Part 7 (2/2)

Before, I'd been fairly lonely and didn't really have anybody to act as a sounding board for everyday things or stuff that was bothering me. But now I had some structure and something to look forward to, and Helena came down to the Netherlands more often, and we became a little like a family, especially when she got that fat little pug called Hoffa that we fed on pizza and mozzarella in Italy.

But a lot of things happened before then. This was when my career took off, and I got my revenge.

10.

THERE HAD BEEN A LOT of Marco van Basten in my life. I'd inherited his s.h.i.+rt number and I was supposed to resemble him on the pitch and all that, and sure, it was flattering. But I was starting to get tired of it. I didn't want to be a new van Basten. I was Zlatan, nothing else. I wanted to scream, no, don't bring that guy up again, I've heard enough about him. But sure, it was as cool as anything when he turned up in person, it was like, wow, is he talking to me?

Van Basten is a legend, one of the best strikers ever, maybe not in the same cla.s.s as Ronaldo, but still, he'd scored over 200 goals and completely dominated at Milan. That was just over ten years since he'd been voted the best player in the world by FIFA, and now he'd just completed a coaching course run by the football a.s.sociation and was going to be an a.s.sistant coach for the Ajax youth squad, his first step on that path. That's why he was there with us at our training sessions.

I was like a little boy around him, at least at first. But I got used to it. We spoke nearly every day, and we had some good times together. He would get me fired up before every match. We'd chat and make bets and joke around.

”Well, how many goals are you gonna make this time? I say one.”

”One? You're having a laugh. I'll get at least two.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t. Wanna make a bet?”

”How much are you willing to lose?”

We kept it up, and he gave me lots of advice, and he was really a cool guy. He did things his own way and didn't give a d.a.m.n what the bosses thought. He was totally independent. I'd come in for criticism because I didn't work enough to the rear, or even because I just stood around on the pitch while the opposing side were attacking, and I'd done some thinking about it of course and wondered what to do about it. I asked van Basten.

”Don't listen to the coaches!” he said.

”So, what then?”

”Don't waste your energy defending. You've got to use your strength in attacking. You'll serve your team best by attacking and scoring goals, not by wearing yourself out in the rear.” That became another one of the things I picked up: you've got to save your energy for scoring goals.

We headed to a training camp in Portugal, and by that time that Beenhakker had resigned as director and was replaced by Louis van Gaal. Van Gaal was a pompous a.r.s.e. He was a little like Co Adriaanse. He wanted to be a dictator, without a hint of a gleam in his eye. As a player he'd never stood out, but he was revered in the Netherlands because as a manager he'd won the Champions League with Ajax and received some medal from the government.

Van Gaal liked to talk about playing systems. He was one of those in the club who referred to the players as numbers. There was a lot of, Five goes here and Six goes there, and I was glad when I could avoid him. But in Portugal I couldn't escape. I had to go in for a meeting with van Gaal and Koeman and listen to how they viewed my contribution in the first half of the season. It was like a performance review with grades, the kind of thing they loved at Ajax. I went into an office there and sat down in front of van Gaal and Ronald Koeman. Koeman smiled. Van Gaal looked sullen.

”Zlatan,” said Koeman, ”you've played brilliantly, but you're only getting an eight. You haven't worked hard enough at the back.”

”Okay, fine,” I said, wanting to leave.

I liked Koeman, but couldn't cope with van Gaal, and I thought, great, an eight will do me. Can a have a break now?

”Do you know how to play in defence?”

Van Gaal was sticking his oar in, and I could see that Koeman was getting annoyed too.

”I hope so,” I replied.

Then van Gaal started to explain, and believe me, I'd heard it all before. It was the same old stuff about how Number 9 that is, me defends to the right while 10 goes to the left, and vice versa, and he drew a bunch of arrows and finished with a really harsh, ”Do you understand? Do you get all this?” and I took it as an attack.

