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I don’t actually remember that much about the game, but I remember everything about the aftermath. We were in our hotel, by the big and luxurious swimming pool, just outside of Athens. There was a party with a hundred or so people, and when the outsiders finally left, we went over to poolside, where there was a little bar for the hotel guests, a sort of kiosk. We drank it dry in the first five minutes; not a drop of alcohol was left untouched. Whiskey, Sambuca, rum, grappa, beer: it was all slurped down in one massive collective gulp. Those of us who weren’t completely sloshed started a running bet on who would be the first to fall into the pool; we were all at high risk of drowning. We were stumbling, but we were determined to keep partying. Since we were the European champions, we maintained a certain demeanor: no one fell in the pool, but many of us collapsed on the poolside asphalt—which hurt more. In the meantime, Serginho had wrapped his arms around me and was practically in tears: “Carlo, you are my father.”

I did some rapid mental calculations; it just wasn’t possible. “What are you saying, Sergio? You’re older than me …”

“You’re my dad.”

“No, Sergio, really. You’re far too ugly to be my son.”

“Dad …”

“Cut it out. How the hell can I explain this to Katia and Davide, my two real children?”

And he started tousling my hair, like a three-year-old. How the fuck had we ever won the championship? The cup—poor little thing—had wound up in bed with Galliani, once again. Maybe this was true love.

Before long, our managing director would have a second chance, when we won the European Super Cup (against Seville) and the International Cup (A. C. Milan–Boca Juniors, 4–2, and our chance at vindication—a way to forget the final we lost to them in 2003). Every cup we lift into the air means a night of torrid love for Galliani. That’s why he hated it when we lost.

CHAPTER 26

Once Upon a Time, I Signed a Contract with Real Madrid

Tortellini y merengues, the royal banquet is served. Look at it and you’ll gain weight; eat it and you’ll go down in history. The history of a city, a team, a nation. An actor in a stunningly beautiful movie. Camiseta blanca and a dinner jacket. I was invited to the royal ball, and I went: “Don Carlo, Señores. I am here to train you.”

In 2006, I accepted an offer from Real Madrid, and, I have to say, it wasn’t a difficult decision. A wonderful prospect, the scent of life. It was April 2006, and A. C. Milan’s triumphant return, crowned in Athens, had not yet begun, but Real Madrid had already understood everything: “We want you. You’re the best.” The Best, because the title of The Special One had already been taken: José Mourinho had assigned it, to none other than José Mourinho.

I was curious to understand what it was like to live on a normal team bench, without excessive tremors and vibrations under my ass. They came looking for me, and I signed happily. A preliminary contract, for three years, and fifteen million euros—five million euros a season, almost twice what I was earning at Milan. Pure, unadulterated luxury. Independent journalists had sensed that something was going on, and they reported on it; less independent journalists took care of denying everything on my behalf. Too kind, you really shouldn’t have.

During negotiations, I never met Florentino Pérez in person, but undoubtedly he had been the first to suggest my name. He was the jefe of just about everything, the second king of Spain, after Juan Carlos. He wrote the shopping list. He had put down my name, and it was an exciting thing. The only problem was that they’d need a plus-size grocery cart to hold me. The idea of me at the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu; let’s just hope nobody calls security.

The decisive meeting had been in Milan over dinner, between me and Ramón Martínez, who was Real Madrid’s technical director at the time. We spent a couple of hours talking about players and the reason that I had been first choice: “We like the way you deploy your team, we like the way