Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [20]
CHAPTER 8
A Dog, Champion of Italy
Rome, a city of madness, the capital of my heart. I don’t know a thing about Milan, but I know everything about Rome. It was there that I learned to live, even though my relationship with my finest moments is a strange one: I don’t remember much about them. In soccer, as in life—even private life—the things that really stick with you are your disappointments, and I’m not all that interested in talking about them. The 1983 Scudetto was my first victory, but all that remains in my head are a few snapshots. And not all that many, to tell the truth. A. S. Roma, champions of Italy for the first time in forty years, and I can rest on those laurels; there are places where I’m still treated like a king. We used to eat frequently at Da Pierluigi, in Piazza de’ Ricci, and, even today, if I dine there I might as well leave my wallet at home. They won’t let me pay; a Scudetto is forever.
In the crucial period of the season, we played a home match against Juventus, our biggest rivals for the Scudetto, and we lost. Michel Platini pulled a move a few minutes before the final whistle, Brio headed it in. Our five-point lead shrank to three, I’ll admit we started wetting our pants, but Brio received his just deserts. A policeman’s dog bit him in the tunnel, which was the very least that could have happened to him. It was a moment of high tension; people were talking and shouting, there was a general hubbub, some of the voices were angry: the German shepherd lost his temper. Sergio Brio wasn’t really very popular with the rest of us players; he was too determined on the field, he could be a little vicious. After the victory, he was leaping in the air, shouting, laughing. That poor dog saw a giant ogre celebrating, and he got scared. He went straight for the butt cheek and bit him in the ass. What a remarkable thing it was. We carried the dog in triumph on our shoulders. I may be a little off center, but when I think about the Scudetto, that’s the first image that comes into my head.
Then came the celebrations. We were returning to Rome from Genoa, where we had played the deciding match. The Appian Way was jammed solid, from Ciampino Airport to the center of the city. People were waiting for us as we pulled through in the team bus, it was just incredible. There was a symphony of car horns. They kept the decorations up in the streets for four or five months; we had given the city an excellent reason not to bother working. Cappuccino, breakfast pastry, and Forza, Roma. The first night, I put on a scarf, a cap, and a pair of dark glasses so as to pass unrecognized, I hopped on my scooter and zipped around the city for hours. It’s a wonderful place, and it’s hard to win for precisely that reason—it’s a city that reacts disproportionately both to the good things and the bad things. It isn’t easy to keep your equilibrium in a place like that, but it remains a one-of-a-kind city.
A Roma fan is more versatile than others; he has a distinctive sense of humor. I love to listen to people from Rome when they talk; they come up with unforgettable wisecracks. Once, when I was already playing for A. C. Milan, we played an away game in Rome. At the Stadio Olimpico, construction was underway for the 1990 World Cup, so we went over to the Stadio dei Marmi to warm up. People were allowed in to watch, and comments of all hues and shades were flying. Pietro Paolo Virdis emerged from the locker room with his unmistakable mustache, reminiscent of the little man on the Bialetti espresso pots. One of the Roma fans yells out: “Hey, Moka Express.” I thought