Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [23]
Palazzo al Velabro. That was the address he gave me. It was a residential hotel in the historic center of Rome. I went straight over, walked in, my curiosity aroused. The concierge didn’t say a word; he just handed me the key to the room and gave me a quick wink. Right then and there, I couldn’t guess why. It became clear afterwards. I went upstairs, opened the door, and walked into a vast reception room. On the table was a nice little spread: champagne and finger pastries. I left the alcohol alone, but I ravaged the trayful of pastries, leaving only crumpled paper wrappers. Unexpectedly, out of nowhere, an A. C. Milan executive popped into the room; he looked young and vigorous, but there wasn’t a hair on his head. Not a single, blessed hair; I know, I checked carefully. This was Adriano Galliani, the managing director of the club. Also known as Lo Zio—Uncle Adriano. I thought back to the winking concierge. I put myself in his position, behind the reception desk, and it all made sense. In comes a bald gentleman who asks for champagne and a tray of finger pastries to be delivered to room such-and-such, then he sees me arrive, Carletto, aka Il Bimbo—the Kid, and ask for the keys to that same room. Now I understand the wink: he thought we were lovers.
This was the first time I’d ever met Galliani. We talked about his philosophy, the team, and what he hoped to accomplish: “We have great ambitions.” That was a phrase I’d already heard a thousand times before. “We want to win the Italian championship next year, and play in the UEFA European championship; we want to win the UEFA Cup in two years, and in the third year we want to win the Intercontinental Cup.” Okay, that’s something I haven’t heard. I took a look at my watch. This guy is talking like he’s drunk, but it’s too early in the day to think he’s guzzled that much hard liquor. Maybe he’s just lost his mind. A short while later, I found myself on the phone with Silvio Berlusconi. For the first time. “Pronto? Yes, this is the chairman.”
“Buon giorno.”
“Buon giorno to you. How are your knees?”
He wasn’t exactly beating around the bush. He came straight to the point, with his first question.
“Mr. Chairman, my knees are fine.”
“Well, we’re counting on you. We want to win the Italian championship next year, in two years we want the Champions’ Cup, and, for the third year, we want the Intercontinental Cup.”
Okay, now it’s official. Everyone’s drunk. What the hell did they put in the water up in Milan? He was funny, though, joke after joke; it was invigorating to talk to him. “Arrivederci, then, Mr. Chairman.”
“Arrivederci, Carletto. Let’s keep our fingers crossed; we don’t want any unpleasant surprises from your physical.”
I crossed my fingers, and touched my balls to ward off evil while I was at it.
No question about it, that physical was going to be a crucial rite of passage. It was me against my knees, my old archenemies. The following day, the A. C. Milan team physician, Monti, flew down to Rome. Actually, the physical examination was performed by Professor Perugia, the surgeon who had operated on my knees. I have to say that Monti expressed serious misgivings about my knees. Despite his doubts, the team accepted me.
My journey from Trigoria to Milanello was a voyage to a different planet. And when I landed on that planet, I met someone who struck me as insane at first: Arrigo Sacchi. Before long, though, it dawned on me that Sacchi was a genius, not a madman. Truly a great man. Another mentor, another