”You can wake up any of the players at three in the morning,” I said, ”and ask them how to defend and they'll rattle it off in their sleep, 9 goes here and 10 goes there. We know that stuff, and we know you're the one who came up with it. But I've trained with van Basten, and he thinks otherwise.”

”Excuse me?”

”Van Basten says Number 9 should save his strength for attacking and scoring goals, and to tell the truth, now I don't know who I should listen to: van Basten who's a legend or van Gaal?” I said, putting special emphasis on the name van Gaal, as if he were some completely insignificant figure. And what do you think? Was he happy?

He was fuming. Who should I listen to: a legend or a van Gaal?

”I've gotta go now,” I said and got out of there.

There was more talk about how Roma were after me, and the manager at Roma was Fabio Capello, real tough, people said, he had no problem benching or b.o.l.l.o.c.king any star at all. It was Capello who'd coached van Basten in Milan in the glory days and made him better than ever, so of course I talked it over with van Basten: ”What do you think? Wouldn't Roma be brilliant? Would I be able to cut it?”

”Stay with Ajax,” he said. ”You need to improve as a striker before you go to Italy.”

”How come?”

”It's a lot tougher there. Here you might get five, six chances to score a goal in a match, but in Italy it might be only one or two so you've got to be able to take advantage of them,” he explained, and sure, in a way I agreed.

Things hadn't really loosened up for me yet. I wasn't scoring enough goals, and I had loads to learn. I needed to become more effective in the goal area. But still, Italy had been my dream from the very beginning and I thought my playing style would fit in there. So I went to speak to my agent, Anders Carlsson.

”What's happening? What have you got in the works?”

Of course, Anders meant well. He went off to make some enquiries and turned up again. But what had he come up with?

”Southampton are interested,” he said.

”What the f.u.c.k! Southampton! Is that my level?”

Southampton!

Around this time I'd bought a Porsche Turbo. It was amazing, but completely lethal, to be honest. It felt like a go-kart. I drove it like a maniac. Me and a friend had taken it out to Smland in south-eastern Sweden, near Vxj, and I'd stepped on the gas. I got it up to 250 km/hr. That was nothing unusual in those days. The only thing was, when I slowed down, we heard police sirens.

The cops were after us, and I thought, okay, pull yourself together, what to do? I can stop and say sorry, here's my licence. But come on, what about the headlines? Did I want them? Would a controversy about Zlatan the maniac on the roads help me in my career? Hardly! I looked behind us. We were on a single carriage road with oncoming traffic, and the police were about four cars behind us. They wouldn't get anywhere, they were boxed in, and I had Dutch number plates. They couldn't trace me, and I thought: they haven't got a chance, and when we turned onto a bigger road I put it in second and accelerated. I floored it and got up to 300 km/hr, and I could still hear the sirens going wee, wee, but getting fainter and fainter. The police car vanished in the distance, and when we couldn't see it in the rear-view mirror any more we nipped into an underpa.s.s and waited, it was like in a film, and we managed to get away.

There were a number of those episodes with that car, and I remember I drove Anders Carlsson, my agent, in it. He needed to go to his hotel and then on to the airport, and we came to a bend in the road and there was a red light. But I wasn't having any of that, not in that car. I gunned it vroom and he said, ”I think that was a red light.”

”Oh, was there?” I replied. ”I must have missed it,” and then I gave it some more, left, right, into the city centre.

I was really putting my foot down and could see that he was really sweating. When we reached the hotel he opened the door and got out of there without a word. The next day he phoned me, absolutely beside himself.

”That was the worst b.l.o.o.d.y thing I've ever been through.”

”Whaddaya mean?” I said. I pretended not to know what he meant.

”That ride.”

Anders Carlsson wasn't the right guy for me. That was becoming increasingly obvious. I needed a different agent who wasn't such a stickler for rules, and traffic lights. By chance, Anders had just left IMG and set up on his own, so he had given me a new contract to sign. But because I hadn't done it yet, I was a free man. The only thing was, what was I going to do with my freedom? I didn't have a clue, and in those days I didn't have many people I could talk football with.

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