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By Root 355 0

to the team; on Wednesday I moved into my office, the legendary Room Number 5, the first door when you climb the stairs from the front door at Milanello. It’s the biggest office there, a bed on the left, bookshelves and a desk on the right, mini-fridge in a corner, and a heavy coating of history whatever direction you look. There’s a balcony—vast, really a terrace—looking out over the fields; stand up, open the window, and you’re on the job. If you have good eyesight, you can see even further and look into the future, because, all things considered, everything goes past that window and that desk. Everything that you can dream up at night, when you can’t seem to fall asleep. Room Number 5 has always been the coach’s office; the first time I walked into that room, I had a distinct impression. I could sense an array of presences. I was sleeping in the bed that had belonged to Nereo Rocco, Arrigo Sacchi, and Fabio Capello. And also Óscar Wáshington Tabárez, admittedly.

In the old days, Capello—under the influence, I believe, of the director of the sports center, Antore Peloso—used to claim that there was a ghost in Milanello, wandering freely down the hallways, especially after sunset. I never understood which was crazier, Don Fabio or that ghost, who had decided to pick on him of all people. It really got to be a problem. I can still see Capello, shoulders thrown back, chest swelling with righteous indignation, as if in an imitation of Antonio Cassano: “Begone! Go fuck yourself, evil spirit. This is not a team of dead men.”

My A. C. Milan in that first year, though, was not that far removed from a team of the dead: it was sloppy, ill thought out, halfhearted. Along with Terim, the team had acquired a number of first-rate footballers, such as Inzaghi and Rui Costa, but first one then the other was injured. I had already played with Maldini, Costacurta, and Albertini, and that helped me out at first, at least in terms of relations.

It was a so-so season. The real story of that A. C. Milan began in Bologna. In the wake of a defeat: 2–0 in favor of the hosts of the game, while we were buried in shame. We played miserably. That match made me lose my temper in a way that hadn’t happened in the previous eight years; for the first and (almost) the only time, I turned the locker room on its head in a bout of fury. I was looking at a team without enthusiasm, without motivation, without ambition, and I just couldn’t hold my anger in. I slammed my fist down on the table, kicked the door with my foot, broke a bottle, and started to shout. I insulted everyone and everything. I attacked them on a personal level, I intentionally said cruel and abusive things, I reminded them that it’s one thing to do something stupid, it’s another thing to be stupid. Which is what they all seemed to be right then and there. That talk shook them up, and it changed the course of our history as a team, for the better. After that nightmarish ninety minutes, we were six points down from being in fourth place, just that far from the Champions League; at the end of the season, we came in fourth. But we lost Albertini, who decided to go in search of greener pastures after I benched him during the game against Juventus in Turin: “Carlo, I really didn’t expect this from you. We’ve played together as teammates, I thought we had a different relationship. This marks the end of everything.” He left, and I was sorry; it hurt me. He could have stayed as an alternative to Pirlo, who was just beginning to emerge.

At the end of that first year, we were playing with a 4-4-2 formation, and the starting lineup was as follows: Abbiati in goal; four-man defense with Contra, Laursen, Costacurta, and Maldini; Gattuso, Pirlo, Ambrosini, and Serginho in midfield; Shevchenko and Inzaghi up front. Many of the same names play from the first minute even today …

CHAPTER 20

King in England, Thanks to the Christmas Tree

It was a holiday every day of the year during my second season on the bench for A. C. Milan. I was the gardener who worked on Christmas Day. You turn the soil here