If you register for free, you will be able to post threads, vote on polls and lots more. If you have problems with the registration or logging in, please contact the administrator.
"Me? Surely not? What would you want with me?" I laughed.
"Come to my office...no...nah...come to my apartment in the Piazza del Duomo. It's private there. Just to talk. If it's not for you, then perhaps you can advise me. And as always, my wine is good."
"As always, my thirst is overwhelming."
Mr Morratti laughed. "As always Irishman. But at least you always knew when to put the cap on the bottle and concentrate on the game of football."
Subterfuge, the magnificent Gothic Cathedral of Milan, and a fleeting visit to Internazionale, where if I do say so myself, I played some dazzling football a decade or so ago, made for a heady cocktail indeed. I'd been invited to the city by Ruben Sosa an ex-Inter team-mate, and good friend of mine. I was out of football again, I suppose by choice, unless you included my pundit work for the BBC. The problem was that being in football was the only whiff of discipline I had ever had in my life, and the devil didn't have much of a job making work for my idle hands.
We'd popped into Appiano Gentile, principally to see another old pal of mine Roberto Mancini, now the manager of the club. There wasn't the slightest hint of what was to come. We watched training, then had a chat with a few of the players. Javier Zanetti was the only one from our time at the club that we knew well, (Recoba had only arrived a matter of weeks before I left for Barcelona), yet it was nice to see that we were still treated with great respect by the current squad.
Which brings me to the phone call from the President, Massimo Moratti. Mancini hadn't confided in us at the training ground, but he was on the way out, curiously, at his own instigation. He had apparently arrived at pre-season training struggling for motivation, fought against it for a while, then informed the President that he had nothing more to achieve at the club, and would be stepping down. Not with regret, or acrimony. It seemed he was looking forward to spending more time with his family.
At the President's spectacular apartment in the heart of the city, we sat beneath a portrait of his beloved Father, Angelo Moratti, owner and President during the club's golden age in the 1960s, and talked about many things.
It always surprised people that didn't know me how things seemed to fall my way in life, and to be honest, it surprised me too. But although I had been a real d**k at times in the past, I was never nasty, and perhaps there was always something endearing about slightly wayward people. Even when things went sour with the management here a decade ago, I had always had a very warm relationship with Moratti. I think I amused him, if only in the way Victorians watched people in Bedlam for amusement.
Somehow we ended up driving down to the San Siro, because "he wanted to show me something". The club kept a little museum there for visitors, with trophies, and photos, and all manner of history and memorabilia. On the wall were large action shots of the club greats, Fachetti, Bergomi, Tardelli et cetera. Further down the line, he stopped beside a picture of Walter Zenga, and pointed to the next image in the row. There was yours truly, volleying in the winning goal in a Milan derby. I was taken aback, and suddenly the whole thing replayed in my mind as if it happened ten minutes earlier. In reality, it was nearly ten years ago.
"I can see you're surprised that this is still here. Though you were only here...what?...four seasons maybe, you were one of the best players ever to play for the club. You're still held in great affection here, especially by the fans."
There was a lump in my throat, for many different reasons.
And now that you have had success in the coaching world..."
He was interrupted by a commotion down the corridor, and the unmistakable voice of Mancini gauldering in Italian, "Where is the old bastard?"
"I assume you're talking about me and not Mr Moratti," I answered as he barrelled in.
"Of course!" he laughed. Then he talked over my head to the President. "Well, is he going to do it?"
The oil tycoon looked at me, and raised his eyebrows. In the background, Mancini was gesticulating for me to say something. Despite the fact that I hadn't even begun to think it through, there could only be one answer.
They gave me back my old apartment, not far from Moratti's in the centre of Milan, only after I received an assurance that one of the players didn't have to be kicked out first. Jenny didn't come out to join me, and wouldn't be either. We weren't getting on very well for various reasons. She was at my place in Sevenoaks, and for the moment that was the situation.
Until after the weekend, I wasn't yet officially the manager of the club. Mancini deserved his swansong, which would take place at a press conference on Monday. I would then be introduced briefly, and would not be taking questions. I used any excuse to avoid the media, and in this case the line would be given out that since I hadn't lived in Italy for years, my Italian wasn't up to snuff yet (a blatant lie), and that I didn't want to be misunderstood by using an interpreter. Everyone knew I was perfectly capable of conversing in the language, yet it was my prerogative to pretend otherwise until I felt comfortable with the local journalists.
