BackPage Press Copyright © Andrea Pirlo and Alessandro Alciato, 2013 English translation copyright © Mark Palmer, 2014 All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by BackPage Press ISBN 978 1 90943 016 7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the publisher A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Design and typeset by Freight Design Cover photograph by Vivien Lavau Indexing by David Toner Ebook production by Laura Kincaid, tenthousand creative services www.backpagepress.co.uk @BackPagePress For my family, my wife and my children. A simple dedication for special people Andrea Pirlo For Niccolò – because every day is Christmas Alessandro Alciato Contents Introduction Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Photos Index Thanks Introduction By Cesare Prandelli, Italy manager Andrea Pirlo is a player who belongs to everyone. Guys like him should be a protected species. Every ground is Andrea’s ground – fans look at him and see a universal champion, capable of taking them beyond the concept of supporting a single team. They see Italy. Truth be told, it wouldn’t surprise me if Andrea went to bed at night wearing blue pyjamas, the same colour as the Azzurri jersey. His love for that shirt is immense; absolutely boundless. Before speaking about the Andrea of today (and tomorrow, and forever), we need to go back to the days when I coached the Atalanta youth teams. My responsibility was the Allievi,1 and during the week there was always a lot of chat about the toughest opponents and most exciting young talents we’d come up against over the season. Naturally we’d reference Milan and Inter, but most of all we’d talk about Brescia. That rivalry was all about local pride. As we prepared for training one day, one of my assistants burst into the changing room completely out of breath. “Cesare, I’ve seen a really talented kid. Insanely good. Trouble is, he plays for the Brescia Giovanissimi.”2 What struck me wasn’t so much what he’d said, rather the incredulous look on his face. This was a guy who’d watched hundreds of games in his time. As luck would have it, the following week Atalanta Giovanissimi were down to play that self-same Brescia team. A side where a slight little kid two or three years younger than his team-mates was bobbing and weaving his way round the pitch. That kid’s name was Pirlo. He left me speechless. I’d never seen anything like it. I got the distinct impression that everyone was watching him and him alone, thinking the exact same thing: “This is the one. This is the new talent.” In the eyes of others, he’s never been a child. Pirlo brings people together because he is football. He’s the most skilful type of player, someone who’s never done anything horribly wrong – he’s the essence of the game. For that reason, he’s recognised as a global talent, a player who sends out a positive message with every touch he takes. The message is that sometimes even normal guys can be truly exceptional. Those of us lucky enough to be in Bergamo that day bore witness to his ability. On the pitch, he goes about his business with a disarming nonchalance. Few and far between are the players even capable of conceiving of some of the things he does. It’s no surprise that at the end of every Italy game, there’s a queue of opposition players outside our dressing room wanting to swap shirts with him. They like him, too. The really extraordinary thing is that Andrea is a silent leader – something that’s not easy to find in the world of football. Back in my playing days, before I became a coach, I got to know a fantastic man, Gaetano Scirea.3 It’s uncanny how closely Andrea resembles him. Their way of conducting themselves is identical. On the rare occasions when these silent leaders choose to say something, the rest of the dressing room shuts up and listens. I’ve witnessed this first-hand on a couple of memorable occasions. The first was as a team-mate of Gaetano’s, the second with Andrea as coach of the Italian national team. I’ll never forget those experiences. In the first instance I was full of awe; in the second, admiration. The lesson was pretty clear: people who keep their voices down reap the rewards later on. And those rewards include the unconditional respect of the people round about them. In this book Andrea says, and I quote: “After the 2014 World Cup in Brazil, I’m going to retire from international football. I’ll be hanging up my heart. Until that day, nobody must dare ask me to stop, apart from Cesare Prandelli, should he have tactical reasons.” I can say for definite that I won’t. The most difficult thing for a coach is to say “enough” to a real talent. A choice like that ideally should be made in tandem with the player. But, really, it’s not even worth discussing: I can’t think of a single reason why I’d leave Andrea out between now and the World Cup. People like him and Gigi Buffon embody the true spirit of Italy. If everyone had the same respect for that shirt, our world would be a better place. After so many battles, their motivation remains exactly the same as it was the first day they stepped into the environment. Andrea was born dreaming, and to allow us to dream. Thinking about it, he’s still the kid I saw all those years ago, pulling on a Brescia strip that was somewhat bigger than him. There was a time when Atalanta Youths could have signed him, but it would have been a real insult to Brescia. We actually called a meeting to discuss the possibility of bringing him in, but our president Percassi, an enlightened man, understood that we’d have caused a diplomatic incident. I’ll never forget his words: “Pirlo stays where he is. People like him should be left in peace. He needs to keep enjoying himself and playing with happiness. I don’t want him to feel any kind of pressure. He must remain a player who belongs to everyone.” Percassi had understood perfectly. Percassi had understood Pirlo. 