Part 18 (1/2)

That's a trait I had from early on. I stepped up. I didn't run away, and not just with Dad. It was everywhere. My entire childhood was filled with tough people who would go off on a hair-trigger: Mum, my sisters, the lads around the estate, and ever since then I've had it in me, that watchful side: What's happening? Who wants a fight? My body is always ready for battle.

That's the path I chose. The others in our family took on different roles. Sanela was the one you went to with emotional things. I was the fighter. If anybody gave me s.h.i.+t, I'd give them s.h.i.+t back. That was my way to survive, and I learned not to sugar-coat things. I said things straight out, none of this ”You're really good, you're great, but...” It was straight in there: ”You've got to get a f.u.c.king grip.” Then I'd take the consequences. That's how it was. That was how I grew up, and sure, I'd changed a lot by the time I got to Barcelona. I'd met Helena and had children and calmed down, and said stuff like, ”Please pa.s.s me the b.u.t.ter.” But most of it was still in there. Those days at the club I clenched my fists and prepared to defend my corner. This was in late spring, early summer 2010. The World Cup was coming up in South Africa, and Joan Laporta was leaving Bara.

They were choosing a new president for the club, and that kind of thing always generates unrest. People get uneasy. A guy called Sandro Rosell was appointed. Rosell had been vice-president up until 2005 and he'd been mates with Laporta. But something had happened. Now they were enemies, people said. So of course, people were concerned. Was Rosell going to clear out all the old gang? No one knew. Txiki Begiristain, the sporting director, resigned before Rosell could sack him, and of course I was wondering: what would this mean for my conflict with Guardiola?

Laporta was the one who'd bought me for a record amount, and it wasn't unreasonable to think that Rosell might give him one in the eye by showing it was a stupid investment. Many papers even wrote that Rosell's first task was to sell me. The journalists definitely had no clue about what had happened between me and Guardiola, and in a way, neither did I. But they'd twigged that something was wrong, and really, you didn't need to be a football expert to understand. I went round with my head hanging, and I didn't react the way I usually did on the pitch. Guardiola had wrecked me, and I remember Mino phoned the new club president. He told him what Guardiola had said in that meeting.

”What the h.e.l.l did the guy mean?” he asked. ”Does he want to get rid of Zlatan?”

”No, no,” Rosell replied. ”Guardiola believes in him.”

”Then why would he say that?”

Rosell couldn't answer. He was new, and n.o.body seemed to know. The situation was uncertain. We won the league t.i.tle, and then we went on holiday. I needed a holiday more than I had done in a long time. I needed to get away, so Helena and I travelled around to LA, Vegas, all over, and the World Cup was on then. I barely watched it. I was too disappointed. Sweden wasn't in the tournament, and really, I didn't want to think about football at all. I tried to block out the whole mess with Bara. But it couldn't last forever, of course. The days went by. I'd be going back soon, and no matter how much I tried to stop them, all the questions came back. What's going to happen? What should I do? My mind was buzzing, and of course I realised there was an obvious solution. I could make sure I got sold. But I didn't want to let go of my dream that easily. Never, ever. I decided to work like a dog in training sessions and get better than ever.

n.o.body was going to crack me. I'd show them all. But what do you think happened? I didn't get a chance to show anybody anything. I hadn't even put my boots on when Guardiola called me in again. This was on the 19th of July, I think. Most of them hadn't come back from the World Cup yet. It was pretty quiet around us, and Pep attempted some small talk. He clearly had an agenda. He was nervous and awkward. But he probably wanted to be a bit pleasant first, for the sake of things.

”How was your holiday?”

”Good, good!”

”And how do you feel, ahead of the new season?”

”Fine. I'm up for it. I'm going to give a hundred per cent.”

”Look ...”

”Yeah.”

”You should be prepared to sit on the bench,” he said, and like I said, this was the first day. The pre-season hadn't even got underway yet. Guardiola hadn't even seen me play, not even for a minute. There was no way to interpret his words other than as a new personal attack.

”Okay,” I merely replied. ”I understand.”

”And as you know, we've acquired David Villa from Valencia.”