Standing on the balcony of that apartment again was a tremendously wistful experience, made all the more so by the late Summer sun and the Friday night. I'd stepped onto that balcony so many times in the past, after a conquest or a boozy night. Where had it all gone wrong? With me and my idiocy of course. As if to emphasise that those who never learn from history are condemned to repeat it, I strayed towards the bars in the Piazza del Duomo, picking up a beautiful girl who was considerably younger than me. Setting aside the extreme attractiveness of that, she also had the virtue of not knowing or caring anything about football. After telling her that I was in the oil industry, and would be leaving town a few days later, it seemed that the **** and bull story was probably unnecessary. I didn't get the impression that the evening's details would later be salivated over in a tabloid newspaper. Both parties seemed content just to leave it at one night.
Having self-indulgently recaptured something of my lost youth, it was time to get down to the business of running a massive football club. With the press formalities out of the way, it was time to assess the squad, and whether it was capable of attaining the stated goals of President Moratti, namely to win the Championship. I knew the score. Managing in Italy was like being in the Mafia. Too many failures and you were terminated. The contract they'd given me till the end of the season meant nothing. Perform and I'd be extended. Fail and I was out. Nothing personal, just business, and that was fine with me.
Javier Zanetti would probably remain as club captain, form permitting, and notwithstanding the fact that he was only a couple of months younger than I was. He was also the first ex-teammate of mine that I had managed, which could be tricky if I had to drop the hammer on him, yet I was confident he still had a year or two left at the top level.
There was a picture of me and him in the museum, with him jumping on my back after I had scored (another goal in a derby game against our arch rivals). I remembered the incident well. I had so much adrenaline running through my system that I ran about 20 yards before I realised he was there. Friends or not I was prepared to be ruthless, though I reckoned I wouldn't have to be.
Authors Note: WSM 7.0.2 England, Spain, Italy, Scotland leagues running. It's the same character as I've been using the last few stories, a washed up legend now a relatively successful manager, who can resist anything except temptation.
Taking stock, I was amazed at the vast retinue of coaches, physios, scouts, and hangers-on that made up my staff. It was a much bigger entourage than existed at the club when I played here, and despite them all seeming to have their uses, I resolved that it was just too unwieldy.
I had an assistant manager of course, Sinisa Mihajlovic. I didn't know much about him, other than that he kicked me a lot on the occasions we faced eachother in Serie A. It had crossed my mind to bring in an old mate of mine, Ray Wilkins, who knew the Italian scene inside out. Yet I was wary of over doing it. For now, the big Serb would be given a chance as my right hand man, since our early dealings were both cordial and fruitful.
Arriving at Appiano Gentile, I discovered that the extraordinarily long list of coaching staff was bloated by half a dozen blokes who ran the youth academy. I have always valued youth policies, so wasn't prepared to cut any of them just yet. So when it all shook down, I had a normal size coaching group for the first team. Where I did decide to trim some fat was in the scouting operation. Having four scouts who were thought to be world class was more than adequate. Three more had an international reputation, so I fired the three members of the team who were not in the same league. I would have made do with the big four, but the other three were pretty costly to get rid of.
The lavish backroom team was in contrast to a playing squad which, while not exactly threadbare, didn't allow for too many injuries or suspensions. The talent was extravagant, as you would expect, but the depth wasn't there. Serie A wasn't anywhere near as strong as it had been in my day, so while the frontline players were all still of the highest order, there wasn't the super-squads that there had been in the mid 90s.
Toldo and Julio Cesar were our keepers. The former was a known quantity, a 6' 5" former Italian international, who really filled the net and commanded the area, just what I liked in a keeper. Cesar looked ok, but I just didn't have the background on him, and always had Brazilian goalkeepers pegged as being good shot stoppers and horrible on crosses. For now, I would be running with Toldo, against the advice of the coaching staff, who saw Cesar as the keeper of the present and the future.