1. Literally: “the pupils” 2. Literally: “the very young ones” 3. Having started out with Atalanta, Scirea, a sweeper, was at the heart of Juventus and Italy success in the late 1970s and 1980s, including the 1982 World Cup Chapter 1 A pen. Beautiful, granted, but still just a pen. A Cartier: shiny, a little bit heavier than a biro and emblazoned with the Milan club crest. But still just a pen. The ink cartridge was blue. Plain old blue. I looked at the pen, spun it round in my hand like an infant examining its first soft toy. I studied the thing from a few different angles, seeking out hidden depths and meanings. Trying to understand. Trying so hard that I felt a headache coming on and a few drops of sweat slide down my face. Finally, the flash of inspiration arrived. Mystery solved: it was, indeed, just a pen. No added extras. Its inventor had left it at that. Deliberately? Who knows. Suddenly I heard a voice. “For goodness’ sake, don’t use it to sign for Juventus.” Adriano Galliani had at least managed to come up with a decent line. As a leaving present, I’d have expected something a little more than his perfect comic timing. Ten years at Milan, finished, just like that. Still, I raised a smile, because I know how to laugh, loud and long. “Thanks for everything, Andrea.” As the club vice president and chief executive spoke, sat safely behind his desk, I had a look around. I knew his office like the back of my hand. It was a vault in the heart of Milan’s old administrative base on the Via Turati. I had happy memories of that room: other contracts, other pens. And yet I’d never noticed some of the photos on the walls, or had only done so distractedly. Those photos had a weighty history, but the prestige was subtly understated. There was every type of photo on display. Memories of glory days and once- in-a-lifetime occasions. Trophies lifted into the air; clouds always being pushed just that little bit out of shot. My picture was being taken down from the frame, but not by force. Getting bored of Milan was a risk I didn’t want to run. That’s why at that last meeting I was sorry, but just the right amount. Galliani and Tullio Tinti, my agent, both felt the same way. We said our goodbyes without regret. In the space of half an hour (probably not even that), I was out of there. When you’re in love, it’s time you need. When the feeling’s gone, having an excuse can help. “Andrea, our coach Massimiliano Allegri reckons that if you stay, you won’t be able to play in front of the defence. He’s got a different role in mind for you. Still in midfield, but on the left.” One small detail: I still thought I could give of my best playing in front of the defence. If the sea’s deep, a fish can breathe. If you put him just under the surface, he’ll get by, but it’s not quite the same thing. “Even with you sitting on the bench or in the stand we’ve won the league. And you know, Andrea, the strategy’s changed this year. If you’re over 30, we’re only offering a year’s extension.” Another small detail: I’ve never felt old, not even at that very moment. Only indirectly did I get the impression that people were trying to make out I was finished. Even now, I struggle to get my head round their reasoning. “Thanks, but I really can’t accept. There’s a three-year deal on the table at Juventus.” It was a polite ‘no’ for Milan, without money even entering the conversation that spring afternoon in 2011. Not once in those 30 minutes was it ever mentioned. I wanted to be thought of as important, a key player in the club’s plans, not someone about to be thrown on the scrapheap. It was, it seemed, the end of an era and I felt in need of something new. Alarm bells had been ringing ever since the middle of what turned out to be my last season at the club, one ruined by a couple of injuries. I arrived at Milanello for training and realised that I didn’t want to go into the dressing room. Didn’t want to get changed, didn’t want to work. I got on well with everyone and had a normal kind of relationship with Allegri – there was just something in the air. I recognised the walls that over the years had sheltered and protected me, but now I was starting to see cracks. I could sense some kind of draught that was out to make me sick. That inner urge to go somewhere else, to breathe a different air, became ever more pressing and intense. The poetry that had always surrounded me was now becoming routine. It wasn’t something I could ignore. Even the fans maybe wanted a bit of relief. For so many years they’d applauded me at San Siro of a Sunday (and a Saturday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday…), but now perhaps they wanted to stick new faces in their Panini album, hear new stories being told. They’d got used to the things I did, my movements, my creations. They weren’t awestruck any more. In their eyes, the extraordinary was in real danger of becoming normal. You can’t be Pirlo any more. That was a difficult idea to accept. In actual fact, it was deeply unjust. It brought on the start of a sore stomach as I searched in vain for