Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [18]
CHAPTER 7
Achilles’ Knee
Peppe didn’t need to fake anything. He really was on the verge of dying on the spot, of a massive myocardial infarction—heart attack, to the layman. If he did, we already had our stories straight: we would just blame it on Bruno Conti. The situation was appropriate; there he stood, wrapped in toilet paper, ready to be flushed away if necessary.
Peppe was in charge of the team warehouse; he’d been hired by A. S. Roma after he appeared on the playing field one day. It was a Roma–Inter match, Inter had a last-minute penalty shot, and Peppe had been unable to restrain himself. He hopped over the fence at the Stadio Olimpico. Howling like a madman, he’d rushed forward, but it had ended badly for him: beaten silly in front of five thousand screaming fans. The team owners wanted to save him from similar embarrassments in the future, so they took pity and gave him a job in the warehouse. He was a tiny little guy, a hard worker, with a very odd tic: he’d stick out his tongue and blow, then fake a dry spit. It was a brilliant masterpiece of weirdness, which always culminated the same way, with the same phrase repeated twice: “Up Lazio’s ass, up Lazio’s ass.” And who could argue with that sentiment?
One evening at training camp, we decided to play a prank on him. Me, Roberto Pruzzo, and Roberto Scarnecchia took Conti and wrapped him in toilet paper. Rolled from head to toe: he was so little that it only took a few rolls. “Soft, strong, and very long—Bruno Conti.” He really looked like a mummy; we even dabbed on a couple of spots of Mercurochrome to give him that nice dried-blood effect. At two in the morning, we stood him right outside of Peppe’s room, knocked on the door, and ran like the wind. When the poor little guy opened the door, Conti let out an infernal howl: “Mwah-hah-hah-hah.” Peppe gasped and staggered backward, the prank had worked perfectly. A little too perfectly, in fact: he had turned pale. He was mouthing words, but no sound was coming out. He was paralyzed by fear. “Peppe, it’s only me, Bruno.” Maybe that’s what really scared him … Anyway, we had to call a doctor. A couple of quick slaps in the face, and he was fine.
I considered kneeling down to beg forgiveness, but then I decided against it: “Right, smart boy, you’ll never get back up.” Achilles had weak heels, Pinocchio and Tassotti had spectacular noses, I had my knees: let’s just say that they weren’t exactly my strong point. I found out how weak my knees were when I was playing for Roma, with two serious on-field injuries. I don’t have the strongest memory where dates are concerned, but October 25 1981 is a day I’ll always remember. We were playing Fiorentina, and Francesco Casagrande—a determined halfback who had already broken my nose once when he was playing for Cagliari—was marking me. While I was trying to pivot to reach a throw-in, I made a strange move after chesting the ball down. I’d twisted my knee, and my teammates all took it out on him: “Bastard.” In fact, though, he hadn’t done a thing wrong; the instant replay on RAI television was crystal clear, he’d never even touched me.
The things that flood into your mind in those few seconds are crazy. The first thing that came to mind was Francesco Rocca, aka Kawasaki, an idol of mine, my first roommate when I came to play for Roma. In my mind, I reviewed his slow recovery, a lengthy period of torment after a serious injury, and, more importantly, I tasted the fettuccine (pansful at a time) that his mamma used to make for us in San Vito Romano after each training session. To tell the truth, I remembered the fettuccine first, then I remembered my teammate (after all, life is about priorities). Anyway, I had just ruptured my anterior cruciate ligament, but, since my menisci were still sound, we decided to try to recuperate