agency, with subsidiaries such as Polaris Sports, dedicated to the management of image rights, marketing and advertising, and the promotional agency Gestifute Media.

  Mourinho and Mendes shared an office straight away. The agent set himself up in the suburb of La Finca in Pozuelo. He went to Valdebebas, along with his players and his coach, almost every morning, accompanied by various assistants. When it was training time he would sit in Mourinho’s chair and look out of the window from his own private agency to follow the progress of the team from up on high.

  The sight of Mendes in his dark-blue pinstripe suit sitting behind the glass, drinking coffee and looking at everything from behind the mask of his sunglasses, sparked the imagination of the players every morning as they warmed up. There was no shortage of jokes and laughter. Especially when jogging as a group, they had the feeling they were being watched from above.

  ‘There’s the lord and master of the club,’ said one. ‘There’s the boss.’

  Mendes entertained his business partners in Mourinho’s office. There they organised their interviews with other agents. Juanma López, the former Atlético player, who was now a players’ agent, appeared one morning. It was a topic of conversation for the naturally curious players. ‘Mendes has his office here,’ they commented. Lass Diarra did not understand what all the fuss was about: ‘Who’s that?’ he said. The Frenchman had never seen López play.

  The first stone of Valdebebas was laid on 12 May 2004. During the opening Pérez gave a visionary speech: he imagined a huge theme park that club members could access daily and in which they rubbed shoulders with the players.

  ‘The new “City of Real Madrid” has an inclusive character,’ he said. ‘It will be open to all who love the sport and want to enjoy all the possibilities for entertainment around it.’

  The old Ciudad Deportiva ‘Sport City’ on the Avenida Castellana, which finally closed in 2004, had been an accessible complex. Anyone, in exchange for a few pesetas, could get in to admire their idols as they trained. In Valdebebas the club forbade fans entering on weekdays. Even club members, whose contributions to the budget, mainly through ticketing, subscriptions or contributions, make up a third of Madrid’s income, were denied access.

  The first-team training sessions were closed to the public before Mourinho arrived at the club. But for the new coach, living in a cloister was not enough. So the ban was extended to relatives and agents of the players. If the father of Sergio Canales, who was then 19, wanted to see his son train he had to apply for a permit with three days’ notice. The same thing happened to the agents of Casillas, Alonso and Arbeloa, among others. Before the end of 2010, Mourinho had extended the ban to Jorge Valdano, previously the highest sporting authority at the club. The doors of Valdebebas were now only unconditionally open to one person outside the club: Mendes.

  There were now 300 players represented under the Gestifute banner. In some cases, the company merely represented them in the presence of third parties. In other cases, and under Portuguese law, the only European legislation that permits it, Gestifute acquired partial ownership of players through investment funds, and this enabled them to speculate in greater volume. When a Portuguese club sold a player whom it co-owned with Gestifute, the company charged its share of the transfer.

  In the autumn of 2010 Mendes represented Mourinho and four players in Madrid’s first team. Pepe and Ronaldo, on the club’s payroll since 2007 and 2009 respectively, and Carvalho and Di María, signed on the recommendation of the new coach. Angel Di María was the player whom Mourinho had called for most fervently throughout the summer. Pérez found it difficult to accept the outlay of around €30 million, believing that the Argentinian left-winger, despite his success at the World Cup, did not have enough public appeal to justify his price. But Mourinho insisted that he was a good strategic signing.

  The acquisition of Di María was more expensive because Benfica held no more than 80 per cent of the player’s rights. Since 2009, the Lisbon club had been ceding percentages of players’ rights to the Benfica Stars Fund, managed by Banco Espírito Santo. In return for greater liquidity, Benfica were required to transfer players only when their sale value ensur
ed a profit for private investors. The sale of Di María marked the first profit in the history of the Benfica Stars Fund. Other equally profitable transactions would follow: the transfer of Fabio Coentrão to Real Madrid for €30 million in July 2011, David Luiz to Chelsea for €30 million in January 2011 and Javi García to Manchester City for €20 million in 2012. It is not known if Mendes participated in all these deals through the fund. He says that he did not and the Banco Espírito Santo guarantees investors’ anonymity. The fund manager, João Caino, provided no documents but said that the participants are a group of companies and rich individuals, but not football agents.

