Part 19 (2/2)

”Don't play with fire. It's dangerous,” I roared, and the room went silent, because I guess everybody understood exactly what I meant: we were supposed to win, nothing else, and we b.l.o.o.d.y well shouldn't let in any unnecessary goals at the end. We couldn't carry on like that.

After four matches we had only five points, and Inter were at the top of the league table, same as always, and I was feeling more and more pressure resting on my shoulders. We were still living in the Boscolo Hotel, and we'd managed to settle in a bit. Helena, who had been staying out of the public eye, gave her first interview. It was for Elle magazine, and that became a complete circus. Every word about us made headlines. I could say totally meaningless stuff, like, ”There's been less meatb.a.l.l.s and noodles since I met Helena.” In the papers that became Zlatan's great declaration of love for Helena, and it felt more and more like I was changing. Me, who'd always got a buzz from being the centre of attention I was starting to become more shy and retiring.

I didn't like having too many people around me, and we led a quiet life. I stayed indoors, and after a few months we moved into an apartment the club had arranged for us in the city centre. That was nice, of course, but it didn't have our furniture and our things it was nice, but really impersonal. In the mornings the bodyguard would be waiting for me down in the foyer and we'd drive out to Milanello, and I'd get breakfast before training and lunch afterwards, and then there'd often be a load of PR stuff, having photos taken and things, and as always in Italy I was away from the family a lot. We stayed in hotels ahead of our away matches, and we'd be shut up at Milanello before our home battles, and that's when I started to get that feeling.

I was missing out on a lot at home, Vincent was getting bigger, he was talking more and more. It was crazy, really. Maxi and Vincent had moved round so much they spoke three languages fluently: Swedish, Italian and English.

Life was entering a new phase, and I often thought, what will I do when my career is over, and Helena starts hers up again? I had some thoughts like that. Sometimes I longed for the time after football. Sometimes I didn't.

But I was no less fired up, and very soon things also loosened up on the pitch. I decided seven, eight matches in a row, and the old ecstasy and hysteria returned. It was 'Ibra, Ibra' everywhere. The papers made this photo montage. There was me, and then the whole team above, as if I was carrying all of AC Milan on my shoulders. It was that sort of talk. I was hotter than ever.

But there was one thing I knew better than most at this point: in football you can be a G.o.d one day and completely worthless the next, and our biggest league match that autumn was approaching, the Milan derby against Inter at San Siro. There wasn't exactly any doubt that the Ultra fans were going to hate me. The pressure was going to get even greater. On top of that, I had issues with a guy in the team. His name was Oguchi Onyewu, he was an American the size of a house, and I told a mate in the squad: ”Something serious is gonna happen. I just feel it.”

27.

PEOPLE SAID HE WAS the nicest guy in the world. Oguchi Onyewu resembled a heavyweight boxer. He was nearly six foot five and weighed over 15 stone, close to 100 kilograms. Even though he didn't gain a place in the starting team, he'd previously been voted the best foreign player of the year in the Belgian First Division and the US soccer player of the year. But he couldn't handle me. He wanted to have a go at me.

”I'm not like the other defenders,” he said.

”Okay, good for you then!”

”I'm not gonna be psyched out by your trash talking. By your mouth that's going all the time.”

”What are you talking about?”

”You. I've seen you in matches, you do nothing but trash-talk,” he continued, and that annoyed me.

Not just because I was sick of all the defenders who want to provoke me. I'm not the one who trash-talks, either. I get my revenge on the pitch. I've heard so much s.h.i.+t over the years, f.u.c.king Gypsy, stuff about my mum, all that stuff. The worst is: I'll see you after the match! What the h.e.l.l is that? Are we going to sort it out in the car park? It's ridiculous. I remember Giorgio Chiellini, a centre back at Juventus. We'd played together, and later on when I was at Inter Milan we met on the pitch and he was on me all the time: ”Come on now, it's not like it was before, is it?” He tried to provoke me, and then he tackled me from behind. You realise, that's a cowardly thing to do. You don't see the bloke coming, and I went down in pain. I was in a lot of pain. But I didn't say anything. I don't in those situations. I think: I'll get you back in our next encounter. Then I'll go at him so hard he doesn't get up for a long time. So no way, I'm not the one who trash-talks. I tackle instead. I go off like a bomb in encounters. But I didn't get an opportunity that time, so after the final whistle I went up to him and took hold of his head and dragged him like a disobedient dog, and Chiellini got scared, I could see it.

