Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [46]
“Really? What did he want?”
“He asked me about a player from the Ivory Coast, some guy named Kabungaguti. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Have I ever heard of Kabungaguti? What a question. Everyone’s heard of Kabungaguti.”
“Everyone but me, apparently.”
“Well, you’d better study your players, Carletto; we’ve practically drafted him.”
Just then, I heard a familiar voice. His voice, the voice of the Avvocato, Gianni Agnelli: “But Cawwo, how can you not know about the gweat Kabungaguti?” At that moment, I thought only one thing: “I’m screwed, he’s going to send me away to coach Torino.” I turned around to grovel and apologize, and there stood Augusto Bellani, travel agent and tour organizer for the Agnelli family, almost paralytic with laughter. He couldn’t stop laughing. I had never heard about one of his greatest talents: he was the finest living imitator of Gianni Agnelli. He could, of course, only imitate Agnelli’s voice: physically, they only ever made one Gianni Agnelli. To tell the truth, I never really knew whether the Avvocato loved the Triad. He was a man who lived on sensations, thrills, and love affairs. Love affairs with everything that was beautiful, everything that pleased him. Incredibly wealthy and yet, at the same time, fond of the simple things in life—aside from Zidane. He never really connected with Moggi and Giraudo—maybe with Bettega.
One day, toward the end of my period in Turin, Agnelli asked to meet with me alone. He gave me an hour of his time, a conversation in which he expressed affection and confidence. “We didn’t win the championship, but we had a good season. You’re a good person, Carlo. And remember, that’s what matters most in life.”
Sure. And, in fact, the next day I was fired.
CHAPTER 18
The End of a Story that Never Began
One hundred and forty-four. That’s one-four-four. It’s like the old emergency hotline number of the last century—144. “Give us a call, Juventus fans. My name is Carletto, and, pig though I may be, I’ll make your wildest fantasies come true. All but one: winning the Scudetto.”
During my time as coach of Juventus, we scored 144 points in two seasons, and twice I took the team to second place. Other teams became champions of Italy, though. First Lazio, then in the second year, Roma. In that period, the Italian capital came alive. If you would like the universal deluge unleashed upon Perugia, please press one; if you prefer a goal by Nakata, press two; if you wish to speak with a (smooth) operator, call Moggi on a Swiss cell phone. The one thing you can be sure of is that he will always answer. We were beaten the first time by a rainstorm; the second time, the following season, by a goal put in by a Japanese player who technically wouldn’t even have been allowed to play if it weren’t for the fact that they managed at the last minute to get rid of the rules on players from outside the European Community.
Without delay, Juventus decided to get rid of me. They made the decision, but no one had the courage to inform me. No one but the sports journalists in Turin, who seemed to have known all about it in advance: “Carletto, you know that, after this season, they’re going to fire you, don’t you? They’ve already cut a deal with Lippi.”
“Stop pulling my leg.”
“We’re totally serious; you’re a dead man walking.”
Take that. I’ve always had excellent relations with Turinese sports reporters. Maybe the fact that almost none of them were Juventus fans helped.
“Boys, you’ve lost your minds. I have a contract in my office.”
“Take another look at it. Maybe it’s a cell phone contract. Maybe Moggi named you responsible for the bills for his seven cell phones.…”
Everyone was ready for their television appearance. I’ve certainly heard of coaches fired through the press—lots of them—but I’ve never heard of a coach fired by the mass media themselves. And that’s what was happening to me.
I couldn’t believe it; my contract had just been renewed—at the end of a ferocious battle,