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Click. Boom. He slammed the phone down in its cradle. Just as I thought: he wants to fire me.

I showed up for the appointment. Umberto Agnelli didn’t waste words: “My dear Ancelotti, the new Juventus coach is Marcello Lippi.”

You don’t say. Who’d have thought it? My last game with Juventus was in Turin, against Atalanta. At the end of the match, I entered the press room and the journalists—the ones who knew what was going to happen long before I figured it out—burst into a lengthy applause. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it, but that moment moved me deeply. Like a child. Because I understood that they loved me and that—aw, shucks—I loved them. That I loved Marco Ansaldo and Fabio Vergnano of La Stampa. That I loved Luciano Bertolani of the Corriere dello Sport, who was a bigger Lazio fan than Claudio Lotito. That I loved Paolo Forcolin of La Gazzetta. That I loved Vittorio Oreggia and Camillo Forte of Tuttosport. And that I loved Emanuele Gamba of La Repubblica, a claret-colored fan of Torino from head to foot, just like Aurelio Benigno, who wrote for a thousand different papers. Very simply, I thought of them as fellow adventurers. Over the years, I told a bushel of lies to journalists, too, but it was a survival technique. Between them and the three-headed monster, I often chose the three-headed monster. Still, that burst of applause was a sign of affection—the last good thing I remember from my time as the Juventus coach.

Not even the journalists were able to help me answer one question. And that one doubt remains even now: if the Triad had already rehired Lippi, why did they renew my contract anyway?

Envelope A: because we were on a tear for the championship season, and they wanted to keep my morale up and let me do my job without distractions.

Envelope B: they were about to acquire Buffon and Thuram from Parma, and I was on excellent terms with them.

Envelope C: they didn’t want me to go to a major club like Milan, which is something that couldn’t have happened anyway, since the rossineri had already picked Terim.

I never could make up my mind between envelopes A, B, and C. I never quite understood it, but maybe the solution of the puzzle is simpler than I thought. They tricked me, to keep me on their side. A stratagem to make me still feel I was the best.

The Dottore, however, attempted to give me an explanation, at least about why he decided not to renew my position as coach: “Ancelotti, you don’t get along with people. There’s a problem with the atmosphere.” Okay, then maybe you should call Greenpeace. I never believed that. My theory? I think they fired me because I hadn’t managed to win.

During my time coaching Juventus, I met one of the players who was destined to make me a success: the legendary Pippo. Pippo Inzaghi who, though he is pushing forty, still eats Plasmon biscuits. The discovery of the century. When I first arrived at Juventus, he was out of commission with a sports hernia. Still, we immediately hit it off; we had an instinctive understanding.

Pippo has always been something of an animal. If I think of the perfect striker, he’s certainly not the first one to come to mind. He’s an incomplete player. Still, inside the penalty area, no player on earth can compete with him. He woos and seduces the soccer ball. Inside that limited area, he scores in every way imaginable: striking with his right foot, his left foot, with cannon shots, ricochets, shots off the thigh, the shin, back heels, with eyes shut tight, shots off his ass (often off his ass), with his fingertip, goals off of penalty kicks gone astray, off his ear, his big toe, through mind control, and even with his shoelace. There are times when another player scores and he celebrates anyway. My favorite description of Inzaghi is by Emiliano Mondonico: “Is Pippo in love with goals? No, goals are in love with him.” And it’s a red-hot passion.

Inzaghi and Del Piero made a good pair, but they got along only in theory. The problem was always the usual problem between players. One of them was the least selfless player on