Javier Zanetti as I've said, was more than pencilled in as captain. The rest of the defence concerned me. As far as our centre backs went, I thought Walter Samuel was a fantastic defender. Ivan Cordoba was very good, and Materazzi was certainly effective, though I'd never been a huge fan of his. The problem, as I saw it, was twofold. They were all too similar, and all too slow to play without cover. When I first arrived at the club, they'd been playing three centre backs, so it had been glaringly obvious to Mancini too. The central defensive back-up consisted of Nicholas Burdisso, an average Argentine stopper, and an exciting young Italian prospect, Marco Andreolli, who seemed tantalisingly close to being ready for prime time. Left back was pretty ordinary. Fabio Grosso was a good player, and would start. However, my first impressions of Maxwell and Maicon, two Brazilian full-backs cum midfielders, were not of the knock-your-socks-off variety.
The midfield, however, had plenty going for it. I thought Esteban Cambiasso was a magnificent player - tough, creative, adaptable. Just what I was looking for to anchor the midfield. With the 4-4-2 I was going to play, this meant no immediate place for Patrick Vieira or Olivier Dacourt, so you can take from that the midfield was very strong. Partnering Cambiasso in the centre would be Dejan Stankovic, who I had played a little bit with at Lazio. Back then he didn't speak Italian that well, so I didn't really get to know him, but I certainly rated him as a player. Recoba would start on the left ahead of Santiago Solari. It was a close run thing, and the Argentine international was a hell of a back-up. The right of midfield had basically only one option, but what an option. Luis Figo may have been the same age as me and Zanetti, but I hadn't any fear at all that he could cut it for a while yet. His contract was up at the end of the season, and while it was a case of "suck it and see" on that front, I was sure he could produce the goods this term.
Up front was a relatively simple equation, and again I was concerned about depth. My front two would be Zlatan Ibrahimovic, (a player I wasn't particularly wild about, yet his goal ratio suggested I was wrong), and Adriano. Hernan Crespo would back them up initially, partly because of his age, also because he was on loan from Chelsea. Julio Cruz was a guy I used to like a lot, though when I saw him in training I thought he'd lost a little bit from a few years ago. Either that, or he'd never really had it in the first place. We needed a striker, a couple of injuries and we'd be looking into the reserves for Labros Choutos, and that was an option that wasn't going to pull up any trees.
I knew it would require plenty of work on the training ground to impose my system, 4-4-2 with an attacking mindset, since it was somewhat different to what Mancini liked to play. To that end, I decided that I would come to training for the first month or even six weeks of pre-season, which was my idea of hard work. Then I'd revert to my usual style, only attending training on the odd occasion, when I would turn up unannounced and looking menacing if the team had displeased me in some way, real or imagined.
I explained my slightly unusual style to the President, and got the customary raised eyebrow. Employers were employers after all, and when they paid people they expected them to turn up and do every facet of their job. I tried to tell him about my mentor, the managerial genius that was Brian Clough, and how I modelled my methods on his. Moratti pulled me up with a dry observation.
"Ah yes, Brian Clough. But these methods you speak of, that was partly due to his genius, and partly due to his alcoholism. Correct?"
"Umm...well...as it's turned out...yes. They still work though. And it has nothing to do with alcoholism on my part."
He smiled, still unconvinced, though ready to give me enough rope to hang myself, if that was what I wanted.
I was pleased with how things were going through the month of July. The players were very professional about the change of system, and it was looking like a comfortable transition.
In the background though, I was having a real spat with Chelsea, and in particular, their complete w***er of a chief executive Peter Kenyon. I had been designated by Moratti to handle all club business relating to England, and that was how my phone ended up ringing with that creep on the other end of the line. He came on all full of his own importance, telling me that they had decided to sign Cambiasso, and (as if they were doing me a favour), they were prepared to pay 10 million.
"Now you listen to me you jumped-up pencil-pushing little turd," I spat. "This is one of the biggest clubs in the world. Twenty years ago, your poxy little club was bankrupt. And who do you think you're talking to anyway? I've forgotten more about this game than you'll ever know. So just go back to shuffling paper clips. And as for your offer for my best midfielder, my response consists of two words. Even you, with your limited brain power, know what they are."
