I Am Zlatan Part 16

"Take it easy, fella," said Rui. "That's how he is. He doesn't react like the rest of us."

Maybe not, I thought. Even so... then I'm b.l.o.o.d.y well going to make sure I liven him up, even if I have to achieve a miracle.

One way or another, I was going to make that man cheer.

22.

I HAD KIND OF A FIXATION about the Champions League. We'd started the league season and my knee was better, and I scored one incredible goal after another, so early on we had a feeling that we were going to bring home the Scudetto that year as well. But let's get this straight: that wasn't such a huge thing any more. I'd already won the Italian league t.i.tle four times and been named best player of the season. The Champions League felt like the crucial thing. I'd never made it very far in that tournament, and we were due to play Manchester United in the first round.

United were one of the best teams in Europe. They'd won the Champions League trophy the previous year and had players like Cristiano Ronaldo, Wayne Rooney, Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs and Nemanja Vidic, but none of them carried the game, none of them was the deciding factor for the club quite the opposite: you really got a sense that United were a team. No player was bigger than the club. No manager drove that philosophy harder than Alex Ferguson Sir Alex Ferguson, I suppose I should say. Everybody knows Sir Alex. He's like a G.o.d in England, and he never wears out his stars. He rotates them.

Originally Ferguson is a working-cla.s.s lad from Scotland, and when he joined United as manager in 1986, there wasn't much going on with the club. United's glory days seemed to be behind them. Everything was in a mess, and the players used to go out and get drunk. That was considered to be like, a cool thing? But Ferguson waged war on all that. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, drinking beer! He put discipline into those guys. He brought home 21 t.i.tles with the club and was knighted in 1999 when United won the Premier League t.i.tle, the FA Cup and the Champions League all in the same year. So you can imagine the rivalry between a bloke like that and Mourinho. The talk was endless about it.

There was Mourinho versus Sir Alex, and there was Cristiano Ronaldo versus Zlatan. There was loads written about us. We were the two poster boys for Nike and we'd filmed an advert together, a duel where we did tricks and shot goals, a fun thing with Eric Cantona as a TV presenter. But I didn't know him. We never met during the recording. Everything was done separately, and I wasn't too bothered about that media stuff either. But I felt up for it. I believed our chances were good, and of course Mourinho had prepared us thoroughly. But the first match at San Siro was a disappointment. We'd only managed a 00 draw and I didn't really get into the game, and of course the British papers wrote loads of s.h.i.+t afterwards. But that was their problem, not mine. They could go ahead and write all the rubbish they wanted, I didn't give a d.a.m.n. But I really wanted to win the second leg at Old Trafford and progress in the Champions League. It was something that was growing inside me, and I remember when I ran out into the stadium and heard the applause and the boos.

The air was crackling with nerves, and Mourinho was dressed in a black suit and a black overcoat. He looked serious, and as usual he didn't sit down. He stood right by the sideline, following the game, like a general on the battlefield, and several times the spectators sang or chanted, "Sit down, Mourinho", and he often waved his hands. He roared, "Get in there and help Ibra!" I was too alone out in front, and I was being guarded really hard. A lot depended on me. That's how it had been all season, and Mourinho also played 451 with me in front. I felt pressure to score goals, and sure, I liked it. I wanted the responsibility.

But United were sharper and I became too isolated and crowded up there, and I cursed the situation. Worst of all, just three minutes in Ryan Giggs kicked a corner and Vidic headed it in, 10. That was a bucket of cold water. All of Old Trafford stood up and roared: "You're not special any more, Jose Mourinho."

Mourinho and I were the ones who got the worst boos. But things loosened up more and more, and the fact was: we only needed one goal to progress. If we just made it 11, victory would be ours, and I started to s.h.i.+ne. Things kept improving, and after 30 minutes I got a long cross in the penalty area and headed it hard, straight down onto the goal line. The ball bounced up, into the crossbar and out. It was so close, and I had a growing sense that we were going to take this one yet, and we had one chance after another. Adriano made a volley shot into the goalpost. But no, it didn't go in. Instead, Wayne Rooney dribbled it outside the penalty area and shot a cross to Cristiano who headed it in, 20, and that felt b.l.o.o.d.y awful. It was tough, the minutes ticked away and we weren't managing to reduce their lead. Towards the end of the match the entire stadium was singing, "Bye, bye, Mourinho. It's over." I wanted to kick up the turf and smash something valuable, and I remember coming into the changing room. Mourinho tried to cheer us up, like, now we're going to focus on the league. He's as hard as a rock before and during matches, and sometimes after a few days have pa.s.sed and he's a.n.a.lysed our defeat, he can attack us so we don't repeat our mistakes. But in situations like this, there was no reason to lay into us. It wouldn't serve any purpose. We were upset enough as it was.

