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I kept the promise I’d made. I went back to Milanello, and there was a bench waiting for me. Also waiting for me was the manager of the Milanello sports center, Antore Peloso: “Welcome back home, Carletto.” Galliani was still there, such a permanent fixture that the answer to that persistent question is shrouded in the mists of time: Did Berlusconi build Adriano Galliani before he built Milanello? Which came first: his egg-shaped head or the hen that laid golden eggs? Over the years, I’ve gotten to know Galliani. He has red-and-black blood flowing through his veins. His mood and his very existence depend exclusively on the score at the end of the match. If A. C. Milan wins, then everything’s fine. If they lose, then good luck to everyone. He’s a manager with a desk; he’s a soccer fan with a stadium—two souls compressed into a single body. Someone planned him out the way he is, without a wig. When A. C. Milan scores a goal, he is transfigured, he celebrates as if he were in a movie: Poltergeist. He’s a first-class executive, extremely competent, unrivaled in his mastery of the art of administration. For the things that he has accomplished, the people of the Milan tribe should be eternally grateful. He is Berlusconi’s right-hand and left-hand man: if the chairman is absent, Galliani is all too present.

Galliani and I have always enjoyed an excellent relationship; we’ve never exchanged harsh words, we’ve never been on terms of anything less than complete respect, even if over the years there have been arguments at times, always over the use of this player or that. There was one argument in particular, in Madrid, during my second season as coach. We were playing in the Champions League, and we’d already progressed into the second round. We were scheduled to play against Real Madrid. During training, I was trying out a formation filled with reserve players. Galliani watched without saying a word. Then we went back to the hotel and ate dinner. After the meal, he took me aside: “You aren’t seriously planning to field that formation are you?”

“Well, actually, yes, I am.”

“Then you’ve lost your mind.”

“We’ve already passed that point, we need to think ahead to the championship season …”

“We are A. C. Milan, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, let me explain a thing or two.”

He gave me a lesson in geography: “We’re in Madrid.”

A lesson in history: “Whoever wins here will be remembered for all time.”

A lesson in religion: “The Estadio Santiago Bernabéu is a temple, a shrine.”

And a lesson in philosophy: “Power consists of conviction, and I am deeply convinced that you are getting everything backward.”

Last of all, he gave me a warning: “And remember, I’m not an idiot.”

I’ll keep that in mind. But, in the meantime, I’m sticking to my guns because, as I have mentioned once or twice before, I decide on the formation—me and nobody else. We lost, 3–1, and Galliani came charging back. With the usual warning, slightly modified from the pregame version: “And please remember, I am not an idiot”—even though the fans might have begged to differ, more than once, especially after the renewal of certain contracts for players who were certainly ready for retirement.

In reality, Galliani understood perfectly that the secret to making A. C. Milan a great team is the sense of loyalty and identification on the part of the players—a sense that required training, like everything else. The more time they spend together, the better. Pride goeth before a high ranking. Even old age can serve a valid purpose, within reason. The air that you breathe at Milanello is special, a mixture of oxygen and pixie dust; in your lungs you can feel the gratitude toward those who have given so much to this team. Galliani is always there, he never wavers, 24/7 he is at the service of A. C. Milan. That’s passion, not work. Adriano Emergency Rescue Service: by day, by night, anytime.

Galliani worked closely with me from the beginning, from the instant I arrived. On a Monday, I signed the contract; on Tuesday I was introduced