I Am Zlatan Part 13

"I apologise," said Chippen. "It was a really stupid thing to do."

"I apologise as well," said Mellberg. "Erm ... what are you going to say to the media?" he added, and there was some discussion about that. I was silent through the whole thing. I had nothing to say about it, and maybe Lagerbck thought that was odd. Most of the time I don't exactly hold my tongue.

"And how about you, Zlatan? What do you say?"

"I've got nothing to say."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"Just that. Nothing!"

I noticed straight away, that made them worried. I'm sure they'd have been more at ease if I'd come out all c.o.c.ky. That would've been my style. But this was something new. Nothing! It was stressing them out, like, what's Zlatan planning now? And the more confused they got, the calmer I felt. It was strange, in a way. My silence was upsetting the balance. I got the upper hand. Everything felt so familiar. It was Wessels department store again. It was school. It was the Malm FF youth squad and I was listening to Lagerbck's little lecture on how clear they'd been about the rules with the same level of interest I'd listened to the teachers at school, like, you just go ahead and yak, I'm not a.r.s.ed. But it's true, there was one thing that p.i.s.sed me off. It was when he said: "We've decided that the three of you will not play against Liechtenstein," and don't think I cared about that I'd already b.l.o.o.d.y packed. Lagerbck could have sent me up to Lapland and I wouldn't have kicked up a fuss, and really, who cares about Liechtenstein? It was the word we that got my back up. Who the h.e.l.l was this we?

He was the boss. Why was he hiding behind other people? He should've been man enough to say, "I've decided," I would've respected him then, but this this was cowardly. I fixed him with a really hard stare but still said nothing, and then I headed back up to my room and phoned Keki. In situations like this, you need your family.

"Come and pick me up!"

"What have you done?"

"Got in too late."

Before I cleared off, I spoke to the team manager. He and I have always been on good terms. He knows me better than most in the national side and he knows about my background and the way I am. He knows that I don't forget things easily. "Look, Zlatan," he said, "I'm not worried about Chippen and Mellberg. They're regular Swedish guys, they'll take their punishment and come back, but with you, Zlatan ... I'm worried Lagerbck is digging his own grave."

"We'll see," was all I said, and an hour later I was gone from the hotel. Me and my little bro took Chippen along with us. It was him, me, Keki and another of my mates in the car, and we stopped off at a petrol station. Then we saw the tabloid headlines.

It must have been the biggest fuss ever made about a broken curfew! It was basically as if a flying saucer had landed and things would just get worse, and the whole time I was in touch with Chippen and Mellberg. I became a bit like a father to them, saying: "Calm down, lads. In a while this'll just be an advantage. n.o.body likes nice boys."

But honestly, I was getting more and more annoyed about the whole thing. Lagerbck and the rest were playing this us-against-them business. It was just ridiculous. Not that long ago I was been in a fight with a guy at Milan, Oguchi Onyewu is his name. I'll tell you about it later, it was really brutal. Of course, n.o.body thought that punch-up was a brilliant thing. But the management defended me publicly, saying I was fiery and keyed up, something along those lines. They kept up a united front. That's what they do in Italy. They defend their own in public and criticise in private. But here in Sweden, it became bad guys and good guys. It was handled really badly, and I said so to Lars Lagerbck.

"It's water under the bridge to me," he said. "You're welcome to come back."

"Am I? Well, I'm not coming. You could've given me a fine. You could've done anything. But you went to the media and hung us out to dry. I'm not standing for that," and that was that.

I said no to the national side, and dismissed the whole thing from my mind. Well, sort of. I was reminded about it constantly, and if I'm honest, there was one thing I regretted. I should've taken that scandal up a notch, since I was out of the squad anyway. What the h.e.l.l, sitting in a place that was practically empty with just one drink, and coming in an hour late? What was that? I should've smashed up a bar and crashed a car into a fountain up there on Avenyn and staggered back in nothing but my pants. That would've been more like a scandal on my level. This was a farce.

You don't ask for respect. You take it. It's easy to feel little when you're new at a club. Everything is new, and everybody's got their roles and their places and their talk. It's easiest to take a step back and get a feel for the mood of the place. But then you lose your initiative. You lose time. I came to Inter Milan to make a difference and make sure the club won the league t.i.tle for the first time in 17 years. In that case you can't hide, or play it safe, just because the media are criticising you and because people have preconceived opinions. Zlatan's a bad boy. Zlatan's got problems with his temper, all that stuff. It's easy to let it get to you and try to show you're the opposite, a nice guy. But then you're letting yourself be controlled.