that lost stimulus. I sat down with Alessandro Nesta: friend, brother, team-mate, roomie. A man with whom I’d shared a thousand adventures, and about as many snacks. At half- time in one of our never-ending football games on the PlayStation, I confessed all. “Sandro, I’m leaving.” He didn’t seem surprised. “I’m really sorry to hear that. But it’s the right decision.” After my family, he was the first to find out. I kept him up to speed with everything: step by step, tear by tear. Some weeks were harder than others. A countdown was underway inside of me, but it’s never easy to have to leave a place you know everything about. Including all its secrets. Milan is a little world apart. One that gave much more than it took and, without a shadow of a doubt, stirred strong feelings in me. Sometimes it was dejection mixed with sadness, other times raw emotion. At any rate, it taught me a valuable life lesson: it’s good to cry. Tears are a visible demonstration of who you are; an undeniable truth. I didn’t hold back. I cried and wasn’t ashamed to do so. My boarding card wasn’t so much in my hand as in my head. I was like a passenger at the airport a second before they turn round and wave goodbye to family, friends and enemies. Whether it’s a little or a lot, you always leave something behind. I phoned my agent every day, especially in the period when I was supposed to be recovering from injury, but the desire to really throw myself into it just wasn’t there. Or at least it wasn’t the same as it had been at one time. Massimo Ambrosini and then Mark van Bommel were playing in front of the defence. My house had been broken into – by friends, and not out of badness, but ransacked all the same. I’d been evicted from my much-loved garden, with its patchy grass and bald spots. “Tullio – any news?” There always was; and it was always good to excellent. The more ill at ease I felt at Milan, the greater the pull I seemed to exert in the marketplace – a strange rule of football. I was like the X on a treasure trail. Everyone made enquiries, even Inter. Talk about earthquakes in Milan: if that one had come off, it would probably have broken the seismograph. They rang up Tinti and asked a simple question. “Would Andrea come back here?” Tinti said he’d put it to me. We decided we wouldn’t rule anything out straight away. “Let’s hear what they want,” I said. Turns out they wanted me. But they were slow. Impressive, certainly, but slow. Before they could get down to serious negotiations, they had to wait and see how the season ended up, who was going to be their coach in the new campaign and what the club’s plans and objectives were going to look like. I was contacted directly just the once. I remember it well: it was a Monday morning and the season had just finished. “Hi Andrea, it’s Leo.” On the line was Leonardo, at that point still Inter coach. “Ciao Leo.” “Listen, everything’s finally sorted. I’ve had the green light from president Moratti. We can begin to talk.” He told me some great things about Inter; said he felt really energised and in his element there. It could have been a nice challenge – going back to somewhere I’d already been. Returning to the other side after 10 straight years at Milan, nine of them extraordinary. Leonardo could have helped me settle back in, had he not headed off to Paris St Germain and their sheiks a few weeks down the line. “Andrea, in the new Inter, you’ll have a key role.” I did think about it, but I wouldn’t have been capable of actually doing it. It would have been too much; an affront that the Milan fans wouldn’t have deserved. “Thanks Leo, but I can’t. Last night I signed for Juventus.” I’ll never say which pen I used. Chapter 2 Discarded. Tossed aside. Thrown on the scrapheap. Or maybe deleted, demolished, defused. Or perhaps even filed away, abandoned, buried. Chucked out. If certain people at Milan really did want me to end up like that, their plans ran aground. A Titanic in miniature, if you like, with the famous Milanese fog playing the role of the icebergs. I actually want to thank the people who got their sums so badly wrong. If the calculator hadn’t gone a bit crazy, had the crystal ball that predicts the future not been handled by their overly rough hands, I would never have got to feel like just another guy. A normal person. A six-out-of-10 kind of player. For a brief period, I was living in a kind of virtual reality. I was the other Andrea Pirlo, the one those people wanted to make out I was. The Pirlo I could have been but instead never became. They treated me like I was nothing special, making me wait with bated breath. In reality, it had the opposite effect, strengthening people’s conviction that I was something more. As a kid, and then as an adolescent, I tried to rail against a concept conveyed through a few different words: “unique”, “special”, “preordained”. Over time, I learned to live with it and use it to my advantage. It wasn’t easy for me or for the people who care about me. From an early age, I knew I was a better player than the others, and for that very reason tongues were soon wagging. Everyone talked about me; too much in fact, and not always in a good way. On more than one occasion, my dad, Luigi, had to leave the stand where he was watching and flee to the other side of the pitch, to avoid hearing the nasty comments made by other parents. He got out of there to avoid reacting, or perhaps to avoid becoming too sad. He had nothing to be ashamed of, and so he ignored them, striding