”You wanted to fight. So how come you're s.h.i.+tting yourself now,” I hissed, and headed off to the changing room.

No, I retaliate with my body, not with words, and I said that to Oguchi Onyewu as well. But he just kept on, and once when I yelled, ”That was no free kick!” he shushed me with his finger, like, see, you're just talking s.h.i.+t, and I thought: I've had enough, that's it.

”You, pa.s.s it,” I said.

He shushed me again, and I saw red. But I didn't say anything, not a word. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was going to find out how I trash-talk in these situations, and the next time he got the ball I rushed towards him and jumped up with my feet and studs out in front, the worst type of tackle. But he saw me. He leapt out of the way and we both crashed to the ground, and my first thought was, s.h.i.+t, I've missed. I'll get him next time. But as I got up and walked away I felt a blow to my shoulder. Not a good idea, Oguchi Onyewu.

I headb.u.t.ted him, and then we flew at each other. I'm not talking about a little sc.r.a.p. We wanted to tear each other limb from limb. It was brutal, we were two blokes who each weighed over 14 stone, and we were rolling round, punching and kneeing each other, and of course, the whole team rushed over and tried to separate us. That wasn't easy, not at all. We were crazy and furious, and sure, of course, I admit you need adrenaline on the pitch, you've got to do battle. But this crossed the line. It was like life and death. But the weirdest thing happened afterwards.

Oguchi Onyewu started praying to G.o.d with tears in his eyes. He made the sign of the cross, and I thought, what is this? I got even more furious. If felt like a provocation, and at that point Allegri, the manager, came up and said, ”Calm down, Ibra.” It didn't do any good. I just moved him out of the way and ran towards Oguchi again. But I was stopped by my teammates, and I suppose that was a good thing. It could have turned out nasty, and afterwards Allegri summoned us both in. We shook hands and apologised. But Oguchi was cold as a fish, and that was fine by me. If he's cold, I'll be cold back, no problem, and afterwards I was driven home. I phoned Galliani, the boss, and there's one thing you should know, which is that I don't like to blame other people. It's unmanly. It's a s.h.i.+tty thing to do, especially in a team where you've taken on the role of a leader.

”Listen,” I told Galliani. ”An unfortunate thing happened at the training session. It was my fault, and I take responsibility. I want to apologise, and you can give me whatever punishment you want.”

”Ibra,” he said. ”This is Milan. We don't work like that. You've apologised. Now we move on.”

But it wasn't over, not yet. There had been supporters along the sidelines, and the whole thing was in all the papers. n.o.body knew the background story. But the fight became public knowledge. It took ten people to pull us apart, they wrote, and there was talk of unrest in the team and Ibra the bad boy and all the usual stuff. I didn't care. Write what you want! But I was like, s.h.i.+t, my chest hurts, so we had it checked out. I'd broken a rib in the fight, and there's nothing you can do about a broken rib. The doctors just bandaged me up.

That was hardly the best thing that could have happened. Things were gearing up for the derby against Inter. We had Pato and Inzaghi injured, and of course the papers wrote pages and pages about it, not least of all about the duel between me and Materazzi. It was going to be particularly vicious, they said. Not just because Materazzi was a tough guy and we'd fought in the past and played in the same team. Materazzi had mocked me for kissing my Bara crest at Camp Nou. It was this and it was that. Most of it was just talk, but one thing was certain: Materazzi was going to go after me hard, because that was his job. It was important that the team stopped me, and in those situations there's only one way to respond. You've got to hit back just as hard. Otherwise you lose the upper hand and risk getting hurt.

No supporters are worse than Inter Milan's Ultras. They're not forgiving types, believe me, and to them I was Public Enemy Number One. n.o.body had forgotten our fight from the Lazio match, and of course I knew there would be boos and trash talk. But b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, that stuff is part of it.