It wasn't exactly ideal that the events from Gothenburg were being trotted out in all the Italian papers right then. It was like, look, this guy doesn't care about the rules, that one who was so expensive. Isn't he overrated? Or an outright mistake? There was a lot of that. The worst was a so-called 'expert' from Sweden, who said: "The way I see it, Inter Milan have always made some strange purchases, they just invest in individualists... Now they've acquired another problem."

But like I said, I thought about what Capello had said. It's about taking respect. It was like setting foot in a new yard in Rosengrd. You can't back down or worry that somebody might have heard something or other about you. Instead, you've got to step up, and I gave it all that att.i.tude I'd picked up at Juventus: Alright, lads, here I come, now we're gonna start winning!

I gave dirty looks at training sessions. I had my winner's mindset, all that wild att.i.tude and willpower. I was worse than ever. I went mental if people didn't give a hundred per cent on the pitch. I screamed and made noise if we lost or played a poor match, and I took on a leading role in a totally different way to how I had done previously in my career. I could see it in people's eyes: it was up to me now. I was going to lead them onwards, and I had Patrick Vieira by my side again. A lot of things are possible when you've got him there with you. We were two winning fiends who gave all we had to increase the motivation in the team.

But there were problems in the club. Moratti, the president and owner, has done loads for Inter Milan. He's spent over 300 million on acquiring players. He's invested in guys like Ronaldo, Maicon, Crespo, Christian Vieri, Figo and Baggio. He's taken an amazingly aggressive line. But he also had another quality. He was too generous, too kind. He'd give us hefty bonuses after winning a single match, and I reacted against that. Not that I've got anything against bonuses and benefits. Who does? But these bonuses weren't handed out after league or cup t.i.tles. It could be after just one match, and not even an important one.

It was sending the wrong signals, I thought, and sure, as a player you don't just go up to Moratti. Moratti comes from a posh family with old money. He is power. He is money. But I'd acquired a certain standing at the club, so I did it anyway. Moratti isn't a difficult person. He's easy to talk to, so I said to him: "Hey!"

"Yes, Ibra?"

"You've got to take it easy."

"How do you mean?"

"With the bonuses. The guys could get complacent. h.e.l.l, one match won, that's nothing. We get paid to win, and sure, if we bring home the Scudetto, go ahead and give us something nice if you want, but not after just one win!"

He got it. There was an end to that, and don't get me wrong, I didn't think I could manage the club better than Moratti, not at all. But if I saw something that could have a negative impact on the team's motivation, I'd point it out, and that stuff with the bonuses was really just a little thing.

The real challenge was the cliques. That bothered me right from day one, and it wasn't just because I was from Rosengrd, where everybody just got along in one big jumble Turks, Somalis, Yugos, Arabs. It was also because I'd seen it clearly in football, both at Juventus and at Ajax: every team performs better when the players are united. At Inter Milan, it was the opposite. The Brazilians sat in one corner, the Argentinians in another, and then the rest of us in the middle. It was so superficial, so lazy.

Okay, sure, sometimes you sort of get cliques forming in clubs. It's not good when that happens. But at least people usually choose their friends and stick with the ones they get on with. Here, it was according to nationality. It was so primitive. They played football together. Otherwise they lived in separate worlds, and that drove me crazy. I knew straight away that had to change or we wouldn't win the league t.i.tle. Some might say, what does it matter who we eat lunch with? Believe me, it matters. If you don't stick together off the pitch, it shows in your game.

It impacts on motivation and team spirit. In football, the margins are so small that those kinds of things can be the deciding factor, and I saw it as my first big test to put an end to that stuff. But I realised it wasn't enough to just talk the talk.

I went round saying, what is this c.r.a.p? Why are you sitting in these groups like schoolkids? And sure, a lot of them agreed with me. Others got a little embarra.s.sed, but nothing happened. Old habits die hard. Those invisible barriers were too high. So I went up to Moratti again, and this time I made it as clear as I could. Inter hadn't won the league t.i.tle for ages. Was that going to carry on? Were we going to be losers just because people couldn't be bothered to talk to one another?

"Of course not," said Moratti.

"So we need to break up these groups. We can't win if we don't work as a team."

I don't think Moratti had really grasped how bad things were, but he did understand my reasoning. It was totally in line with his philosophy, he said.

"We need to be like one big family at Inter. I'll speak to them," he said, and it wasn't long before he went down to speak to the lads, and you could see straight away the kind of respect everyone had for him.

