Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [45]
The family man, in particular, was Giraudo, though he too was capable of laughing and playing pranks. Once, we made a bet on the outcome of a match; I accepted the bet, even though he—how to put this—had a certain advantage. He often predicted the results of others … What was at stake? Oh, just dinner in a restaurant for twenty. I lost the bet, of course. Giraudo decided to exaggerate: “Carletto, we’re all going to a place that specializes in truffles.” Truffles? Affordable! The Piedmont Vacation Group, as we called ourselves, went on the road, from Turin to Castello di Annone, near Alba, the home of the white truffle. Among the starving masses we brought with us was Galliani, who at the time was a very, very close friend of the Triad. Add in Galliani, and it goes from a Triad to Four of a Kind. From poker to porker: None of them seemed to have eaten anytime in the past few months. They just kept grating truffle after truffle. They were eating truffles like they were popcorn. It never seemed to end. Instead of scratch and win, it was grate … and let Carletto pay. And that’s not even to mention the rivers of champagne, “the best champagne in the house,” as I seem to remember Giraudo telling the waiter—more than once. Everyone was sloshed on champagne: finally, a bubbly, cheerful Juventus. And while they were eating and drinking, I was calculating the check in my mind, trying to figure out how much I had lost on that (probably fixed) bet. At least two hundred thousand lire apiece, which, multiplied by twenty, added up to four million lire. That, it turned out, was optimistic: “Signore Ancelotti, here is the check.” Ten million lire. Ten. Million. Lire. I expected a receipt, but what they brought me was an ancient Greek scroll. A foot and a half of bill. I felt faint; I pulled out my checkbook, hating all twenty of my guests as I did so. Galliani’s tie had veered from purple to yellow, he’d guzzled so much champagne. Behind my back, I heard someone laughing. It was Giraudo. He could be likable, even though in public he was always serious, at times verging on arrogant.
“It was a joke, Carletto. I’ll pay.” The future of my daughter and son, Katia and Davide, suddenly brightened. Their inheritance was safe.
Giraudo and Moggi always made me the butt of their pranks. One day in Athens, in November 2000, they made me look like a dickhead, long before the Chosen One uttered the immortal phrase at Appiano Gentile: “I am not a dickhead.” We were in training, and one afternoon I dared to take a nap. The phone rang; by some miracle, I managed to locate the receiver, and I answered: “Hello?” “Wake up, Carlo, there’s a call for you from the Avvocato.” I stood up, snapping to attention, a rumpled, befuddled figure, and tried to regain my grip on reality. Over the phone came the refined accent of Gianni Agnelli, with his mushy pronunciation of the l’s and r’s in every word, including my name.
“Hewwo, Cawwo, I just saw a fantastic pwayer from the Ivowy Coast.”
Hold everything—stop the presses. Let me spell this out: the Ivory Coast. There is no national team on earth that I love more than the Ivory Coast, after the Italian team.
“He is a phenomenon, his name is Kabungaguti. You’ve seen him pway, I pwesume?”
The world famous Kabungaguti: who the hell is he talking about?
“Avvocato, sir, I actually don’t know anything about him, but I can find out. I’ll request videotapes right away.”
“He’s a gweat champion, I’m supwised at you, Cawwo. How on earth could you not know about Kabungaguti?”
I felt like an ass. I was tempted to put on a hat with donkey ears and wear it to the coaches’ technical meeting. I got dressed and