Carlo Ancelotti_ The Beautiful Games of an Ordinary Genius - Alessandro Alciato [8]
For sticklers about dates, it was May 2008. Abramovich wanted to know everything about me, about the way I work, about my philosophy. He was looking for a team with a clear identity. As he told me: “Like Manchester United, Liverpool, or Milan—certainly not my Chelsea.” As he talked, my curiosity grew. He was nothing like the monster described in the press. Quite the opposite. The first thing that struck me was how shy he seemed to be. The second thing was what an expert he was on soccer: he knew the game inside out. The third thing was his ravenous appetite for success: “My dear Ancelotti, I want to win. I want to win everything.” In fact, he immediately reminded me of someone, another team owner, if you follow my drift … After all was said and done, I came away with an excellent impression of him. The hour flew by, an hour’s conversation in which he never once mentioned money. “Goodbye, look forward to meeting you again soon.”
And now here we are. The Hotel George V, a luxurious place just a short walk from the Champs-Elysées, with a magnificent terrace overlooking all of Paris and, for that matter, today at least, London. I thank the cabbie-torpedo-psychoanalyst as I get out of the car, I give him a generous tip—better safe than sorry—and I proceed toward my top-secret destination. Abramovich and me, Act II.
This has to remain a secret, no one can know about it. That’s one thing everyone agrees on. I’m wearing sunglasses, I scan the street with the expression of a well-trained secret agent: check, it’s all clear, no photographers loitering outside the hotel lobby. Just a few blocks from here, yesterday, they caught Massimo Moratti having lunch with José Mourinho—the chairman and the future coach of Inter. I can’t let that happen to me. Nope, the coast is clear, no one looks suspicious, I can go in. What a magnificent lobby, what a luxurious atmosphere. What … the fuck? No, it can’t be. I can’t believe my eyes. Clear across the lobby, in a secluded corner, is Federico Pastorello, an Italian soccer agent, and a close personal acquaintance. Do you know the sound of the buzzer when a contestant gets something wrong on a quiz show? Well, as I’m standing there in the lobby of the Hotel George V, that’s the sound that’s echoing in my ears. And beneath it, a tiny little voice that sounds a lot like my own, whispering: “asshole.” No, listen closer. That’s “Asshole.” With a capital ‘A.’
Now what do I do? I hide. Over there, on the far side of the lobby, there’s a little sitting room, an alcove, that’ll be perfect. If I move fast, I can just duck in. Whew! I’m safe. No, I’m not. I hear the buzzer, I hear that tiny familiar voice. Maybe I’m being featured on an episode of Candid Camera—there sits a close friend and colleague. Another Italian coach, in fact, who works in a city that is dear to my heart. I laugh. “So what are you doing here?”
“No, what are you doing here?”
I laugh again. This port in a storm, this chance refuge is starting to seem crowded. For a brief instant, I feel as if I’m at the supermarket. All of us here for a meeting with this chairman, but the merchandise on display is us. A waiting room for the two of us, or maybe for three, or a hundred, who knows how many of us there are. Awareness dawns, I feel a chill, but still, I’m here to meet with him. I step downstairs. He’s waiting for me in a grand meeting room, designed for a much larger crowd. Sitting around the table are the same people who were there in Geneva.
I want to make one thing