Moratti was the club. He didn't just make decisions. He owned us as well. He gave a little speech. He was all fired up, talking about unity, and everybody was glaring at me, of course. It sounded like what I'd been saying. Is Ibra the one who snitched? I guess most of them were convinced of that. I didn't care. I just wanted to get the team together, and the atmosphere actually improved, a bit at a time. The cliques were broken, and everybody started to spend time with each other.

We were more fired up and united, and I went round and talked to everybody, trying to get everyone together even more. But of course, that in itself won't win you the league t.i.tle. I remember my first match. It was against Fiorentina, in Florence. It was the 19th of September 2006, and of course Fiorentina wanted to beat us at any price. Their team had also been dragged into the Italian football scandal and started the season on minus 15 points, and the spectators at the Artemio Franchi were seething with hatred.

Inter had emerged from the scandal completely unscathed, and many people thought that stank. Both teams were dead set on winning: Fiorentina to regain their honour, and us to get some respect in order to finally aim for the Scudetto.

I played from the start alongside Hernn Crespo up front. Crespo was an Argentinian who'd come from Chelsea, and we got off to a good start together, at least on the pitch, and a little way into the second half I received a long pa.s.s inside the penalty area and made a half-volley shot into the goal, and you can just imagine. It was such a relief! That was my debut, and following that I became increasingly integrated into the team and it felt completely natural to say no to the Swedish national team's qualifiers for the European Champions.h.i.+ps against Spain and Iceland in October. I wanted to focus entirely on Inter and my family. Helena and I were counting the days. We were going to have our first baby, and we'd decided the birth would be in Sweden, at the university hospital in Lund. We trusted Swedish health care more than any other system, in spite of everything. But it wasn't that easy. There were issues.

There was the media, and the paparazzi. There was the whole hysteria, and we took security staff along with us and notified the hospital's management, who closed off Ward 44 in the maternity hospital. Everyone who entered was security-checked. There were police patrolling outside, and we were both nervous. There was that peculiar hospital smell in there. People were running down the corridors, and we could hear shouts and voices. Have I mentioned that I hate hospitals? I hate hospitals. I'm well when other people are well. If people are ill around me, then I get ill myself, or at least that's how it feels. I can't explain it. But hospitals give me stomach-ache. There's something in the air and in the atmosphere, and I usually get out of there as soon as I can.

But now I was determined to stay put and be there for everything, and it made me tense. I get loads of letters from all over the world, and usually I don't open them. It's a matter of fairness. Since I can't read and answer them all, I often leave them unopened. n.o.body should be singled out for special treatment. But sometimes Helena can't help herself, and we hear the most awful stories, like there's a sick child with a month left to live who idolises me, and Helena asks, what can we do? Can we sort out tickets for a match? Send an autographed s.h.i.+rt? We really try to help. But it doesn't feel good. It's a weakness of mine, I admit, and now I was supposed to spend the night at the hospital, and I was worrying about that, but it was worse for Helena, of course. She was all worked up. It's not easy being chased while you're giving birth to your first child. If anything goes wrong, the whole world will find out about it.

Would anything go wrong? I had all kinds of those thoughts. But it went fine, and afterwards I felt joy, of course, happiness. It was a lovely little boy, and we'd done it. We were parents. I was a dad, and there was no question in my mind that anything could be wrong with him, not when we'd made it through this ordeal and all the doctors and nurses seemed so happy. It wasn't on the map, but the drama wasn't over not by a long chalk.

We named the boy Maximilian. I don't really know where we got the name from. But it sounded brilliant. Ibrahimovic was brilliant in and of itself. Maximilian Ibrahimovic was even more so. It sounded both good and powerful, and of course we ended up calling him Maxi, but that was fine too. Everything felt so promising, and I left the hospital almost straight away. Not that it was easy, exactly. Outside there were journalists all over the place. But the security bloke put a white coat on me, like, Dr Ibrahimovic. Then they put me in a laundry basket completely nuts, a ma.s.sive great basket, and then I curled up in there like a ball and was pushed down pa.s.sageways and corridors into the underground car park, and only once we were down there did I hop out and get changed, and then I headed off to Italy. It fooled everybody.

Things didn't go so well for Helena. It wasn't easy for her. It had been a difficult birth, and she wasn't as used to the commotion as I was. I hardly even thought about it any longer. It was just a part of my life. But Helena got more and more stressed, and she and Maxi were smuggled out in separate cars to my mum's terraced house in Svgertorp. We thought she'd be able to take a breather there. But we were naive. It only took an hour before the journalists started gathering outside, and Helena felt like she was being hunted and trapped, and soon afterwards she flew to Milan again.

