Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [33]
When I decided that would be my last championship season, I never gave it a second thought. Even though Capello tried to change my mind: “You can’t quit. You have to stay. You have to play for another year.” Sorry, can’t help it. Sacchi needs me. And there was also the fact that, in the meantime, for his first game as head coach of the Italian national team, in Genoa against Norway, he summoned me—theoretically as a player, though in fact I spent my time helping him to train the midfielders. He wanted me to get a direct sense of what my future would be like; he wanted me to have a good idea of my next job.
My career as a soccer player was coming to an end, and I was clear-minded and relaxed. I knew one thing for sure: you need to quit when you feel it, not when other people tell you. Otherwise it’s too late. And I ended my career on a wonderful, positive note, at the San Siro playing against Hellas Verona F. C. under Liedholm, my first teacher. Il Barone and Il Bimbo, on the same field for the last time. As opponents, but only in theory, because he and I had never been enemies. Really, we shared a single heart in two different bodies. We were joined together by our heartbeat and our passion. Two images reflected in a single mirror; only the periods of time that we occupied were different. That’s why I believe that, deep down, he enjoyed my last performance. We were already champions of Italy, and, since I wanted to play, Capello sent me in twenty minutes from the end. The others seemed more excited than me. I scored a goal. Then I scored another. My first doppietta, or double—in the last game of my career. Well, better late than never. A long ball up the field, then a nice little dummy. As I ran back to the middle of the field, carrying the ball, I saw Baresi and just tossed out—more as a joke than anything else—“Franchino, I can’t quit now.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
The captain’s words are sacred. That whole stadium was mine—even Berlusconi, who declared at the end of the match: “We are going to offer another year’s contract to Ancellotti.” That’s right—Ancellotti, with a double l. No sooner said than done: the proposed contract arrived, but I’d already made my decision. I’d had all the time I needed to work it through, and I was confident, certain that the time was right. I don’t remember crying, probably because I had no reason to cry.
As a soccer player, I’d won everything I’d set out to win. As a man, I had two wonderful children, Katia and Davide. As a coach-to-be, all I needed to do was imitate my mentors: Liedholm and Sacchi, two completely opposite ways of thinking, and yet two stars in the same constellation—my constellation, because I’d had the good fortune to meet them both. One tranquil, the other tense. One Swedish, the other from Romagna. The first slept on trains, the second screamed and shouted in his sleep. Liedholm for the snow, and Sacchi for the beach. I had experienced two extremes, and each of them had taught me how to win. It would be enough to absorb a little here and a little there, with a tiny—teeny tiny—dab of Capello, and I’d have the time of my life. I wasn’t worried, I was just curious. I was finishing my first life and starting my second, and I didn’t even have time to rest. I was my own boss, chairmen aside. Moreover, if I ate an extra bowl or three of tortellini, no one would bust my ass over it. Goffredo Mameli, poet and author of the Italian national anthem, had become my new idol from one day to the next. “Let us join in a cohort / We are ready to die / Italy has called.” Arrigo’s Italy, the national team.
CHAPTER 13
World Cup Dreams
Paris. When I met Abramovich, I looked out over the city skyline and glimpsed London. When I was there with Sacchi, on the other hand, I saw trees and flowers, more than anything else. On the field, I was his assistant coach; off the field, I was a traveling salesman. One match after another,