Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [71]
But that’s all right. When I see kids playing in a little field, I get emotional. This is the point we’re at: “Go, boys, only one out of a thousand ever makes it.” Without wanting a lawsuit from Gianni Morandi for the lyrics of the song, I can safely state that I am that one out of a thousand.
April 1, 2009, was an interesting day. I don’t think I’m an April fool; if anything, I’m good for the whole year. More than a fluke of destiny, let’s say it was a bit of April foolishness. That fits with my personality. Until seven in the evening, I was mostly thinking in English. After lunch, I gave an interview to the Sky TV channel, which I still remember in considerable detail. That’s what happens on special days, whether good or bad—they are in any case unforgettable.
“Carlo, what do you see in your future?”
“I have a contract until 2010 with A. C. Milan, so I’m staying.”
“Can we say that you are staying for certain?”
“You can say that I’m staying.”
“How many lies have you told in this interview?”
“One or two, a few, just to defend myself …”
“If we see you again in a couple of months, will we be able to say which of the things you just told us are lies?”
“In a couple of months, sure.”
In other words, I was making it clear, in the gentlest way imaginable, that I would be leaving. Certainly I was starting to prepare for my departure, sowing the seeds for it. I had been taking intensive English lessons for a while, and it was no accident. Three lessons a week, a model student. The pen is on the table, and my name is Carlo. That afternoon, I answered the questions with a ferocious expression on my face I had learned how to adopt, because I knew what the next phase was likely to be. An appointment that evening in Adriano Galliani’s office at number 3, Via Turati. Headquarters, once again. A scene I’d already seen and experienced. Déjà vu. The same characters but a brand new proposal (much more than a proposal …). In some ways, an indecent proposal. The proposal from Chelsea Football Club.
“Good evening, Carletto.”
“Good evening, Mr. Galliani.”
His expression was darker than mine, I started feeling shivers running up my back. Shivers of joy, among other things. It was a surprise.
“Listen, Galliani, I have something to tell you. I’m thinking of going to coach Chelsea.”
“That’s entirely out of the question.”
Brusque. Verging on the violent. My vice president was like a broken record. It was the same answer he gave when he refused to let me leave to coach Real Madrid. The same six words—seven, if you include the contraction.
“So you want me to stay?”
“Of course we want you to stay.”
Our meeting continued over dinner, at Da Giannino, the restaurant in Milan where people meet to negotiate contracts and deals. In reality, it was already all decided, but we did our best to work out an understanding: “We’ll make the final decision after the end of the championship finals, so after May 31. In the meantime, we’ll qualify for the next Champions League.”
There were almost two months to go. We were in the big room, the one with the megascreen television. We watched Italy vs. Ireland, Giovanni Trapattoni against Marcello Lippi, whom some people already considered my designated successor from 2010 on, after the South Africa World Cup. I felt light on my feet, even though I looked like a bull, and that was the real miracle. A homemade miracle, just to be clear—not something crafted in the luxurious drawing room of His Mourinho-ness. He, while the game was being broadcast live, was on the Piero Chiambretti show, comparing Himself to Jesus. Forgive him, for he knows not what he says. I do. And I often think of everything that led up to this day.
My life has a specific