I wasn't the first Inter player who'd signed to AC Milan, either. I was in good company. Ronaldo joined Milan in 2007, and then the Inter crew handed out whistles to put him off. The matches between Inter and AC Milan, known as the Derby della Madonnina, always stir up a lot of emotions, and there's politics and s.h.i.+t involved as well. It's a huge rivalry.

It's like Real Madrid and Bara in Spain, and I remember the players in the stadium. You could see it in their faces. This was big. This was important. We were at the top of the league table then, and a win would mean a lot. AC Milan hadn't won a derby in several years. Inter had also brought home the Champions League trophy that year. It was Inter who dominated. But if... if we won, that would signal a s.h.i.+ft in power, and I could hear the roar of the crowd in the stadium and music blaring from the loudspeakers. There was an atmosphere of hate and carnival at the same time, and I wasn't nervous, exactly.

I was just fired up. I sat and hoped I'd get to run in and do battle. But of course, I knew you can be bursting with adrenaline. You can still end up completely outside the game and not get a thing out of it. You never know, and I clearly remember the start of the match and the roar in there at San Siro. You never really get used to it. The place is at boiling point all around you, and Seedorf had a header over the goal almost straight away. The game surged back and forth.

In the fifth minute I got a ball from the right side. I dribbled and got into the penalty area, and I had Materazzi on me. Of course, Materazzi wanted to, like, come right out and say: You're not gonna get away, just you wait! But he made a mistake. He brought me down and I crashed down onto the ground, and obviously I thought: is that a penalty? Is that a penalty?

It should've been. But I didn't know. There was a horrible racket, and of course all the Inter players thrust out their arms, like, what the h.e.l.l? But the referee ran towards the penalty spot and I took a deep breath. I was the one who was going to take it, and you can just imagine. My team were behind me, and you don't have to wonder what they were thinking: don't miss, Ibra! For G.o.d's sake, don't miss this one!

In front of me was the goal, and the goalkeeper, and behind them were Inter's Ultra fans. They were insane. They were booing and screaming. They were doing everything they could to derail me, and some of them had laser pointers. I got a green light right in my face, and Zambrotta blew up. He went to the referee: ”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, they're interfering with Ibra. They're blinding him!”

But what could they do? Search through the whole stand? That wouldn't work, and I was totally focused. They could've put me under headlights and spotlights. I just wanted to go up and shoot, and this time I knew exactly how it would go: the ball would go into the goalie's right corner, and I stood still for a couple of seconds, and sure, it was like a little twinge inside me: I had to score. I'd started my season by blowing a penalty. It couldn't happen again. But I couldn't think about that. You can never think too much on the pitch. You just have to play, and I ran up and shot.

I shot exactly as I'd imagined, and it went in, and I raised my arms up and looked the Ultra fans straight in the eyes, like: your d.a.m.ned tricks don't work. I'm stronger than that, and I've got to say, when the entire stadium roared and I saw up on the big screen, 'Inter AC Milan, 01, Ibrahimovic', that felt good. I was back in Italy.

But even so, we were just a few minutes into the match, and the fight was intensifying. In the 60th minute we had Abate sent off, and it's no fun playing with 10 men against Inter Milan. We were working like dogs. Materazzi was on me like a leech, and in one encounter a few minutes later I rushed towards the ball and slammed into him and totally floored him. It was unintentional, of course. But he was still lying on the ground, and the doctor and all the Inter players ran out, and the hatred from the Ultra fans just grew, especially when Materazzi was stretchered off.

In the final 20 minutes, the pressure on us was terrible, and I was completely worn out. I was ready to vomit from exhaustion. But we made it. We held on to our lead and won. The next day I was due to receive my fifth Guldbollen award in Sweden. I'd found out about it in advance, and I really wanted to get to bed early, as early as it's possible to do when you've got a match like that spinning round in your head. But we decided we'd go out and party at the Cavalli nightclub. Helena came along. We sat pretty quietly in a corner with Gattuso while Pirlo, Ambrosini and all the rest partied like nutters. There was such a sense of relief everywhere, and really crazy joy, and we didn't get home until four in the morning.

