Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [10]
My last dinner in Istanbul was when they made their offer. “We’ll give you three million dollars a season for three years.” Translation: a lot of money. Just to put it in perspective: before then, Parma had been paying me 700 million lire ($550,000) a season, excluding bonuses (for the first year, 150 million lire ($120,000) if we won the Coppa Italia, 250 million lire ($200,000) for the UEFA Cup, and 500 ($400,000) for the Scudetto). All things considered, one fundamental truth is undeniable: Fenerbahçe S. K. was offering me a boatload of money.
But that wasn’t what I was interested in. I’d only been coaching in Serie A for two years, not long enough to be able to risk stepping aside. I wanted to tell them no, but I had to figure out how. I had an idea: I’d keep raising my demands, until they got sick of it. “I want a villa on the beach.”
Answer: Yes.
“I want a car with a driver.”
Answer: Yes.
“You have to pay for all my air travel to and from Italy.”
Answer: But of course.
“I pick my own technical staff and no one else has any say in it.”
Answer: We wouldn’t want it any other way.
“I beg of you, stop giving me carpets.”
That was almost asking too much, but in the end they gave in on that point, too. Ask and you shall receive. Evidently, I’d chosen the wrong tactic. It was a total defeat on all fronts. My visit was really nothing more than a courtesy call, but Fenerbahçe was determined to get my signature on a contract, cost what it may. They seemed to be saying: “You’re not leaving here until you sign our contract.” A prisoner without bars—okay, but not great.
Luckily, even though I had been relieved of duty to make way for Alberto Malesani, my contract with Parma still had a year to run; that was what saved me. Or, at least, what saved me from lying. “I can’t sign anything official right now. Let me go back to Italy, it’ll only take me a few days to rescind my existing agreement, and then I’ll come back to see you.” That’s what I said, but in my mind there was a rider: “As if.” I managed to escape: Turkey–Emilia Romagna, a one-way ticket. There was just one thing left to do: inform Chairman Yildirim that, let us say, I had changed my mind. But I was too much of a chicken even for that: I had my wife call him and tell him on the phone. I was a little embarrassed at what I’d done.
Still, he wasn’t giving up. He sent one of his emissaries to hunt me down, another one-way ticket: Istanbul to My House. The dreaded middleman Bilgiç arrived in Felegara by taxi while I was in my car, speeding back to Parma to keep from having to talk to him, like a thief in the night.
Was I crazy? No, it was much simpler than that. I was just the new coach of Juventus. How new? A couple of hours, to tell the truth. Blame it on a phone call from Luciano Moggi, which I don’t think anyone wiretapped, that I received the day before I left on my little jaunt to Turkey. “Ciao, this is Luciano. I have to see you tomorrow.”
“I can’t do it tomorrow, I’m going to Istanbul.”
“To do what?”
“There’s a football club there that wants to see me.”
“Before you commit to anything, I need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you get back …”
I figured he just wanted to talk to me about some player or other. As soon as I managed to elude the aggressive marking of the Turkish team, we made an appointment to meet the following day in Turin. That’s right, you guessed it: a secret meeting. We