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By Root 403 0

ask for an explanation, even if in some cases there are no explanations for the decisions that have been made: it’s easy to choose between a player who trains and a player who prefers not to; it’s not so clear-cut when you are dealing with two footballers that have similar qualities and who both try equally hard. In situations of that kind, the smart thing is to keep your mouth closed. I’m not a father to my team, but I’m a friend, and I’m definitely a psychologist. I’ve never had any murderous interactions with my players; it’s much more common for us all to laugh together.

In Dubai, during the winter retreat with Milan, everyone burst out laughing except for one player: Mathieu Flamini, victim of the Brigand Chief, a prank that’s really a bastard. But a spectacular one. You pick someone to be the butt of the joke, and usually you try to pick someone with a chip on his shoulder—oui, Flamini—and then you construct a fairy tale around them. You have to explain it to all the others, one by one, and that was a task that took it out of me; first you tell the Italians, in Italian, then you tell the Brazilians, in pseudo-Italian, and then you tell Beckham, with grunts and gestures. The plot is always the same. I’m the narrator of a story, and the players all take roles. These roles include the king, the queen, the coachman, the assistant coachman, the royal guards, the brigands, and, of course, the brigand chief. After dinner, Gattuso comes over to where I’m sitting and says, “Come on, coach, let’s play Brigand Chief. It’s fun, and there are some new players who’ve never done it before.”

I raise one eyebrow and look skeptical, which is something that comes naturally to me. “No, not that game again. Don’t ask me to do Brigand Chief. I’m tired, I don’t feel like it tonight.”

All the others, in chorus: “Coach, coach, coach.”

This is where it starts, that was the signal. “Okay, but this really is the last time.”

I begin to explain the rules, but it’s really just for Flamini’s benefit, because he’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on. There are parts to be assigned, one for every player. It all goes without a hitch, until it’s time to choose the brigand chief. That’s when the fun begins.

Now it’s Gattuso’s turn to pipe up: “Tonight I want to play the brigand chief.”

Inzaghi jumps to his feet, his napkin tumbling to the floor: “Jesus, Rino, that’s enough! You’ve already been the brigand chief once, tonight it’s my turn.”

Kaladze breaks in, furiously: “Oh, you’re all a bunch of brownnosers, let an outsider have some fun for once.”

Okay, it’s time for me to intervene: “Now, boys, calm down. Let’s let one of the new recruits have a shot at it.”

Kaladze: “I vote for Beckham.”

Kaká: “But Beckham doesn’t even speak Italian. How can he be the brigand chief?”

Then it’s my turn again: “Oh, I’m fine with Beckham.”

Everyone turns to look at Flamini. He turns red with fury and practically shouts: “Me, me, I want to be the brigand chief!”

He went for it. He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

Now the prank can begin: I start to tell the story. “Once upon a time, in a beautiful castle, there lived …” Maldini, waving a fork in one hand: “A king.”

“And of course this king is married to …”

Borriello, with swishy enthusiasm: “The queen.”

“Whenever the king and queen want to leave the castle, they ride in a carriage pulled by six beautiful horses, and holding the reins is the …”

Kalac, both hands pulling imaginary reins as he rocks on his seat, cries: “The coachman!”

“But the coachman never rides alone, at his side is his trusted …”

Abbiati, almost dancing with joy: “Assistant coachman!”

I stop for a second and reflect: these players are going to try to win the Italian championship. My God.

“All together, the king and the queen, the coachman and assistant coachman, have to drive through a dangerous dark forest, so they must be escorted by the …”

Emerson, Pato, Kaká, Dida, Ronaldinho, and Seedorf all leap to their feet, waving knives and shouting in unison: “Royal guards!!”

“Because lurking in the forest are the …”