With that, I hung up. Remarkably enough, he kept calling back, both about my midfielder and Cordoba. Either way, they weren't for sale, so there was no reason for me to take his calls. Everything about him and his club was tacky and nouveau-riche.
Midway through the month, I flogged off one player though, Olivier Dacourt to Palermo for 2.3M. He was a fine player, but if Vieira couldn't get into the team, then Dacourt certainly couldn't. A week later, I also loaned out highly touted prospect Marco Andreoli to Lille, for some vital first team experience. An option to recall him was included, which tells you how highly I rated the guy. How far he went in the game was up to him now.
Our first friendly encounter came on the 29th, with a tournament arranged in Brussels, by Anderlecht. We met AZ Alkmaar in the semi-final, and a hat-trick from Ibrahimovic, together with a goal by Figo, gave us a slightly skittish 4-2 win. We were sloppy at the back all night, which made me slightly nervous for the season ahead. The next day we pitched up for the final, against Porto, who had disposed of the hosts in the other half of the draw. They won the game in injury time, following a calamitous showing by us. Zanetti was injured early on, and Samuel got himself sent off. Not a glorious start to my reign, yet it was early days, and these games were relatively unimportant.
We coined in 9.5M in profit for the month, so things were certainly going well in that department.
I finally made a signing on the 6th of August, snapping up Igor Tudor from Juventus reserves for 1.1M. Despite the scouts and management team warning me about his injury record, he was a quality player. And at that price, it was a low-risk, high-reward move that would strengthen the centre of defence and defensive midfield depth.
It might surprise people to think of a manager of this club fannying around looking for bargains. Moratti had "only" given me 15M to spend, which was a taxi fare to a club of this size. Rumour had it that he was fattening the club up to sell it, and certainly there was plenty of room for a higher budget. I hoped that he would loosen up the purse strings in January.
On the 7th we visited Deportivo for a friendly, and came away with a very handy 4-0 win, with 2 goals from Adriano and further strikes from Ibrahimovic and Stankovic. This was a lot more like it.
Fresh from that, I arranged a home friendly with Real Madrid on the 19th. For some reason, our entire friendly programme had consisted of away games, and I thought that was ridiculous. On the day of the match I went out and got a brand new Armani suit, determined to look smart in front of the home crowd. That balmy evening turned out to be a memorable one in every respect.
The stadium was full to bursting for the game, and the hardcore fan groups of the Curva Nord (North Stand) were out in force. Boys San (the oldest and most established fans group), joined together with Viking, Irriducibili, Ultras, and Brianza Alcoolica, raising the roof off the San Siro when I emerged, as they chanted "Il Mato...Il Mato...Il Mato li amiamo!" ("Madman we love you"). It was particularly lustily sung by Brianza Alcoolica (Alcoholics Brigade), who with their motto "You'll never drink alone", were particularly spiritually tuned to their new manager. Heady stuff, and I made sure to enjoy it, knowing that one loss could turn the cheers to jeers.
There was something inevitable about the incredible 6-0 win that we pulled off. The goals were flying in everywhere, from players all over the pitch, and I suddenly realised why we were favourites for Serie A. If I wasn't able to do the business with this squad, then I deserved the boot.
On the 24th came the draw for the Champions League. We got Lyon, Andelechet, and Legia Warsaw, and again, if we failed to progress from that group then something was wrong.
Our first truly competitive game rolled around on the 26th, the Italian Super Cup against Roma. This was important, since they were our only serious challengers for the title, and a useful yardstick could be measured for the season ahead. I picked the following team: Cesar Zanetti Grosso Cordoba Samuel Cambiasso Figo Stankovic Ibrahimovic Adriano Recoba. We pummeled them at the San Siro, only for them to help themselves to a dodgy penalty 26 minutes in. Our lads didn't panic, and just on half-time, Recoba levelled it with a nice chipped finish. Still I was annoyed at half-time, and it lit a fire under the lads. A second period full of pressure from us culminated in an 83rd minute goal from Ibrahimovic, who buried a cross from impressive sub Solari. I was well satisfied, as were the 83,000 that saw it, and our first (rather meaningless) trophy was in the cabinet.