David Villa was a hot property, no doubt about it. He was one of the stars of the Spanish national side who were down there winning the World Cup, but still, he was a winger. I played in the centre. He was nothing to do with me, not really.

”And what do you say to that?” he continued.

Nothing, I thought at first, beyond, like, congratulations. But then it struck me: why not test Guardiola?

Why not check whether this has anything at all to do with football, or whether it's all just about driving me out of the club?

”What do I say to that?” I began.

”Yes.”

”Well, that I'll work harder. I'll work like a madman to earn my place in the team. I'll convince you I'm good enough,” and to be honest, I could hardly believe it myself.

I'd never sucked up to a coach like that before. My philosophy had always been to let my playing do the talking. It's just ridiculous to go round saying you're going to give a hundred per cent. You're paid to give a hundred per cent. But this was my way of trying to understand. I wanted to hear what he'd say. If he said, okay, then we'll see if you make it, that would mean something. But now he just looked at me.

”I know that. But how are we going to continue?” he asked.

”Just like that,” I replied. ”I'll work hard, and if you think I'm good enough, I'll play in whatever position you want, behind or in front of or underneath Messi. Wherever. You decide.”

”I know that. But how are we going to continue?”

He kept repeating the same thing, and not once did he say anything that made sense. He has no apt.i.tude for that. But it wasn't necessary. I understood. This had nothing to do with whether I earned a spot or not. This was personal, and instead of coming out and saying he didn't like my personality, he was trying to sugar-coat it in a single obscure phrase.

”How are we going to continue?”

”I'll do like everybody else, I'll play for Messi,” I said.

”I know that. But how are we going to continue?”

It was ridiculous, and I supposed he wanted me to go off on one and shout, I won't accept this, I'm leaving the club! Then he'd be able to come out and say, Zlatan was the one who wanted to leave, it wasn't my decision. Maybe I am a savage, a guy who goes in for confrontations too often. But I also know when I need to restrain myself. I had nothing to gain by announcing I was for sale, so I thanked him calmly for speaking to me and got out of there.

Of course I was furious. I was seething. But still, the meeting had been productive. I understood where things stood. He had no intention of letting me play, even if I learned to fly, and the real question now was: would I be able to cope with that, go to training sessions every day and have that guy standing in front of me? I doubted it. Maybe I needed to change tack. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time.

We headed to South Korea and China for pre-season training, and I got to play a few matches out there. It meant nothing. The key players hadn't returned from the World Cup yet. I was still the black sheep, and Guardiola was keeping his distance. If he wanted anything, he'd send others to speak to me, and the media were completely out of control. It had been like that all summer: What's happening with Zlatan? Will he be transferred? Will he stay? They were constantly after me, and it was the same for Guardiola. He got questions about it all the time, and what do you think he told them? Nice and straight, like, I don't like Zlatan, I want to get rid of him? Not exactly. He looked uncomfortable, and came out with his waffle.

”Zlatan will decide his own future.”

What rubbish. Something started ticking inside me. I felt under fire, and I was furious. I wanted to do something explosive. But also how can I put it? Something was sparked off inside me as well. I understood, things had entered a new phase. Now it wasn't just war. Now the fight on the transfer market had begun, and I like that game, and I had the guy who's the best of them all at that on my side Mino. He and I talked all the time, and we decided to play tough and hard. Guardiola deserved nothing else.

In South Korea I had a meeting with Josep Maria Bartomeu, the club's new vice president. We sat in the hotel and talked, and at least that guy was clear.

”Zlatan, if you've got any offers, think them over,” he said.

”I'm not going anywhere,” I replied. ”I'm a Barcelona player. I'm staying at Bara.”

Josep Maria Bartomeu looked surprised.

”But how are we going to resolve this?”

”I've got an idea,” I replied.

”Have you?”

”You can phone up Real Madrid.”

”Why should we phone them?”

”Because if I really have to leave Bara, I want to go to Real. You can make sure I get sold to them.”

Josep Maria Bartomeu was horrified.

”You're joking,” he said.

I looked deadly serious.