Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [26]
CHAPTER 10
Milan under Sacchi, Just Like Bologna Under Maifredi!
If it’s fair to say that there’s always a new dawn, it’s also true that beyond the rose-tinted sunrise you can usually glimpse a gathering storm. And not only a gathering storm, but a thundering tsunami. And, out of the center of the tsunami, there was always a team chairman, borne aloft by a chattering helicopter. And the clouds parted, and Berlusconi descended from the heavens (he—or, rather, He—will like that detail …).
In practical terms, though, the painting was actually the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: we were enjoying ourselves, but results were not forthcoming. That was the worst imaginable outcome for the man who was footing the bills. Himself, no less. He had a hard time landing on the field at Milanello, what with turbulence and air pockets. The weather reports seemed to point toward turmoil and change, especially after we were eliminated from the UEFA Cup by R. C. D. Espanyol, even though it was only the beginning of the season. Sinister clouds began to swirl around the Milan bench. What else is new? But, since He Himself had chosen Sacchi, and since Sacchi remained his favorite—his avatar here among us ordinary mortals—He kept his temper that time. He held it together very well. He believed deeply in his handpicked coach, and so He defended him tirelessly, especially against attacks from the sports press. The Communist sports press, I would have to imagine. There were a number of old-school journalists—Gianni Brera at the head of the pack—who questioned and criticized continually and relentlessly. Arrigo Sacchi was an innovator, and they failed to understand him. They had no patience with the things he tried to do. Sacchi was in the crosshairs, but he had a powerful shield of protection: Himself. He would often come to visit in training camp, He’d talk to us, ask us about work. He’d spend the whole day at Milanello, chatting with the whole team and then meeting with players for individual conversations, exploring our relationships with the coach. He conducted his first exit polls with us, and we already knew who had won: “Boys, I’m not getting rid of Sacchi.” On that point, He had been clear from the very beginning, and he was right. We weren’t winning, but in the locker room we all shared the same strong feeling: things were about to take a turn for the better. It was mathematically certain. Every week we knocked ourselves out, training hard, but, still, we were happy. Things couldn’t go badly forever. Our style of play was carefully planned out; it would just take time for our movements as a team to become natural. That was the only problem.
In the past, He had been a reliable presence. But that was in the past. He was ultimately responsible for all decisions, and, before making those decisions, He consulted with the players. Often just with me and Franco Baresi. Once, in the spring of 1988, we were running into real problems as a team, on account of Claudio Borghi, the Chairman’s latest infatuation—and, in reality, a complete waste of time as a player. He had discovered Borghi during the Intercontinental Cup of 1986; it was a bolt from the blue. He’d acquired him, but, since the two slots allowed by Italian law for foreign players were already occupied by Gullit and van Basten, He’d stationed Borghi on the Como team. Stay there, be good, and we’ll be back to get you. At the end of the season, we were allowed to acquire another non-Italian player. And so He was pushing for Borghi, while Sacchi requested Frank Rijkaard.
Himself: “Arrigo, we’re keeping Borghi.”
Sacchi, with an expression of disgust on his face: “Mr. Chairman, taking for