Part 15 (2/2)

It was the European Champions.h.i.+p, and I could have gone out there with a knife in my leg. But like I said, in football there's always a short-term and a long-term perspective. There's the match today, and then there are the matches tomorrow and the next day. You can sacrifice yourself in a fight and make a big effort, but then be out of commission. We had Spain now and Russia after that, and then the quarter-final if we made it through, and there was talk that I was going to play on painkilling injections. I'd done it many times in Italy. But the doctor for the Swedish national side was opposed to that. Pain is the body's warning signal. You can relieve the pain temporarily, but then you risk serious damage. It's a bit like gambling. Gaming with injuries. How important is this match? How much should we risk to make the guy fit for today? Is it worth the risk that he might be out for weeks or months afterwards? It's those kinds of considerations, and traditionally the doctors in Sweden are more cautious than on the Continent. They see the guy more as a patient than a footballing machine. But it's never simple, and as a player you often put pressure on yourself. There are matches that seem so crucial that you want to say, f.u.c.k the future! I don't give a d.a.m.n about the consequences. The only thing is, you can't escape the future, and if you're playing in your national squad, your club is always in the background.

They're the ones who are paying the big money, and I was a huge investment. I wasn't allowed to break. It wouldn't do to sacrifice me for an international match that had nothing to do with Inter, and Sweden's doctor got a phone call from the club's doctor. Those conversations can get heated. Two opposing interests are at odds. The club wants their player for the league, and the national side needs the same guy for the European Champions.h.i.+p.

There was also just a month to go before the pre-season would get underway, and I was Inter's most important player. But both doctors were reasonable people. It was a totally calm discussion, I think, and they came to an agreement. I wouldn't play on injections, and I got hours of treatment from a sports osteopath, and it was decided that I would play against Spain after all.

It was me and Henrik Larsson in front, and that felt good. But Spain were skilful. They got a corner early on. Xavi made a short kick to David Villa, who played it diagonally back to Silva, who was free and made a cross to Fernando Torres. Torres struggled for the ball with Petter Hansson, but Torres was one step ahead and nudged it, almost pushed it in to make it 10, and of course that was tough. It's not easy to equalise against Spain. But the Spaniards backed off and tried to secure their win and their place in the quarter-final, and they provided us with chance after chance, and I forgot all about my knee. I went for it. I worked hard, and in the 34th minute I got a nice long ball from Fredrik Stoor in the penalty area, and I was on my own with Casillas the goalkeeper, and I tried to kick the ball straight into the goal. That was the sort of position van Basten had talked to me about and Capello and Galbiati had trained me for, because you've got to be able to exploit those sorts of situations. But I missed, I didn't get a good shot at the ball and a half-second later I had Ramos in front of me, the young star defender at Real Madrid.

But I d.a.m.n well had no intention of giving up. I blocked it, I kept away and shot again through a little gap between him and another defender, and the ball went into the goal. It was 11, and the match was in full swing and I was definitely on form. I'd made a brilliant start to the tournament, but still, it didn't help. When the referee blew the whistle for half time and my adrenaline subsided, I realised I was in pain. My knee was no good at all. What should I do? It wasn't an easy decision. I'd been crucial for the team, but I had to last. There was at least one match to go, and our prospects looked good. We had three points from the match against Greece, and even if we lost this one, we could play our way into a place in the quarter-final in the last group match against Russia. So I went over to Lars Lagerbck during the break.

”I'm really in pain,” I said.

”d.a.m.n.”

”I think we'll have to make a choice.”

”Okay.”

”Which is more important to you: the second half now, or the Russia match?”

”Russia,” he said. ”We've got more of a chance against them!”

So I was put on the bench for the second half. Lagerbck put Markus Rosenberg in instead, and that seemed promising. Spain had a lot of chances in the second half. But we kept them away, and sure, you could tell I was out. There was a quality that had gone from the game, some intangible momentum. I'd been on fine form, and I was cursing my knee. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. But the guys fought on, and when 90 minutes were over, the score still stood at 11. It looked like things would turn out all right, and we nodded encouragingly to each other on the bench. Were we going to pull this one off after all? But two minutes into extra time, someone took the ball off Markus Rosenberg in a really nasty way, far down in our side of the pitch. Lagerbck stood up and was furious. f.u.c.king idiot referee!

It was a blatant free kick, he thought. But the referee let play continue, and there were agitated gestures. Many on the bench had already taken the view that the referee was against us, and people were screaming and ranting, but not for long. Disaster struck. Joan Capdevila, who'd taken the ball from Rosenberg, hit a long cross and Fredrik Stoor tried to stop it. But he was totally exhausted. Everybody had worked themselves into the ground, David Villa rushed past him and past Petter Hansson as well and scored 21, and almost immediately after that the referee blew the final whistle. I can safely say that was a difficult loss.

In our next match against Russia we were crushed. I was in pain, and it felt like Russia were better at everything, and we were out of the tournament and incredibly disappointed. What had started so well came to nothing. It was terrible. But as always, as soon as one thing is done something new comes along, and just before the European Champions.h.i.+p I'd heard that Roberto Mancini had been sacked as coach of Inter.