I was already there, set to play a match against Chievo at San Siro. I was on the bench. I hadn't slept much. Roberto Mancini, our manager, didn't think I'd be able to focus properly, and I'm sure that was sensible. My thoughts were all over the place, and I looked out towards the pitch and up towards the spectators. The Ultras, Inter's hardcore fans, had hung a huge white banner from the stands. It looked like a giant sail flapping in the wind, and there was something written, or spray-painted, on the cloth in blue and black letters. It said 'Benvenuto Maximilian', which means 'Welcome Maximilian', and I wondered, "Who the h.e.l.l is Maximilian? Have we got a player by that name?"

Then I realised. It was my son. The Ultras were welcoming my little boy to the world! That was so beautiful I wanted to cry. Those fans are not to be messed with. They're tough blokes, and I'd end up in fierce fights with them in the future. But now... what can I say? This was Italy at its best. It was their love for football and their love for children, and I took out my mobile and took a photo and sent it to Helena, and honestly, there are few things that have touched her heart like that. She still gets tears in her eyes when she talks about it. It was as if San Siro was sending them its love.

We'd also got a new puppy. We called him Trustor, after this Swedish financial affair where some people had cleared all the money out of a company. So now I really had a family. I had Helena, Maxi and Trustor.

I was playing Xbox constantly in those days. I went completely overboard. It was like a drug. I couldn't stop, and I'd often sit with little Maxi on my lap and play.

We were living in a hotel in Milan then while we waited for our own apartment to be ready, and when we rang the kitchen to order food, we could tell they were tired of us, and we were tired of them. The hotel was getting on our nerves, so we moved to the Hotel Nhow on the Via Tortona, and that was better, but still chaotic.

Everything was new with Maxi, and we noticed that he was vomiting a lot and wasn't putting on weight the opposite, in fact. He was getting thinner. But neither of us knew how things were supposed to be. Maybe that was normal. Somebody said that infants sometimes lose weight for a while after they're born, and he seemed strong, didn't he? But the milk came back up, and his vomit seemed really thick and looked strange. He was sicking up all the time. Was it supposed to be like that? We didn't have a clue, and I phoned my family and my friends, and they all rea.s.sured me, saying they were sure it was nothing serious, and that's what I thought too or at least that's what I wanted to think, and I tried to come up with explanations for it.

It's all right. He's my lad. What could go wrong? But my worry didn't go away, it just became increasingly obvious that he couldn't keep anything down, and he lost even more weight. He'd weighed six pounds and ten ounces when he was born. Now he was down to six pounds and two ounces, and I felt it in my gut that this was not good, not at all, and I couldn't keep it inside any longer.

"Something's not right, Helena!"

"I think so, too," she replied, and how can I explain it?

What had previously been a suspicion, a hunch, I was now totally convinced of, and the room started to sway. My whole body was in knots. I'd never felt anything like it, not even close. Before I had a kid I was Mr Untouchable. I could get angry and furious, have every emotion possible. But everything could be solved if I just fought harder. Now there was nothing like that. Now I was powerless. I couldn't even make him healthy by training. I couldn't do anything.

Maxi got weaker and weaker, and he was so small you could really see it, he was just skin and bones. It was as if the life force was leaving him, and we phoned round in a panic, and a doctor, this woman, came up to our hotel room. I wasn't there at the time. I was supposed to be playing a match. But I think we were lucky.

The doctor smelled his vomit. She looked at it and recognised the symptoms and said immediately, "You've got to get him to hospital right now," and I remember it very clearly. I was with the team. We were up against Messina at home, and my mobile rang. Helena was hysterical. "They're going to operate on Maxi," she said, "it's urgent." And I thought: are we going to lose him? Is that really possible? My head was buzzing with every conceivable question and worry, and I told Mancini about it. Like so many others, he was a former player, and he'd begun his coaching career under Sven-Gran Eriksson at Lazio. He understood, he had a heart.

"My boy is sick," I said, and he could see in my eyes that I was feeling like s.h.i.+t.

I no longer had only winning on my mind. I had Maxi there, nothing else, my little boy, my beloved son, and I had to decide for myself: was I going to play or not? I'd scored six goals so far that season, and I'd been awesome in a lot of matches. But now... what to do? It wouldn't make anything better with Maxi if I sat on the bench, that much was true. But would I be able to perform? I didn't know. My brain was fizzing.