  The summer of 2010 was full of high expectations. José Ángel Sánchez could at last count on a friend in the club, a true collaborator with whom he could shape the future from the same dressing room and with equal power. After two years of major investment in players, the board rubbed its hands at the prospect of infallible, charismatic certainty, unanimously agreeing that Mourinho was the missing piece. Inspired by stories that had actually been conceived in the board room, the press and fans dreamed of the wonderful adventures of a team full of stars and led by a secret-weapons scientist of a coach, permanently cloistered inside the perimeter of the impenetrable Valdebebas training complex.

  Madrid’s pre-season sessions were held behind closed doors, with the exception of one. Mourinho organised every day’s work meticulously. He was busy with the most diverse of self-imposed tasks but, like many British managers, did not always personally take training. The players remember that on the evening he opened the doors to the press he had spent four days in his office, leaving the training-ground work to Karanka. This time, however, he appeared with renewed vigour on the pitch. Under the gaze of journalists and cameramen stationed on the balcony with their cameras, Mourinho was frenetic, urging a surprising level of movement for the middle of summer. Players laughed, saying that it seemed as if they were training to play the final of the Champions League the following day. This extrovert show aside, sessions were quiet affairs, the press only permitted for 15 minutes as the players left the dressing room and warmed up before beginning work.

  One of the routines that most caught the attention of training-ground staff occurred when security guards locked the doors and ushered out the journalists. It happened a few times while it was hot. Mourinho took off his shirt, displaying his naked torso, and let Rui Faria and Karanka supervise the warm-up while he strolled off onto another pitch, walking alone, disappearing into the westerly distance before finally stopping to put his shirt down on the grass and lie or sit on it to sunbathe. Always the same. Methodical. Most players feigned indifference. The only one who dared to interrupt him was Dutchman Royston Drenthe.

  ‘Boss! What are you doing?’

  ‘I think my tan is fading,’ came the reply.

  Those days at the end of August were the most serene of all Mourinho’s time at Madrid. He dreamed of the huge undertaking he was facing, a work of unknown dimensions that went far beyond his work as a mere coach. Not a press conference went by in which he did not use the word ‘construction’. From the moment he, along with Mendes, began negotiating his contract with Sánchez, he was moved by a determination to start something that would climax in administrative greatness. After winning his second Champions League he felt ready to do more than just coach. His role model was Sir Alex Ferguson. Mourinho did not originally conceive Chamartín as merely a stepping stone. A trusted ally of Mendes said that Mourinho’s plan was to install himself there for good: ‘He believed that at Madrid he would be the emperor. He thought he would retire in Madrid. He believed that so strongly that he got ahead of himself.’

  Mourinho did not sign until he was completely certain that Madrid would give him total power to redesign the club as he saw fit. The coach thought this was only logical, since he was leaving Inter after winning a Champions League, and it was Madrid who needed him and not vice versa. He and Mendes established their requirements and the club agreed to the two fundamental conditions requested. First, he wanted control over what the press published, and second, absolute power in team affairs. Having complete discretion over who would be sold and who would be signed was as important as controlling the information that was produced about him and his team. Gestifute say Madrid promised Mourinho he would enjoy the support of 95 per cent of the media.

  The project mapped out by Mourinho and Mendes as they negotiated his departure from Inter included the signing of Hugo Almeida, at the very latest in the winter transfer window. At six foot three and dominant in the air, Almeida was the classic target man. He was the perfect choice to complete the direct style of play – long balls bypassing midfield – that would provide an alternative in attack and a shortcut when more elaborate football was not possible. As a goalscorer he was not on the wanted list of any of the top clubs in Europe. Averaging just 13 goals a season in four years at Werder Bremen, he had a worse record than both Higuaín and Benzema. But Almeida had an added feature that made him particularly attractive: he was the most important number nine on Gestifute’s books. And there seemed no market for him. The best offers he had received so far were from Turkey.

  There were people at Gestifute who, upon learning of Mourinho’s desire to push Madrid into signing Almeida, tried to persuade Mendes against it so as not to lose credibility with Pérez. They argued that the president might end up thinking that Mourinho was more interested in doing business than building a competitive team. In the opinion of these experts, the most prudent business plan would consist of three stages. First, signing excellent players. Second, winning major titles. Third, with the endorsement of the trophies, buying ordinary and perhaps even overrated players.