He would be replaced by a guy called Jose Mourinho. I hadn't met him yet. But he'd already surprised me. He formed an attachment to me even before we met. He would become a guy I was basically willing to die for.

21.

I STILL DIDN'T HAVE A REAL HANDLE on him. But of course, Mourinho was 'The Special One' even then, and I'd heard a lot about him. People said he was c.o.c.ky, and that he put on a show at his press conferences and said exactly what he thought. But I didn't really know anything, and just thought, like, I bet he's like Capello, a really tough leader, and that's good for me. I like that style. But I was wrong, partly at least. Mourinho is Portuguese, and he likes to be at the centre of things. He manipulates players like no one else. But that's still not saying anything.

The bloke had learnt a lot from Bobby Robson, the old England captain. Robson was coaching the team Sporting Clube de Portugal in those days and needed a translator, and Mourinho happened to be the guy they took on. Mourinho was good at languages. But Robson soon noticed that the guy could do other stuff as well. He had a quick mind, and it was easy to toss ideas around with him. One day Bobby Robson asked him to write a report on an opposing team. I've no idea what he was expecting. Like, what does a translator know? But Mourinho's a.n.a.lysis was first-cla.s.s, apparently.

Robson was just amazed. Here was a guy who'd never played football at a high level, but he still came up with better material than he'd ever received. It was like, s.h.i.+t, I must have underestimated that translator. When Bobby Robson went to a different club, he took the guy with him, and Mourinho kept learning, not just facts and tactics, but psychological stuff as well, and finally he became a manager himself at Porto. That was in 2002. He was a complete unknown back then. He was still 'The Translator' in the eyes of many people, and maybe Porto was a good team in Portugal.

But come on, it was no big club. Porto had finished in the middle of their league the previous year, and the Portuguese league I mean, what was that? Not much by comparison. n.o.body paid attention to Porto in the European tournaments, especially not in the Champions League. But Mourinho came to the club with something completely new: complete knowledge of every single detail about the opposing teams, and sure, I was clueless about that stuff. But I'd find out later on, that's for sure. In those days he used to talk a lot about conversions in football, when one team's offensive was smashed and the players had to regroup from attacking to defending mode.

Those seconds are crucial. In situations like that a single unexpected manoeuvre, one little tactical error, can be decisive. Mourinho studied that more thoroughly than anybody else in football and got his players to think quickly and a.n.a.lytically. Porto became experts at exploiting those moments, and against all the odds they won not only the Portuguese league t.i.tle. They also made it into the Champions League and came up against teams like Manchester United and Real Madrid, clubs where a single player earned as much as the entire Porto squad combined. But Mourinho and his guys still won the Champions League trophy.

That was a ma.s.sive upset, and Mourinho became the hottest manager in the world. This was in 2004. Roman Abramovich, the Russian billionaire, had bought Chelsea and was pouring money into the club, and the key thing he did was to buy in Mourinho. But do you think Mourinho was accepted in England? He was a foreigner. A Portuguese. A lot of sn.o.bs and journalists expressed doubts about him, and at a press conference he said: ”I'm not some guy coming from nowhere. I won the Champions League with Porto. I am a special one,” and that last bit stuck.

Mourinho became 'The Special One' in the British media, but I suppose it was said as much out of scorn as respect, at least at first. That guy got up people's noses. Not just because he looked like a movie star. He said c.o.c.ky things. He knew what he was worth, and sometimes he really had a go at his compet.i.tors. When he thought a.r.s.enal's a.r.s.ene Wenger was obsessed with his Chelsea, he talked about Wenger like he was some sort of voyeur, a guy who sits at home with binoculars to spy on what other people are doing. There's always some uproar around Mourinho.

But he didn't just talk the talk. When he came to Chelsea, the club hadn't won a Premier League t.i.tle in fifty years. With Mourinho, they won two seasons in a row. Mourinho was The Special One, and now he was headed our way, and considering his reputation I was expecting harsh commands right from the start. But already during the European Champions.h.i.+p I was told that Mourinho was going to phone me and I thought, has something happened?

He just wanted to chat. To say, it'll be nice to work together, looking forward to meeting you nothing remarkable, not then, but he was speaking in Italian. I didn't get it. Mourinho had never coached an Italian club. But he spoke the language better than me. He'd learnt the language in no time at all, in three weeks people said, and I couldn't keep up. We switched to English, and already then I could sense it, this guy cares. The questions he asks are different, somehow, and after the match against Spain I got a text message.

I get a ton of texts all the time. But this one was from Mourinho. 'Well played', he wrote, and then gave me some advice, and I promise you, I stopped in my tracks. I'd never had that before. A text message from the coach! I mean, I'd been playing with the Swedish squad, which was nothing to do with him. But he got involved, and I replied and got more messages. It was like, wow, Mourinho's checking me out. I felt appreciated. Maybe that guy wasn't so tough and harsh after all.