It felt like everybody wanted to commit murder, and I think that's when the thought started to sprout inside me. I wanted to move on. I'm a restless sort. I've always been on the move. I changed schools, homes and clubs even as a kid. I kind of got addicted to it and now, as I sat there and looked down at my legs, I started to suspect it: I was never going to win the Champions League with Inter. I didn't think the team were good enough, and already in the first interviews after the match I gave some hints about that. Or rather, I just answered honestly, instead of the usual, oh sure, we'll win it next year.

"Can you win the Champions if you stay at Inter?" the journalists asked.

"I dunno. We'll see," I replied, and I'm sure the fans suspected something already.

That was the start of the tensions, and I talked to Mino. "I want to move on," I said. "I want to go to Spain." He understood exactly what I meant, of course. Spain meant Real Madrid or Barcelona, the two top clubs, and Real was tempting. They had brilliant traditions and had had players like Ronaldo, Zidane, Figo, Roberto Carlos and Ral. But I was leaning towards Bara more and more. They played brilliantly and had guys like Lionel Messi, Xavi and Iniesta.

But how should we approach things? It wasn't easy. I couldn't say: I want to go to Bara. Not only because it would be a disaster for my reputation at Inter. It would be like declaring: I can play for free. You can't go offering yourself around like that. Then the directors realise they can get you cheap. No, the club has to come to you. The management have to feel like they want you at any price. But wasn't the real problem.

The problem was my status and my terms in Italy. I was seen as too expensive. I was the player who couldn't leave. I heard that a lot. There was me at Inter and Kak at AC Milan, Messi at Bara and Cristiano Ronaldo at Man United. It was thought that n.o.body could match our contracts. Our price tags were too high. Even Mourinho talked about it. "Ibra's staying," he said. "No club can pay the sums that are required. n.o.body can bid a hundred million euro," and that sounded absurd.

Was I too expensive for the market? A f.u.c.king Mona Lisa that couldn't be sold? I didn't know. The situation was difficult, and maybe it was stupid to be so open about it in the media after all. I suppose I should've come out with the same c.r.a.p as a lot of other stars: I'll always stay with my club, blah blah blah.

But I can't do that. I couldn't lie. I was uncertain about the future and I said so, and of course that annoyed a lot of people, especially the fans. They saw it as a betrayal, or at least something like it, and a lot of people started to worry. Would I lose my motivation in the team? Especially when I mouthed off with stuff like, "I'd like to try something new. I've been in Italy for five years now. I like technical football, and that's what they play in Spain." There was loads of talk and speculation.

But that was no tactic, no trick to get out of the club. It was just honest, but nothing was simple, not for a player at my level. I was the most important guy at Inter, and n.o.body wanted me to leave. There was an uproar every time I said something about it, and maybe the whole thing was a waste of time. We didn't have any offers, and I wasn't exactly getting any cheaper. Sure, I longed to go somewhere new. But it wasn't impacting my game, not at all, I was free of injury now and better than ever, and I continued to do everything to get Mourinho to react.

For example, I made a nice rush against Reggina, a dribble almost from midfield. I made it past three defenders, and honestly, that was a performance in itself, and the spectators were probably expecting me to finish it off with a hard shot. But I saw that the goalie was standing too far out, and I got an image, an idea, and with my left foot I chipped the ball over the guy, and it couldn't have been more perfect. The ball sailed in a beautiful arc into the top corner and the entire stadium cheered everybody except Mourinho of course, who stood there in his grey suit, chewing his gum with a little frown. Same as usual, in other words. Still, that was better than most of my other goals, and it brought me up to joint first position with Bologna's Marco Di Vaio in the league's goal-scoring table. It's a big thing in Italy to be the leading goal scorer, and I started to focus on that more and more. That was a challenge I needed. I became more aggressive than ever in front of the goal, and n.o.body loves goal scorers more than the Italian fans. n.o.body hates goal scorers who want to leave their club more for that matter, and it didn't help matters when I announced after the match: "I'm completely focused on winning the league t.i.tle this year, but as for next season, we'll have to see."