Now all that remained was the transfer window closing. I was desperate to make a splash, but either didn't have the money for the players I wanted, or wasn't impressed by the players I could afford. I resolved to deepen the squad at right midfield, and by happy accident stumbled upon Italian international right winger Mauro Camoranesi. I signed him up for 8.75M from Juventus, which p***ed off their fans and several of their leading players, but delighted everyone at my end. He seemed like a long term replacement for Figo, but at 29, the chances were he would be seeing more than a little bit of action this term.
We moved forward with plenty of confidence. Even our loss of 4.8M for the month could be more than explained by the signing of Camoranesi.
Thanks a lot Axeman By the way, I paid a quick visit to your blog last week. Congratulations on the imminent arrival of a little Axeman/woman! As a Father myself I can tell you it will be the greatest time you'll ever have, so enjoy
An intense training camp in the first week of September was the last act of the pre-season. As much technical as physical, it was all about honing the way we wanted to play, and making it second nature. Some of the lads were a bit surprised by the depth I went into, having heard that I was a broad brush coach who dealt more in motivation, rather than an X and O's guy. The fact was I was just lazy, but I wanted this to be a success, so as I said earlier I made a special effort by my standards.
We were as well prepared as we could be by the time we took the field for the season opener at Chievo. They were a useful side who could cause problems, though they weren't sneaking up on people as they had in previous years. I named the following team: Cesar, Zanetti, Grosso, Cordoba, Materazzi, (Samuel was injured), Cambiasso, Figo, Stankovic, Ibrahimovic, Recoba. The lads started impressively and after 11 minutes, Adriano forced in a near post Recoba cross. Just as it seemed plain sailing, Cesar blundered to allow them an equaliser after 23. I told myself through gritted teeth on the sidelines that I had been right to be suspicious of him. Our cushion was restored via an Adriano tap in from an Ibrahimovic shot on 39.
After some poor finishing by us, hey presto the home side scored, this time directly from a free kick on 50. My rage only lasted 11 minutes, whereupon Stankovic headed in a corner. Three minutes later, the same player drilled home a beauty from 12 yards, before Adriano fired in the hat-trick, with a great 18 yard finish three minutes from time. Overall I was pleased with the result, but some of the defending stank, and there was certainly room for improvement. As I anticipated however, we looked pretty devastating going forward. Moratti apparently enjoyed it, and called to say so, wishing me luck for the season ahead.
Three days later we were in Brussels, for our Champions League opener with Anderlecht. Camoranesi started for Figo, and played a full part in a game that was an atrocious advert for Europe's showpiece competition. We came away with a 2-0 win, via an own goal and a Recobashot. Ironically, I was more pleased with this than the first league game, since it seemed to suggest that we had the capacity to win well whilst playing very badly.
That kind of performance wouldn't do on the 17th, when we entertained Lazio. The team seemed to realise this and set out in dominant form in front of a raucous home crowd. Fourteen minutes in, Adriano was at it again, chipping in from the edge of the box. The guy was on fire now, and doubled his tally nine minutes later with a neat finish from a very cultured Cambiasso through ball. As was always likely in Italy, he eventually got hatcheted just before half-time, a crude challenge that didn't even attract a freekick, let alone a booking, despite myself and the crowd foaming at the sidelines.
Straight after he'd limped off, Cambiasso punished the dirty b****rds by sending through Ibrahimovic for a third, the last scoring in an easy win over one of our notional rivals for the title. Then we got the bombshell. Adriano had had his toe broken and would miss two months. This was what I was worried about. Now I had to call Choutos up from the reserves as cover.
Crespo stepped in for our next encounter on the 20th, at home to Parma. Ibrahimovic chipped us in front 6 minutes in. Then Camoranesi announced himself with a wonderful cross to pick out an unmarked Recoba at the back post for number two (41). They were dead and buried at that point, and the Uruguayan added a powerful deflected volley 4 minutes from time. It was another dominant win, yet I wondered if we were playing the soft underbelly of Serie A. Surely much sterner tests awaited us. Or maybe I had underestimated how strong we were.
That would certainly be put to the test after what happened in training that week. Zanetti pulled up lame, and it turned out he had torn his hamstring. So our captain and stud striker were both out long term. Our skipper would be replaced by Maicon, a player who frankly I'd never heard of before I came here. Now we'd see a test.
