Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [68]
“Excuse me?”
“That’s entirely out of the question, Carletto. You stay here, we’ll extend your contract. We don’t want to give you up. We need the work you do here. We must go forward together.”
I’ll confess that at times like that I felt like a genuine musketeer. One for all and all for one—which can be rendered in its Milan-fan slang version: Berlusconi for all, and all for Berlusconi.
Galliani went on: “You’ve done great work here with us, so I can’t let you leave. At this point in time, there is no such thing as A. C. Milan without you. Our story hasn’t come to an end yet.”
“But …”
“No buts. You are, and you will remain, the coach of A. C. Milan.”
It was as if he were symbolically handing me all the nuts and bolts he had removed from my bench over the years. Only symbolically, of course; otherwise, it would have taken a three-quarter-ton truck to haul off all that scrap metal. And I didn’t happen to have one with me.
I have to say I took it well. Very well. “If that’s how things stand, Signore Galliani, then I’ll be delighted to stay on.”
“I repeat, we’ll extend your contract and adjust it to your satisfaction.”
That wasn’t really what mattered. The important thing was the faith he had expressed in me. No price can be set on feeling loved and valued. These are emotions, and therefore priceless. When Real Madrid told me, “You’re the best,” they had certainly hit the right note—the same note that the Triad had sounded a few years before them. Cuddle me and feed me, and I’m happy.
So I called up Real Madrid and told them about my conversation with Galliani: “He told me that I can’t accept your offer. But I thank you; it’s been an honor to negotiate with you.” At home, I still have that pre-contract in a box with all my most important things. It’s a souvenir of a nice, adrenaline-charged period. Ramón Martínez was very nice to me: “I expected it to turn out this way, but it was a good experience for us too. We’ll see you again; let’s stay in touch.”
At that point, they focused their attention on Fabio Capello, who had already worked for them once. The Spanish press began pairing his name with mine in articles. The way they told it, it had turned into a battle between him and me, an all-Italian derby; in reality, I had already signed a pre-contract, but I had also already rejected their offer. At a certain point, Capello got angry and issued a statement that made me smile with fond indulgence: “You think Real Madrid wants Ancelotti? Excuse me, but whom did they call first?”
He thought he was the only candidate; actually—that time, at least—they had called me first, and I had even answered. Often my friends make jokes about that famous phrase. Whenever I invite one of them for dinner: “Sure, Carletto, we’ll be there. But whom did you invite first?” It’s become a catchphrase, an all-purpose joke.
People have called me from Real Madrid. There have been numerous contacts between Florentino Pérez and me; we’ve chatted and traded opinions. He is a person I respect; he knows what he’s doing and what he wants. He loves Real Madrid first and foremost; he’s a softhearted romantic, just like me. We like soccer, we love life, we enjoy entertaining people. We see eye-to-eye on many points. The last time we talked, he told me one thing in particular: “Carlo, someday you will be my coach.”
CHAPTER 27
We’ll Beat the Bastard
I never engaged in doping when I played soccer. I took adrenal-cortex injections, like everyone did, but it was legal and legitimate. You were allowed. Some doctors even prescribed it. “It helps to recover from fatigue,” they told us, and, in fact, you felt less tired. Today, I am slightly dopey, but that state of mental confusion is a result of age—of my endless nomadic roaming, in my thoughts, from A.