It goes without saying that the tension was ratcheted up: What's up with Ibra? What's going on? There was still a long way to go until the silly season, and we had nothing concrete. But the papers were already speculating. It was me and Cristiano Ronaldo at Manchester United. Would Real Madrid purchase either of us? And could they afford it? There were constant rumours. For example, people were speculating whether Real Madrid would do a trade and swap their star Gonzalo Higuan for me.

That way, the club wouldn't have to pay so much. Higuan would become part of the price. But like I said, that was just talk, or rather, nothing in the media is just talk. It has an impact, no matter how false it is, and a lot of people wanted to put me in my place. There was a lot of stuff like, n.o.body is bigger than the club, and Ibra's ungrateful and a deserter, all that stuff. But I didn't care.

I kept up the pace, and against Fiorentina in extra time I shot an amazing free kick that was clocked at 109 km/hr and just slammed into the goal from far away, and it looked like we were going to clinch the league t.i.tle, and like I said, it went hand in hand. There was a good and a bad side to everything. The better I was, the more agitated the supporters got about my wanting to leave the club, and before our match against Lazio on the 2nd of May 2009, the mood was explosive. The Ultra fans had written 'Welcome Maximilian' and that kind of thing. They could show love. But they could also hate not just the opposing side but their own players as well, and I sensed as soon as I came in. San Siro was at boiling point.

All week there had been things in the papers about how I wanted to leave Italy and try something new. n.o.body could have missed it. Early on in the match I worked my way into the penalty area. I struggled, but couldn't get the ball, and in situations like that the supporters usually applaud. Like, good try. But now I was getting boos and jeers from the Ultra fans. I was like, what the h.e.l.l, we're working hard down here and we're at the top of the league table, and this is what you bring. Who are you? I shushed them. Put my finger up to my mouth. But things didn't get any better, and just before half-time the score was still 00 even though we'd kept up a lot of pressure, and then they started booing the whole team, and that made me go off on one, or more accurately, I got pumped up with adrenaline.

I'd show them, and like I said, I play better when I'm angry. Remember that if you see me when I'm furious, don't worry. All right, I might do something stupid and get a red card. But most of the time it's a good sign. My entire career has been built on the desire to strike back, and in the second half I got the ball about 15 metres outside the penalty area. I turned. I rushed in. I feinted, and made a goal shot between two defenders. It was a shot of pure rage, a nice goal. But it wasn't the goal people talked about.

It was my gesture, because I didn't celebrate. I ran backwards into our half of the pitch with my face turned towards the Ultra fans, and all the time I was shus.h.i.+ng them with my finger to my mouth again. It was like, shut your mouths. Here's my reply to your s.h.i.+t. I score goals, and you boo. That became the big thing in that match, like, did you see it? Did you see it? It was something totally new.

It was a public battle between the fans and the team's biggest star, and over on the sideline stood Mourinho no victory gesture from him, of course. Who would've expected it? But he obviously agreed with me. s.h.i.+t, booing your own team. He pointed at his head, like: you're morons up there in the stands. Of course, you understand, if things were tense before, they were even worse now, there was a rumbling in the stadium. But I continued to play well. I was running on pure rage, and made a forward pa.s.s to make it 20. I dominated, and was happy when the referee blew the final whistle. But that wasn't the end, not by a long chalk. As I left the pitch, I got word that the Ultras' leaders were waiting for me down in the changing room. I have no idea how they got in there.

But there they were down in the pa.s.sage, seven or eight blokes, and not the kind who say things like, excuse me, could we have a quick word? They were guys from the kind of streets I came from: guys br.i.m.m.i.n.g with aggression, and everybody around me got nervous, and my pulse went up to 150. I was really stressing out, honestly. But I told myself: you can't chicken out now. Where I come from you don't back down. So I went up to them and I saw right away, that made them uneasy, but they played it c.o.c.ky, like, what the f.u.c.k? Ibra's stepping up to us?

"Are there people who have some sort of beef up there?" I asked.

"Yeah, well, a lot of them are mad..." they began.