In December, AC Milan purchased Antonio Ca.s.sano. Ca.s.sano has something of a reputation as a bad boy like me, he likes to be seen and to talk about what a brilliant player he is. The guy's been through a lot and has often got into fights with players and managers, including Capello at Roma. Capello even coined a new term: Ca.s.sanata, which means sort of like irrational and crazy. But Ca.s.sano has a brilliant quality to his playing. I really liked him, and we got better and better as a team.

But there was a problem. The feeling crept up on me. I was starting to feel burnt out. I'd given a hundred per cent in every match, and I don't think I'd ever felt such pressure before. That might sound strange when you think of everything I'd been through. It'd been tough, joining Bara. It hadn't been easy at Inter, either. But I was feeling it here more than ever before: we had to win the league t.i.tle, and I was the one who was supposed to lead the team. I was playing every match basically as if it were a World Cup final, and I was paying the price. I was getting worn out.

Eventually I wasn't able to follow through on my ideas and images on the pitch. My body was a step behind, and I'm sure I should have sat out a match or two. But Allegri was new. He wanted to win at any price, too. He needed his Zlatan and he was squeezing every drop out of me. Not that I blame him for a second.

He was just doing his job, and I wanted to play. I'd found my flow. I had a rhythm. I would've wanted to play even with a broken leg, and Allegri got me going. We had respect for each other. But I was paying a price, and I wasn't as young as I used to be.

I was physically big not like in my second season at Juventus, not at all. There was no junk food, no excess weight. I was careful about what I ate. It was all muscle, but I was older and a different player to what I'd been at the start of my career. I was no longer a dribbler, no Ajax guy. I was a heavy, explosive striker, and I was forced to play smarter in order to last through the whole match, and in February I was starting to feel tired.

It was supposed to be a secret within the club, but it got out to the press and there was a lot of talk about it. Will he last? Can he cope? We also started losing late in a number of matches. We couldn't go the distance, and we conceded a whole load of unnecessary goals, and I went a whole month without scoring at all. My body was missing that real explosiveness, and we crashed out of the Champions League against Tottenham, and of course that was hard I thought we were the better team. But we lost our initiative in the Italian league as well, and Inter were on top form again.

Were they going to overtake us? Would we lose the grip we'd had on the league? There was some talk of that. The papers wrote about every possible scenario, and my red cards didn't help anything. The first one was against Bari, one of the bottom teams. We were trailing 10, and I was standing in the penalty area; a defender was holding me in and I felt trapped. I reacted instinctively. I lashed out with my open hand and smacked him in the stomach, and he went down completely idiotic of me. I admit it.

But it was a reflex, nothing more, and I wish I had a better explanation. I didn't. Football is a fight. You come under attack and you strike back, and sometimes you go too far without knowing why. I've done that many times. Over the years, I've learnt a lot. I'm not the crazy kid at Malm FF any longer, but that stuff will never leave me entirely. My winner's mindset has a downside. I go spare, and that time against Bari I got a red card. A red card can make anybody go off on one. But I left the pitch immediately without saying a word. Ca.s.sano equalised not long after. That was rea.s.suring. But b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I got a ban, not just the next match against Palermo, but in the next derby against Inter Milan as well.

The AC Milan management tried to protest. There was a huge fuss about it. But it didn't work, and that was a b.l.o.o.d.y disgrace, of course. But I didn't take it as hard as I would have done in the past. That's the truth. My family helped there. It doesn't work to get too down any more. I have to be there for my kids. But my rage continued. I played again against Fiorentina, and it looked like I was going to behave. We were ahead with just a few minutes remaining. Then I got a throw-in against me. I was furious and screamed ”vaffanculo”, which means sort of like 'go to h.e.l.l', at the referee and sure, that wasn't good, especially with regard to what had happened against Bari. But come on! Have you been there on the pitch? People say vaffanculo and things like that all the time. They don't get sent off because of it. They don't get a ban for several matches. The referees let it pa.s.s, at least most of the time.

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