  Mourinho broke with this plan of progressive action. He was so sure of his power that he tried to advance to third base in the first attack. According to close observers the coach had already taken enough risks with Di María and Carvalho. To sign Almeida, too, would constitute negligence. When the following year he showed off a minor trophy like the Copa del Rey to demand the signing of Fabio Coentrão he took a definitive wrong turn. To pay €30 million for Coentrão, a weaker left-back than Marcelo, would constitute a record fee for a substitute. It was not only the directors of Madrid who began to be suspicious. Those trusted by Mendes noted that from then on the press and clubs were put on guard. And not only in Spain.

  The freedom of movement enjoyed by Mendes at Valdebebas contrasted with the prevailing restrictive climate at the training complex. The players ended up wondering if Mendes might not appear from behind the work-out machines one day and surprise them in the middle of a meeting. That never happened but, apart from in the gym and in the dressing room, the man went where he wanted to. After Mourinho’s office, his natural habitat was the cafeteria, where a free buffet was available every morning. He breakfasted and dined with the coaching staff, and went from table to table joking with the players, especially with Ronaldo, Di María and Pepe, with all of whom he shared a personal relationship. It was also where Mourinho mixed with everyone. He liked to tell jokes, to laugh. It was where he was at his most loquacious.

  ‘You cannot imagine the money this man has,’ he said, pointing Mendes out to a few players as they ate their breakfast one day. Most thought it strange but made an effort to be friendly. Casillas was unfazed. The captain would soon begin to tire of it all and be less than friendly.

  Mendes and his entourage would often attend the last part of the training sessions, sometimes with foreign guests whom Mendes wanted to present to players. Having finished training the players would encounter him on their way back to the dressing room, waiting on the edge of the pitch. Players would stop to talk. Ronaldo would say hello, followed normally by Pepe, Di María, Carvalho and Marcelo. Each player, except for Marcelo, was under the administrative umbrella of the Portuguese agent and would regularly have things to share. The group exchanged pleasantries in front of the puzzled looks of the rest of the squad, who gradually became more familiar with what was
going on. The Spanish contingent would also greet the agent. Almost everyone, in one way or another, sought to live with the situation as politely as possible – apart from Casillas. The goalkeeper ignored Mendes, pretending that he did not exist. At 29, the captain felt that he had fulfilled his quota of formal commitments. As he once said, winning the World Cup had helped release him: ‘I’ve earned the right to say “no”.’

  Casillas believed Mendes’s activity at Valdebebas was invasive and discriminated against the majority of the players, whose agents, friends and family had first to pass through the filter system imposed by Mourinho under principles that were not really clear. The Spanish players and the older employees of the club all believed that the new order was tailored to those who had ties to Gestifute.

  What the squad could testify to after just a few months of living together was that Mendes stood at the top of the food chain, the only one who paid homage to no one. The only person Mourinho was docile in front of was his agent. What the president of the club or the players thought did not bother Mourinho. He was at ease. He was not averse to displaying a bit of nonchalance. When he got behind the wheel of one of his cars – the Aston Martin, the Ferrari or the club Audi – he was prone to bravado. Especially if he thought someone was watching him. Revving the engine, putting his foot to the floor as he pulled away, burning tyres in a cloud of white smoke and the smell of burning rubber, it was all part of the spectacle for whoever was lucky enough to coincide with him in the parking area. Mourinho saw himself as an outstanding amateur rally driver.

  It took two months for Mourinho’s spiritual well-being to start to evaporate. That was probably as long as it took him to realise that Madrid would not give him all the power that they had promised. On 16 September the first signs of this appeared when Gilberto Madaíl, president of the Portuguese Football Federation, travelled to Madrid to personally request that Mourinho take charge of Portugal in the qualifying rounds of the 2012 European Championships. The unusual thing was not the request itself. The truly exceptional thing was that Mourinho made it public before admitting in a press conference that if he was unable to work for his national team it was not for lack of desire but because the Madrid directors had refused to allow it.