"Well, tell them to come down onto the pitch and we'll sort it out right here, mano a mano!"

Then I walked away, and my heart was pounding. But it felt good. I'd coped with the stress. I'd stood up for myself, but the s.h.i.+t carried on. The supporters' club demanded an official meeting. But come on. Why should I meet with them again? What was in it for me? I was a footballer. The fans might be loyal to their club. That's nice. But a footballer's career is short. He's got to look after his own interests. He moves around to different clubs. The fans knew that. I knew that, and I told them: apologise on your website for your boos and your jeers, and I'll be happy. We'll forget about this. But nothing happened or rather, the Ultra fans decided they'd neither boo nor cheer me. They'd pretend I didn't exist. Good luck with that, I thought.

I wasn't easy to ignore, not then, not later. I was on form, and the talk continued. Is he leaving? Is he staying? Can anybody afford to pay? It was a tug-of-war, and I was afraid of ending up in a dead end. Of becoming one of those players who stay at a club with their tail between their legs. It was a game of nerves, and I rang up Mino. Were there any offers? Was anything happening? Nothing was happening, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that it was going to take a record sum to get me out, if even that, and I tried to shut my eyes and ears to all the stuff in the media. But it wasn't easy. Not when you're in that situation. I was in constant contact with Mino, and my hopes were resting more and more with Barcelona. Bara won the Champions League that season. They beat Manchester United 20 with goals by Eto'o and Messi, and I thought, wow, that's the club for me, and I kept phoning Mino.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Napping?"

"Go f.u.c.k yourself," Mino said. "You're s.h.i.+t. n.o.body wants you! You'll have to go back to Malm FF."

"f.u.c.k you!"

But obviously he was doing everything he possibly could to sort this, not just because he was always fighting my corner. This was the deal we'd both been dreaming of. Sure, it could all go t.i.ts up, end up with us not achieving anything other than p.i.s.sing off the Ultras and the directors. But it could also be the greatest thing ever, and we were prepared to play for high stakes.

Meanwhile, I kept playing. We'd already secured the Scudetto. But I really wanted to win the goal-scoring t.i.tle. Winning the Capocannoniere means getting a place in the history books, and no Swede had done it since Gunnar Nordahl won in 1955. Now I had a chance, though nothing was sure yet. It was level-pegging at the top. Marco Di Vaio at Bologna and Diego Milito at Genoa were tied, and of course, it was nothing to do with Mourinho, not really. He coached the team. But he stood up in the changing room and said: "Now we'll make sure Ibra wins the goal-scoring t.i.tle as well," and that became a thing. Everybody would help me. They all said it publicly.

But Balotelli, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d in one of the last matches, he got the ball in the penalty area, and I came running. I was completely open. I had a perfect position. But Balotelli just kept dribbling, and I gave him a look. What are you doing? Aren't you going to help me? I was furious, but okay, the guy was young. He'd scored goals. I couldn't start yelling at him there. But I was angry, the whole bench was angry: d.a.m.n it, running there and shooting a goal while Zlatan's got a position, and I thought, if this is how it's going to be, then f.u.c.k the goal-scoring t.i.tle. Thanks for that, Balotelli. But I got over it.

I scored a goal in the next match, and with one match left to play, it was set to be a nail-biting finish. Marco Di Vaio and I had both scored 23 goals, and Diego Milito at Genoa was right behind us on 22. That was on the 31st of May. All the papers were writing about it. Who would win?

It was hot that day. The league t.i.tle had been decided. We'd clinched it long ago. But there were tons of nerves in the air. With a bit of luck, this would be my farewell to the Italian league. That's what I was hoping. I had no idea. But regardless of whether this was my swan-song or not, I wanted to play a brilliant match and win the goal-scoring t.i.tle. d.a.m.n it, I had no intention of finis.h.i.+ng with a scoreless draw.

But of course, it wasn't just down to me. It depended on Di Vaio and Milito too, and they were playing at the same time. Di Vaio with Bologna were facing Catania, while Milito and Genoa were up against Lecce, and I had no doubts that those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were going to score goals. I was dead set on replying. I had to get it in there, and that's not easy to do to order. If you try too hard, things seize up. Every striker knows that. You can't think about it too much. It's all about instinct. You've just got to go for it, and I could tell right away, it was going to be an eventful match against Atalanta. The score was 11 after just a few minutes.

