Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [47]
“Two and a half billion lire, thank you.”
The least I expected was a “you’re welcome.” But that’s not what I got. Since they did everything at the same time, like a synchronized swimming team, they all stood up brusquely—all three at the same moment—turned on their heels, and left the room. Every movement was perfect, not a second’s hesitation, perfect coordination. I wonder if they practiced that little exercise. First the right leg, then the left leg, torso erect, head turned toward me, ferocious expression, about-face, hup-two, three, four, parade-step toward the door. Moggi swung the door open, Giraudo and Bettega moved their arms like Moggi, as if they were going to open the door too, and then … they were gone, slamming the door behind them. Oh, lovely routine; I’d give that a solid ten. Perfectly synchronized. That wasn’t the Triad, those were three little mermaids at the Olympics. And me? An asshole, sitting there all alone in the meeting room. Twenty minutes later, Moggi stuck his head in the door: “What are you still doing here?”
“Could we agree on two billion lire? …”
“Beat it.”
“How about 1.7 billion?”
“Get the hell out of here!”
Beginning the following day, our discussions moved to the pages of the newspapers, in the sense that they would issue statements and I would read what they had to say—including the statements of Umberto Agnelli: “Here we seem to be dealing with someone who’s gotten a swollen head.” That wasn’t exactly fair. My head was oversize, no question, but it had been since birth. Anyway, we came to an understanding after another couple of meetings. Me and the black-and-white synchronized swimming mermaids.
Still, I couldn’t relax. It was all the fault of my friends the sports journalists; they kept pestering me about it: “You’re out, Carletto, resign yourself to it. They made a deal with Lippi back in December.”
I heard them say it so many times that, just before the time came to put my signature on the renewal, I decided to put in a call to Milan’s team manager, Ariedo Braida: “Listen, I’m about to complete negotiations for a renewal of my contract. If there are any opportunities for me to come coach for you next year, I’ll wait.” I wanted to send a signal, create an alternative for myself. But I’d only created an alternative universe in my head, because Braida started to stammer and hesitate: “Well, Carletto, see … you understand … how can I put this … I’m not sure we can go against Juventus.” And in fact, they couldn’t: the two teams were practically a single entity. Mil-entus. Or Juv-ilan. “We can’t take away their coach; it would be crossing a line.”
Moreover, Braida had left out a few details; he’d already hired Fatih Terim, aka Imparator, but he couldn’t tell me that yet.
Before long, the Triad would torpedo me. One morning, after the Juventus–Roma match, which ended with a 2–2 draw—the match with Nakata’s goal, the match of the reversal from a 2—0 lead, the match where Edwin van der Sar showed off the team specialty, penalties ad ballseam—I received a phone call from Umberto Agnelli’s office: “Come to Fiat headquarters, please. It’s urgent. The Dottore wants to speak to you.”
Since I didn’t know all that much about manufacturing automobiles, I had a funny feeling I already knew what the topic of conversation was likely to be. To make sure, I called Moggi.
“Ahò, Carletto, e che vuoi?” he greeted me on the phone: Carletto, what do you want now?
“Listen, Luciano, the Dottore called me on the phone. He wants to see me. Do you have any