Not so much on the 24th, since we visited struggling Ascoli, though the early signs weren't good. We missed a heap of chances, so much so that I gave out the first bollocking of the season. We were rescued by sub Cruz who volleyed in in the 89th minute. A draw wouldn't have been a calamity, but it certainly would have been two points tossed into the toilet.
Three days later, most of the reserves were in for a home European date with Legia Warsaw. I expected an easy win, and we were 3 up after 15 minutes. It ended up at 5, including a hat-trick by Crespo.
I probably could have afforded the same side at home to Empoli on the 30th, however the league was our number 1 priority, and I wasn't going to take the p**s. A pair of penalties from Grosso and Ibrahimovic on 2 and 59 minutes gave us a straightforward win, and I went into the 2 week break before the next game feeling very good about things. The board did too, flushed with the success on the pitch, and greedily eyeing up a profit of 4.88M for the month.
With two weeks free, I worried about what I might get up to eventually, yet I started out very responsibly, sitting at home channel surfing and boring myself to death. Then suddenly one evening, I flicked the channels, and what I saw made me freeze.
If, like me, you are occasionally afflicted by shallowness, you'll know what I mean when I talk about what I am about to talk about. Some women come along who you think you can't live without, then three weeks after you've split up with them, you've completely forgotten they ever existed. Carla Falsini was different. She was the woman I remembered when I was drunk, when all men unlocked the memories of the one that got away. Privately, I hasten to add. I didn't wander the streets moaning her name or anything. But I'd never really gotten over her, and in my tortured mind I liked to think she'd never gotten over me either.
I met her in 1997. We were both 24. I was playing an absolute blinder for Inter, and she was presenting an arts show for RAI, the Italian state broadcaster. I'd never heard of her, and she'd never heard of me (in my arrogance I was very impressed by the fact that she didn't know who I was). Massimo Moratti was opening an art gallery, as was his wont, and I trailed over in the knowledge that some very fine wine was available free of charge. Carla trailed over too, no doubt with higher motives than free booze in mind.
We've all seen a few beauties in our time, but this girl was just ridiculous. Olive skinned, dark haired, busty but with a beautifully slim figure. She was like a raven haired, sexier, bustier version of Grace Kelly. When I first laid eyes on her, my heart was beating faster than when I had to take that penalty in injury time of my first Milan derby, and by some miracle, my first conversation with her had the same positive result. Moratti introduced us, and despite the fact that I was a drunken blethering idiot, she found something interesting enough to agree to go on a date.
It must have been a whirlwind courtship, because a few weeks later we were engaged. Being the incredibly smart and classy lady she was, she was contemptuous of the popular press, so we were able to do it all in relative anonymity. The wedding date was set, the future mapped out, everything was perfect. Then of course, I had to go and ruin it.
I can't say for sure why I cheated on her, especially with some tart that wasn't fit to lick her Manolo Blahniks. Over the years, I've come to believe that I thought I didn't really deserve her, and that she'd realise that eventually. Masochism of some sort. Insecurity. Anyway I got caught, and by the time she forgave me I'd gone into a downward spiral, and had been bombed out on loan to Barcelona. I begged with them to send me to another Italian team. They refused point blank. They were determined to get rid of me, but they weren't stupid.
I tried hard to keep it going with Carla. In the end, it fizzled out because of distance.
Anyway all that was 10 years ago, and here was Carla Falsini on the TV screen in front of me, presenting a slightly higher budget version of the same show. I had thought of her from the moment I came back to the city of course, yet was convinced she had moved on and probably had three kids or something.
My eyes zeroed in on her ring finger. Nothing there. My mind recited her phone number. I still knew it without hesitation. My fingers drummed on the table. Maybe she was still free? Yet she must have known I was back in Milan, and I hadn't heard from her. I was drumming on the table again. Should I call her?...
The Superclub and The Supergirl 
By the way, I paid a quick visit to your blog last week. Congratulations on the imminent arrival of a little Axeman/woman! As a Father myself I can tell you it will be the greatest time you'll ever have, so enjoy 
Linear Mode