In the 12th minute Esteban Cambia.s.so shot a long ball just outside our own penalty area, and I was standing up there on the line with the defenders. I set off, I was right on the offside boundary, and the defenders weren't keeping up. I ran like lightning and reached the goalkeeper on my own. But the ball bounced. It bounced and skittled, and I b.u.mped it ahead with my knee and was about to collide with the goalie. But just before then I shot a broadside, a shot to the right, and it was a goal, 21, and as of that point I was on top of the goal-scoring table. People were shouting that at me, and I started to hope, maybe it would work out. But things were happening, and I never really got it. Sure, people were shouting from the sidelines. "Milito and Di Vaio have scored," something like that. But I didn't believe it. It sounded like some of the guys on the bench were just coming out with c.r.a.p. There's a lot of that in football, trash talk to get people worked up and to annoy them, and I kept playing. I blocked out everything else, and I guess I thought one goal would be enough. But there was real drama going on in the other battles.

Diego Milito was in third place in the table. He's an Argentinian. He had a fearsome scoring record. Only a few weeks before, he had been cleared to join Inter Milan. So if I didn't get out of the club, we'd be playing together. But now against Lecce, his flow was incredible. He scored two goals in just 10 minutes and was now on 24 goals, same as me, and there was a definite sense that a third goal could come at any time. But it wasn't just Milito. Marco Di Vaio had also scored. I knew nothing about that one. But now the three of us were level at the top, and that's no way to win. You can't share it. You have to bring it home alone, and even though I didn't know for sure, it started to dawn on me that I needed another goal. I could tell by the mood. I read it in people's faces on the bench, in the pressure in the stands. But the minutes pa.s.sed. Nothing happened. It looked like it was going to be a draw. The score was 33 with just 10 minutes remaining. Mourinho subst.i.tuted in Hernn Crespo. He needed new blood.

He wanted to go on the offensive, and he was waving his arms, like, move up and go for it! Was I about to lose my chance at the goal-scoring trophy? That's what I feared, and I worked hard. I screamed for the ball. A lot of the players were tired. It had been a close match. But Crespo still had strength. He dribbled on the right side and I ran towards the goal. I got a long cross, and there was an immediate struggle for the ball. I pushed one guy away and ended up with my back towards the goal while the ball bounced around, and I saw a chance. But like I said, I was facing the wrong way, so what do you do? You backheel it. I backheeled it at a backwards angle, and sure, I'd made a lot of backheel goals in my career the one against Italy in the European Champions.h.i.+p of course, and that karate move against Bologna. But this one, in this situation, this was just too much.

It couldn't go in. This was a performance like in Mum's old neighbourhood, and you don't win the goal-scoring trophy with a move like that in the very last match. That just doesn't happen. But the ball rolled into the goal. The score was 43 and I tore off my s.h.i.+rt, even though I knew it would earn me a warning. But my G.o.d, this was big, and I went and stood down by the corner flag with my s.h.i.+rt off, and of course everybody was piling on top of me, Crespo and everybody. They were pressing down on my back. It looked almost aggressive, and they were all shouting at me, one after the other: now you've won the goal-scoring trophy!

And slowly it started to sink in, this was historic, this is my revenge. When I came to Italy, people said: Zlatan doesn't score enough goals. Now I'd won the goal-scoring trophy. There could be no more doubt. But I still played it cool. I strolled back towards the pitch, and there was something completely different that really made me stop short.

It was Mourinho, the man with the face of stone. The man who never batted an eyelid had woken up. He was like a madman. He was cheering like a schoolboy, jumping up and down, and I smiled: So I got you going, after all. But it took some doing.

I was forced to win the goal-scoring trophy with a backheel.

23.

ON THE THIRD OF JUNE, Kak went to Real Madrid for 65 million euro, and later on Cristiano Ronaldo was sold to the same club for a hundred million. That said a lot about what level we were talking about, so I went up to Moratti. Moratti was pretty cool after all. He'd been around for a while. He knew the business.

"Listen," I said. "These years have been incredible, and I'm happy to stay, and I don't care whether United or a.r.s.enal or anybody else comes along. But if Bara should happen to turn up..."

"Yes?" he said.