I got reports from Helena every so often. She'd rushed to the hospital and apparently everybody was screaming around her and n.o.body spoke English, and Helena barely knew a word of Italian. She was totally lost. She didn't understand anything, other than it was urgent, and that a doctor was asking her to sign some doc.u.ment. What kind of doc.u.ment? She didn't have a clue. But there was no time to think. She signed. In situations like that people will sign anything, I guess. Then there were more doc.u.ments. She signed them as well and Maxi was taken away from her, and that hurt, I can really understand that.

It was like, what's happening? What's going on? She was in an absolute state, and Maxi was getting weaker and weaker. But Helena gritted her teeth. There was nothing else she could do. She had to deal with it and hope, while Maxi was taken away into another room with doctors and nurses and all that stuff, and only gradually she started to grasp what was wrong. His stomach wasn't working properly, and he had to have surgery.

As for me, I was there at the San Siro Stadium with all the crazy fans, and it wasn't easy to focus on anything. But I'd decided to play. I was in from the start. At least I think so. Everything's a little vague, and I guess I wasn't playing too well. How could I? And I remember Mancini was standing on the sidelines and he gestured to me: I'm taking you out in five, and I nodded. Definitely, I'll go out. I'm no use here.

But a minute later I scored a goal, and I thought, to h.e.l.l with you, Mancini! Try and take me out now! I played on, and we won big. I was playing on pure rage and worry, and afterwards I cleared off. I didn't say a single word in the changing room, and I barely remember the drive. My heart was pounding. But I do remember the hospital corridor and the smell in there, and how I rushed up and asked, where, where, and how I finally found my way to a big ward where Maxi was lying alongside a load of other children in an incubator. He was smaller than ever, like a tiny bird. He had tubes going into his body and his nose. My heart was ripped out of my chest, and I looked at him and then at Helena, and what do you think I did? Was I the tough guy from Rosengrd?

"I love you two," I said. "You're everything to me. But I can't handle this. I'm gonna freak out. Phone me, the tiniest little thing that happens," and then I got out of there.

That wasn't a nice thing to do to Helena. She was on her own with him. But I couldn't deal with it. I started to panic. I hated hospitals more than ever, and I went back to the hotel and probably I played on my Xbox. It usually calms me down in that type of situation, and the whole night I lay with my mobile right next to me, and sometimes I woke up with a start, as if I were expecting something terrible.

But it went well. The operation was a success, and Maxi is doing great these days. He's got a scar on his tummy. Otherwise he's just as healthy as all the other kids, and sometimes I think about that episode. It gives me a little perspective, to be honest.

We actually won the Scudetto that first year at Inter Milan, and later in Sweden I was nominated for the Jerring Prize. There's no panel of judges to select the winner. It's chosen by the Swedish public. People in Sweden vote for the Swedish athlete or sports team they think has performed the best that year, and sure, that type of prize almost always goes to figures in individual sports, like Ingemar Stenmark in alpine skiing, Stefan Holm in athletics or Annika Srenstam in golf, although I should say, a couple of times an entire team has won it as well. The Swedish national football squad got in in 1994. But back then in 2007, I was nominated for the award on my own. It was at the gala award ceremony. Helena and I were there together, I was in a tuxedo and bow tie, and before the prize was announced I was working the room a little and b.u.mped into Martin Dahlin.

Martin Dahlin is a former player, one of the greats. He was in the national side that won third place in the World Cup and got the Jerring Prize in 1994, and he'd been a pro with Roma and Borussia Mnchengladbach and scored tons of goals. But it's the same as ever, it's one generation against another. The older ones want to be the greatest of all time. So do the younger ones. We don't want to have the old stars waved in our faces, and we really don't want to hear things like, you should've been there in our day, and rubbish like that. We want football to be at its best right now, and I remember hearing a sneer in Martin's voice: "Oh, are you here?"

Why wouldn't I be there?

"And you too?" I said with the same sneer, as if I was amazed he of all people had been let in.

"We did win the prize in ninety-four."

"As a team, yeah. I'm nominated as an individual," I replied and smiled. It was nothing, just a bit of c.o.c.ky banter.

But at that moment a sensation went through my whole body, like, I want that award, and I said to Helena when I got back to my table, "Please, cross your fingers for me!" I've never said anything like that, not even about the league or cup t.i.tles. But it just came out. That award was suddenly important, as if something really depended on it. I can't really explain it. I'd got every kind of award and prize, but I'd never been affected in that way, and maybe, I dunno, I realised it could be a confirmation, a sign that I was really accepted, not just as a footballer but as a person, in spite of all my outbursts and my background. So I was completely on edge while they were up on stage going through the nominees.