away ever faster, like an Italian Forrest Gump. He’d only stop when he reached a quieter spot that was safer and more sheltered. Unfortunately not even my mum, Lidia, was spared the angry outbursts. “Who does that kid think he is? Maradona?” That’s the line they used most often. Spurred on by their jealousy, they’d say it deliberately loudly, trying to provoke a reaction. They didn’t seem to realise they were actually paying me the biggest compliment. Maradona, for fuck’s sake! It’s like calling a gymnast Jury Chechi, a basketball player Michael Jordan, or a top model Naomi Campbell. It’s like calling Silvio Berlusconi a giant. By definition it was an unfair fight: adults picking on a little kid. Just plain wrong. The only way I could defend myself was by doing things that would amaze. Precisely what they were accusing me of in the first place. I bore the mark of a non-existent sin, but was protected by an invisible suit of armour. One that every so often couldn’t prevent the odd lunging knife or poisoned arrow slipping through. A whole bunch of them hit me one afternoon when I was 14 and playing for the Brescia youths. I say playing for them, but in actual fact they were playing against me. “Pass me the ball.” Silence. Strange: I’d shouted it loudly, and my Italian was pretty good. “Guys, pass me the ball.” Still nothing. A silence so deafening that I could hear my words echoing around. “Is something going on here?” Silence again. Everyone making out they were deaf. Nobody would pass me the ball. My team-mates were playing amongst themselves, leaving me out completely. I was there but they couldn’t see me. Or better, they could see me, but chose to pretend I wasn’t there. They were treating me like some kind of leper, just because I was better than them at football. I flitted about like a ghost, dying on the inside. There was a mutiny taking place against me. They wouldn’t even talk to me, wouldn’t even look in my direction. Absolutely nothing. “Are you going to give me the ball or not?” Silence. I blew up and burst out crying. Right there on the pitch, in front of 21 opponents. Eleven on the other team, and 10 supposedly on mine. Once I started I just couldn’t stop. I ran and cried. I sprinted and cried. I stood still and cried. I was completely dejected and depressed. Most of all, I was an adolescent. And that sort of thing shouldn’t happen to someone so young. At that age, you should be scoring goals and celebrating. But the fact that I scored so many upset a lot of people. It was in that precise moment that my career, still in its formative stages, took a turn down the right path. I had a choice: get pissed off and stop, or get pissed off and keep playing. Playing my way. The second option struck me as more intelligent, and something I could work on straight away. Off I went and gathered the ball. Once, twice, a hundred times. Me against the rest of the world. I was like some kind of noble crusader. Nobody wanted to play with me? Fine then; I’d be my own team. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the weaponry. Ten of them would struggle to score, but I’d manage it all on my own. I’d dribble past every last one of them, including the kids wearing the same colour of shirt as me. They’d all got it so wrong: I didn’t have the slightest intention of behaving like a superstar. The truth is a lot simpler: that’s just how I was made. I was acting on pure instinct, not riding a flight of fancy. I’d spy a pass, the chance to bring out a trick or an opportunity to score and it was already done. I’d outpace even myself, especially when it came to thinking. Even in those early days I was someone who always had to deliver; always had to maintain high standards. For everyone else, it was okay to have an average game. If I did, it was a failure. Right from the start, they said I always seemed tired, as if I couldn’t go on. Truth is they were taken in by the way I moved around the pitch. I looked like I was idling, always taking small steps. Small steps for me, giant leaps for mankind. Or something like that. Venting my emotions out on the pitch all those years ago was like releasing a coiled spring. If there are too many people around, I’ll tend not to speak all that much. I’ll get worked up, for good or bad, without letting on. But that afternoon it was a different story. I conducted a long and silent discussion with my inner self. Looking back, it bordered on madness: Andrea, a gift like yours shouldn’t be a millstone. It’s true, you’re better than the others, and you should be proud of that fact. Mother Nature was kind to you; she was on good form the day you were born. She gave you the magic touch – now go take advantage of it. You want to be a footballer? That’s the dream that’s attached itself to you? The others want to be astronauts but you couldn’t give a fuck about going into space? Well then, go and pick up that ball. Give it a stroke: it belongs to you. The jealous folks don’t deserve it. They’re trying to steal that special part of you. Smile. Be happy. Make this moment brilliant and then make many more just like it. Go on, take that leap and if you can, take your father with you. The people giving chase will soon fall behind. It’s written in the stars. Go, Andrea. GO! Even today, I’m not completely convinced I’m unique or irreplaceable. But I struggle to explain that to people who are used to making superficial judgments about me. I have reached one conclusion, though. I think I’ve understood that