Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [27]
Himself: “But Arrigo, Borghi is Borghi.”
Sacchi: “My point exactly.”
So they came to a compromise: Borghi came to work with us at Milanello for the final training sessions of Sacchi’s first season at A. C. Milan, as well as to play in a couple of exhibition games: one at home against Real Madrid and the other at Manchester against Manchester United. It was a double test, but we already knew, by his style of play, that he wasn’t really in tune with the rest of the team. Just to make things more challenging, right before the A. C. Milan–Real Madrid match, Borghi injured his ankle, but insisted on playing all the same. He was clearly in pain on the field, but he managed to score a goal.
Himself: “You see Arrigo? He scored a goal.”
Sacchi: “Yes, but aside from the goal, he didn’t do a thing.”
He was hobbling across the field, bent over in pain. He seemed like a soccer Lazarus, but with a substantial difference. He might have risen from the dead, but he couldn’t seem to walk. It was hard to watch him. His ankle was swollen up like a cantaloupe, Manchester United vs. Milan was getting closer all the time, and Borghi refused to accept defeat. “I’m playing in this match.” Sacchi: “I’m on your side, go ahead and play.” We all understood that Sacchi wanted to send him out on the field, confident that Borghi would wind up with egg on his face.
So he started the game right by my side: he was charging forward, zigzagging as he went, a drunk in soccer shoes, but apparently fate was on his side. A pair of goals, both by Borghi: one, and then the other. Borghi-Borghi, li mortacci sua—damn his eyes. Playing at Manchester, against Manchester United. He smiled and said nothing: a bad sign. Sacchi neither spoke nor smiled: a very bad sign. At that point, we got involved. Sacchi frequently came to talk with us; he’d do his best to persuade us that Borghi had nothing in common with A. C. Milan, that he was a player out of place. “Coach, we couldn’t agree with you more. That’s exactly what we all think. We’re on your side.”
Then He Himself would call us, explaining that Borghi was the latter-day Maradona and that He Himself had discovered him: “Mr. Chairman, you are perfectly right. We think that you’ve got the inside track on this one. We’re on your side.”
We were hypocrites out of necessity, we all had families to feed and clothe. We were faithful allies of the guy that coached us, slightly less faithful allies of those who issued our paychecks. I never understood how Sacchi managed to get the boss to change his mind. There were certainly harsh verbal battles. The only thing I know is that in the end, He gave in. And Borghi was sold, and Rijkaard joined the team.
A. C. Milan, “The Invincibles,” had also become A. C. Milan, “The Dutchmen.” In quotes, with capital letters, as a sign of respect, because we were just too good. Gullitrijkaardvanbasten, as if they were one player, with a single tongue twister of a name; say it without stammering and you’ll have discovered the secret of immortality. He Himself lit up with pleasure at the thought.
Without Rijkaard, and with Borghi killing time on loan to Calcio Como SRL, we had won the Scudetto in the meantime. Under Sacchi, we’d immediately become champions of Italy, on the first try. Our sensations had become reality; we were in gear, waving “so long!” to our rivals over our shoulders. Waving good-bye in particular to Maifredi’s Bologna, our archenemies. No one knows it, but, in theory, that was supposed to be our model team. Our contemporaries, the team we aspired to become. Not Herrera’s Inter but Maifredi’s Bologna. Sacchi was like a broken record: “Now, they know how to play soccer.”
We couldn’t stand it anymore; he said the same thing, all day, every day, repeatedly, on the hour and half