There was me and that girl who does the hurdles, Susanna Kallur, and the skier, Anja Prson. I had no idea how things would turn out. Before my Guldbollen awards I usually find out in advance, I don't want to go up there for no reason. But now I knew nothing, and the seconds ticked away. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, say it. And the winner is ...

My name was announced, and I almost welled up, and believe me, I don't start crying easily. I never got much practice in that sort of thing when I was growing up, but now I got all emotional, and I stood up. Everybody was yelling and applauding. There was a roar surrounding me, and I pa.s.sed Martin Dahlin again, and this time I couldn't stop myself from saying to him: "Pardon me, Martin, I'm just going to go up and collect an award."

Up on the stage I received the award from Prince Carl Philip and took hold of the microphone. I'm not someone who prepares acceptance speeches ahead of time, not at all. I just start talking, and suddenly I started thinking about Maxi and everything we'd been through with him, and I started to wonder... really strange, in fact. But I'd got the award for helping Inter bring home their first Scudetto in 17 years, and I asked myself whether Maxi had been born during that season, so not that same year but during the actual season we'd won the t.i.tle. It was like I suddenly didn't know, and I asked Helena: "Was that the season Maxi was born?" and I looked at her, and she could barely manage a nod.

She had tears in her eyes, and believe me, I will never forget that.

17.

MAYBE I WAS GROWING UP and becoming an adult or maybe not. I've talked about getting a buzz. I need buzzes. I've needed them ever since I was a kid, and sometimes I go off the rails. It still happens. I've got an old mate who used to own a pizzeria in Malm. He weighs about 19 stone, and I'd driven from Bstad on the west coast of Sweden down to Malm in my Porsche with him, and to be honest, a lot of people don't like to ride along with me. Not because I'm a bad driver, not at all. I'm awesome. But I've got a lot of adrenaline, and that time I got it up to 300 km/hr. It felt slow, so I stepped on the gas: 301, 302, and after a while the road narrowed. But I just kept on, and when the speedometer read 325 my mate burst out: "Zlatan, slow down for Christ's sake, I've got a family!"

"And what about me, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what have I got?" I replied.

Then I slowed down, probably reluctantly, and we gave a sigh of relief and smiled at each other. We did have to look after ourselves, after all. But it wasn't easy to be sensible. I got a buzz out of stuff like that, and even though I've never taken drugs maybe I've got something of an addictive personality. I get wrapped up in certain things. These days it's hunting. Back then it was my Xbox, and that November there was a new game out.

It was called Gears of War, and I was completely obsessed. I locked myself in. I turned one of our rooms into a gaming room and sat there for hours on end, it could be three or four in the morning, and I really should have been sleeping and looking after myself and making sure I wasn't a wreck in training sessions. But I kept going. Gears of War was like a drug Gears of War and Call of Duty. I was playing them all the time.

I needed more and more. I couldn't stop, and I'd often play online with other people Brits, Italians, Swedes, anybody, six or seven hours a day, and I had a Gamertag. I couldn't be known as Zlatan online. So of course, n.o.body knew who was concealed behind my online tag.

But I promise you, I impressed people even under a false name. I'd been playing video games my whole life, and I'm an extremely compet.i.tive person. I'm focused. I crushed everybody. But sure, there was another guy who was good as well and he was online constantly, all night long, just like me. His Gamertag was D-something, and I'd hear him talking sometimes. We all had headsets on, and people would talk between and during rounds of play.

I tried to hold my tongue. I wanted to be anonymous. It wasn't always easy. I had adrenaline flowing through my body, and one day people were talking about their cars. D had a Porsche 911 Turbo, he said, and I couldn't stop myself. I'd given away one of those to Mino after that lunch at Okura in Amsterdam. So I started to talk, and people noticed straight away. They were suspicious. You sound like Zlatan, somebody said. Nah, nah, I'm not. Come on, they went, and they started asking different questions. But I wriggled out of it and then we got talking about Ferraris instead, but that was no better, to be honest.

"I've got one," I said. "A really special one, in fact."

"What model?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I replied, and of course that made D curious.

"Ah, come on! What is it?"

"It's an Enzo."

He was silent.

"You're making that up."

"No, I'm not!"

"An Enzo?"

"An Enzo!"