Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [49]
That’s how it was between me and Juventus: a love story that was over before it began. We were too different—different in every way. I was a boy from the country, they were managers—executives in jackets and ties. A Swatch up against three Rolexes—plastic versus gold. Still, I respected them from the very first to the very last day. When they sent me to Felegara for the winter, I didn’t really suffer much. In fact, I didn’t mind in the slightest. Often, when a door closes, the gate swings open. And just when you least expect it, off in the distance, with an awe-inspiring echo, you hear the voice of a chairman repeating a phrase you heard a few years earlier: “I want to win everything. We’ll become the masters of Italy, Europe, and the world.” Oh, Lord, he still hasn’t stopped drinking.
Still, when Berlusconi calls, I can’t help it; I’m there.
CHAPTER 19
How I Lost my Temper and Gained my A. C. Milan
Fatih Terim doesn’t know it, but the reason that he was replaced at A. C. Milan was primarily culinary in nature. His downfall had a lot to do with the delicious Italian cold cut culatello. It was November 2001, just a few days after the Day of the Dead: in memoriam for the Imparator, relieved of his post and replaced by me. Galliani started laughing after he chose me as his new coach: “My dear Ancelotti, I’m happy.”
“Thank you. Your expression of esteem fills me with joy.”
“I was saying I’m happy because at last, with you, we can change the menu at Milanello.”
In other words, Galliani had picked me because, with that other coach, the food was so bad. Maybe he’d found me in the Michelin guide: Trattoria Da Carletto, reservations suggested. Perhaps he decided to call ahead. “Pronto, this is Adriano. Could you add one guest to the party? We’ll probably be ordering culatello and Felino salami for the whole table.”
Maybe the most important consideration was that he could start guzzling wine again. Whenever Galliani orders a meal, there’s plenty of wine.
Terim, in contrast, maintained a steady diet of thin broth and tap water, an intolerable affront to Galliani’s senses. There was another thing: Terim was a Big Brother addict, so he’d often leave Galliani to finish lunch alone and run back to the privacy of his room, alone in front of the television set. He wanted to see if the people in the House were having sex. They did, as it happened—then Milan screwed him. To avoid any risk, when I signed the contract, I raised my right hand and put my left hand on my heart: “I swear that I’ll always put A. C. Milan ahead of any and all cast members of Big Brother. Cross my heart.”
In a not-too-distant past, for that matter, I had sworn an oath that one day I’d coach the rossineri. I had just started coaching Reggiana, and I was a guest at Sebastiano Rossi’s wedding. In the church, I went over to Galliani and started whispering sweet blandishments in his ear: “Adriano, everything I do in the years to come will be nothing but an apprenticeship. One day, I’m going to coach A. C. Milan, and you’re going to hire me.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, Carletto. But now get your lips off my ear, please. It looks like we’re the ones getting married.”
It was like that time in Rome, at the Palazzo al Velabro, the first time we met. I was starting to develop a taste for this. Rossi was at the altar, exchanging vows; Galliani