Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [34]
“No, is he in the hospital? I hadn’t heard he was sick …”
I was trying to be funny, but he was determined to take me to a museum: “Come on, Carletto, let’s go to the Louvre, let’s go to the Louvre.”
“That’s fine with me, fine with me.”
We hopped into a taxi, and, before I could even dream of seeing the Mona Lisa, we pulled up in front. It was closed, locked tight, no admittance. “Arrigo, you’re not thinking of going to the airport this early?”
“No, Carletto, let’s go for a walk.” Unfortunately, right next to the Louvre is an enormous park. Trees and flowers, stretching off into the distance. “Look, Carletto, it’s beautiful. Let’s go take a stroll in the park.” Me, him, Paris, strolling together in the park, the birdies singing. One thought humming through my brain: please don’t let anyone see us.
“Carletto, this will only take a few minutes.” Just a few minutes. Well, 240 minutes, to be exact. Four full hours. A botany lesson like no other. Apparently, Sacchi knows every tree and every flower on earth. He knew everything. “Carletto, this is Crataegus monogyna.” Well, of course it is; I’d know it anywhere. Perhaps if he’d told me it was a hawthorn tree, it might have been easier to work up some enthusiasm. “Wonderful, Arrigo. Just wonderful.” I really didn’t give a hoot, but I was afraid to tell him that. He stopped every three feet, craning his neck and explaining in detail: “Incredible, Carletto, there’s Narcissus pseudonarcissus.”
Well, I guess it must have been incredible, because I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was blabbering on about.
“It’s a trumpet narcissus, Carletto.”
Hold the presses. I missed seeing the Mona Lisa, and you’re trying to show me a trumpet narcissus? Is that like a Black Narcissus? Questions started to form in my mind. Deep, searching questions. Questions like: Why does time drag along so slowly in this goddamned park?
“Oh, there’s Rhodothamnus chamaecistus … and Impatiens glandulifera.… Now, let me tell you a thing or two about Ligusticum mutellina.”
Thank you, Arrigo—thanks from the heart. I really wanted to know all about Ligusticum mutellina.
I. Was. Losing. My. Mind. It was like The Scream, by Edvard Munch, except with a slightly chubbier face. When we got to Ficus benjamina, I raised the white flag. I just gave up. Nothing personal against Ficus benjamina, but enough is enough. At the end of the fourth hour, I glanced at my watch: “Arrigo, annamo—let’s go.”
“Yes, Carletto, we’ll miss our plane.”
Long live Alitalia.
It was during that same period that I began to see Sacchi in a different light. I was still intimidated, but our relationship became a little warmer, a little more personal. There was a new intensity. I felt a genuine love for the man. In the professional sphere, he continued to demand the utmost of himself, but also of those who worked alongside him. For me, that was the best way to learn. I liked it. Pietro Carmignani and I were his assistants, his deputies: Carmignani sat next to him on the bench while I watched the match from the stands and prepared the match report. The terrible match report … It was a detailed report on everything that happened on the field. Nowadays, it’s simple; everything’s computerized. But back then it was grueling, maddening work. Maddening—in fact, people probably thought that I was mad, because I talked out loud while my assistant made notes of everything I said. Pass by Baggio, shot by Albertini, Mussi breaks free, Baggio makes a run, Baggio takes a shot. A steady stream of words, exactly like that, from beginning to end, without a pause. Anyone who was unlucky enough to have seats near us eventually moved away. We were intolerable, but we did it out of necessity.