Sure, I understood he was sending those texts for a reason. It was like a pep talk. He wanted my loyalty. But I liked him straight away. We clicked. We understood each other, and I realised right away, this guy works hard. He works twice as hard as all the rest. Lives and breathes football 24/7 and does his a.n.a.lyses. I've never met a manager with that kind of knowledge about the opposing sides. It's not just the usual stuff, like, look, they play like this or like that, they've got this or that tactic, you've got to look out for him. It was everything, every little detail, like, right down to the third goalkeeper's shoe size. It was everything. We all sensed it immediately: this guy knows his stuff.

But it was a while before I met him. This was during the European Champions.h.i.+ps and then the summer off-season, and I don't really know what I was expecting. I'd seen loads of photos of him. He's elegant, he's confident, but, well, I was surprised. He was a short man with narrow shoulders, and he looked small next to the players.

But I sensed it immediately, there was this vibe around him. He got people to toe the line, and he went up to guys who thought they were untouchable and let them have it. He stood there, only coming up to their shoulder, and didn't try to suck up to them, not for a second. He got straight to the point, and he was absolutely cold: From now on, you do it like this and like this. Can you imagine! And everybody started to listen. They strained to take in every shade of meaning in what he was saying. Not that they were frightened of him. He was no Capello, like I said. He created personal ties with the players with his text messages and his emails and his involvement and his knowledge of all our situations with wives and children, and he didn't shout. People listened anyway, and everybody realised early on, this guy does his homework. He works hard to get us ready. He built us up before matches. It was like theatre, a psychological game. He might show videos where we'd played badly and say, ”Look at this! So miserable! Hopeless! Those guys can't even be you. They must be your brothers, your inferior selves,” and we nodded, we agreed. We were ashamed.

”I don't want to see you like that today!” he continued. No way, we thought, no chance. ”Go out there like hungry lions, like warriors,” he added, and we shouted, ”Definitely! Nothing else is good enough.”

”In the first battle you'll be like this...” he carried on. He pounded his fist against the palm of his open hand. ”And in the second battle...”

He gave the flipchart a kick and sent it flying across the room, and the adrenaline pumped inside us, and we went out like rabid animals. There were things like that all the time, unexpected things that got us going, and I felt increasingly that this guy gives everything for the team, so I want to give everything for him. It was a quality he had. People were willing to kill for him. But it wasn't all just pep talks. That guy could take you down with a few words, like he'd come into the changing room and say in an icy cold voice: ”You've done zero today, Zlatan, zero. You haven't achieved a d.a.m.n thing,” and in those situations I didn't shout back.

I didn't defend myself not because I was a coward or had excessive respect for him, but because I knew he was right. I hadn't achieved a thing, and it didn't mean jack s.h.i.+t to Mourinho what you'd done yesterday or the day before. Today was what counted. It was right now: ”Go out and play football.”

I remember one match against Atalanta. The following day I was supposed to receive the award for the best foreign player and the best player overall in Serie A, but we were down 20 at half-time and I'd been pretty invisible, and Mourinho came up to me in the changing room.

”You're gonna get an award tomorrow, eh?”

”Huh? Yeah.”

”Do you know what you're going to do when you get that award?”

”Er, what?”

”You're going to be ashamed. You're going to blush. You're going to know that you haven't won s.h.i.+t. People can't get awards when they play so terribly. You're going to give that award to your mum, or somebody who deserves it more,” he said, and I thought, I'll show him, he'll see I deserve that honour, just wait until the second half, never mind if I can taste blood in my mouth, I'll show him. I'm going to dominate again.

There were things like that all the time. He pumped me up and cut me down. He was a master at manipulating the team, and there was just one thing that really bothered me: his facial expression when we played. No matter what I did, or what goals I scored, he looked just as ice-cold. There was never any hint of a smile, no gestures, nothing at all. It was as if nothing had happened, sort of like there was a motionless game in midfield, and I was more awesome than ever then. I was doing totally amazing things, but Mourinho had a face like a wet weekend.

Like one time when we were playing Bologna, and in the 24th minute Adriano, the Brazilian, was dribbling along the left side and made it down towards the goal line. He made a cross, a hard kick that came too low to head and too high to shoot on the volley, and I was crowded in the penalty area. But I took a step forward and backheeled it. It looked like a karate kick, just bam, straight into the net. It was absolutely insane. That was later voted the goal of the year, and the spectators went nuts, people stood up and screamed and applauded, everybody, even Moratti in the VIP section. But Mourinho, what did he do? He stood there in his suit with his hands by his side, completely stony-faced. What the h.e.l.l is with that man, I thought. If he doesn't react to a thing like that, what does get him going?

I talked it over with Rui Faria. Rui is Portuguese as well. He's the fitness coach and Mourinho's right-hand man. The two of them have followed one another from club to club and know each other inside and out.

”Explain one thing to me,” I said to him.

”Okay, sure!”

”I've scored goals this season that I don't even know how they happened. I can't believe Mourinho has seen anything like them. And yet he just stands there like a statue.”

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