Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [65]
During that whole period, the players were great—caring and kind. They let me know they were rooting for me. They weren’t indifferent to what was happening. In Munich, thanks to Ambrosini, I rediscovered the beloved Christmas Tree formation. We won 2–0. Even Pippo scored: he aimed at the bottom right corner, the ball wound up in the top left corner, from an offside position. It was a classic Inzaghi-style goal. We went to the semifinals against Manchester United, with Liverpool against Chelsea; come on, we can do this.
The first match was at Old Trafford. We were ahead, 2–1; we lost 3–2. I turned into a genuine oaf. Sir Alex Ferguson invited me, according to tradition, to have a glass of wine with him in his office, but I didn’t go; I was too angry. “Get drunk by yourself, Ancelotti, that’s a better idea.” Before the second leg, I took him a bottle of Tignanello as an apology. It’s a Tuscan red, maybe sixty euros a bottle, something like that—not three hundred euros a bottle, the way they do at Inter.
The second leg of the semifinal was a perfect match. We played as if we were in an enchanted world. We felt like Alice in Wonderland, but we were the wonders. Ninety minutes of excitement and glory. Thrills and shivers from the cold, because it was raining like God really meant it, which made it all the more magical. The classic question I get from the fans is, Where did you get that monstrous level of performance—that incredible 3–0 game, with goals by Kaká, Seedorf, and Gilardino? Fifty percent in Istanbul and fifty percent in Milanello the evening before.
Twenty-four hours before we played, Liverpool had played its home semifinal game against Chelsea. That evening, our athletic center, for all practical purposes, no longer existed; it had been replaced by a bank of stands. The mythical Kop of Anfield had been moved to Carnago, in the province of Varese, the hearth and threshold of the rossineri world. The party was here in our meeting rooms, with thirty bloodthirsty fans hunkered around the television set. You’ll Never Walk Alone, Liverpool. There we were, Milanisti wrapped in red scarves. We were shouting and howling against Chelsea (I solemnly swear it’ll never happen again …); Liverpool team hats and toy trumpets were pulled out at one point. It was one chorus after another. The only things missing were bottles of beer and free-form belching, otherwise the ceremony was complete. It went just as we had hoped. Liverpool made it to the finals. Whereupon we all looked one another in the face and thought the same thing: We’ve already won. Against Manchester and against Liverpool. We could even have skipped the matches, it was all written by destiny. Milan fans know the second perfect game very well—the one against Liverpool. What they don’t know is that, in fact, we had already played it the day before.
Athens, here we come. I told you that’s how it would turn out, boys. Galliani in the meantime was exhausted, his arm was sore; he’d had to retighten all the bolts on my bench. There was a sense of euphoria that is still impossible to describe. We knew that the Champions League was ours for the taking, while Liverpool knew they were doomed. Until just a few hours before the final match, I nurtured only a single doubt, concerning the striker. I hadn’t decided who would play that position, Gilardino or Inzaghi. Alberto was feeling better, while Pippo was Pippo. Even though they’d never admit it now, a number of players came to ask me one thing: “You aren’t thinking of letting Pippo play, are you? Don’t you see the shape he’s in?”
He was indeed half dead, and yet I knew that those were his nights. And before a challenge of that sort, everyone shows up, clamoring for a position, even guys on crutches. Ready to go out on the field, from the first minute to the last. I chose Inzaghi,