"Then I want you to at least talk to them. Not that you should sell me for such-and-such a figure, definitely not. It's up to you. But promise me you'll speak to them," I added, and he looked at me with his gla.s.ses and his ruffled hair, and sure, he understood there was money to be made, no matter how unwilling he was to let me go.

"Okay," he said, "I promise."

We headed to training camp in Los Angeles soon after that. It was the start of the pre-season. I was sharing a room with Maxwell, and that was promising, just like old times. But we were tired and jet-lagged, and the journalists were out of control. They crowded round the hotel, and the big thing of the day in the media was that Bara couldn't afford me. They were planning to take on David Villa instead not that the papers knew a d.a.m.n thing about it, but still, I had misgivings as well. Things had been up and down the last few weeks. I despaired. I'd hoped, and now things seemed to be going down the pan again, and that b.l.o.o.d.y Maxwell wasn't helping matters.

Maxwell is the nicest guy in the world, like I said. But he was driving me round the twist. We'd been following in one another's footsteps ever since our first days in Amsterdam, and now we were in the same situation yet again. We were both heading for Barcelona. But he was one step ahead or worse, he was really on his way, while the door might be about to close for me. And he couldn't sleep. He just kept talking on the phone: Is it sorted? Is it? It was getting on my nerves. It was non-stop, Bara this, Bara that. He kept it up all the time, day and night, or at least that's what it felt like. I was surrounded by this droning while I wasn't hearing a thing about my own deal well, not much anyway. It was driving me mad. I went mad at Mino b.l.o.o.d.y Mino, sorting it out for Maxwell and not for me, so I rang him up.

"So you can work for him but not for me?" I said.

"Go f.u.c.k yourself," Mino said, and it wasn't long before Maxwell really was set for Bara.

Unlike me, where every single step in the process was followed in the media, he'd managed to keep the negotiations secret. n.o.body believed he would go to Barcelona. But that day when we came into the changing room and everybody was sitting in a circle waiting for us, he told them what was going on.

"I'm set for Barcelona!"

People leapt up: You're going? It's true? The talk started. Things like that sets things off in people. Inter Milan wasn't Ajax. The guys were more laid-back, but even so, Bara had won the Champions League. Bara were the best team in the world. Sure, some guys got jealous, and Maxwell looked almost embarra.s.sed when he started to pack his kit and his boots.

"Take my boots as well," I said in a loud voice. "I'm coming with you," and everybody started laughing, like, good joke. I was too expensive to be sold, they thought. Or I had it too good at Inter. Nope, Ibra's staying. n.o.body can afford him. That's what people thought.

"Sit down! You're not going anywhere," people yelled, and I joked around a little with them, but honestly, I was uncertain myself.

I only knew that Mino was doing the best he could, and it was going to be all or nothing. One day around that time we played Chelsea in a training match, and I got tackled by John Terry. My hand hurt afterwards, but I ignored it. My hand? I wasn't too bothered about that. You play with your feet, and I had other things to think about. Bara was whirling around in my head, and I rang Mino again and again. It was like a fever in my body. But instead of good news, I got another kick in the teeth.

Joan Laporta was the president at Barcelona. He really was a big shot. It was during his time that the club had started to dominate again in Europe, and I'd heard he had flown to Milan in a private plane to have dinner with Moratti and Marco Branca, the sporting director. I'd had high hopes for that meeting, of course. But nothing came of it. Laporta had barely come in the door before Moratti said: "If you're here for Zlatan, you can turn round and go home! He's not for sale."

I went spare when I heard about that. What the f.u.c.k, they'd promised! So I phoned Branca and asked him, what's Moratti playing at? Branca refused to take responsibility. The meeting wasn't about you, he said. That was a lie. I knew that from Mino, and I felt betrayed. But sure, I also understood it was a game. At least it could be. 'Not for sale' could be another way of saying 'expensive'. But I didn't have a clue what was really going on, and the d.a.m.ned journalists were like rabid dogs.

They constantly asked: What's going to happen? Are you set for Bara? Are you staying at Inter? I had no answers to give. I was in a new no man's land, and even Mino, who was working like crazy, was starting to sound a little pessimistic: "Bara are fired up, but they can't get you out of here!" he said.

I was on tenterhooks, and LA was hot and noisy. There were a few things that happened which seemed to confirm I'd be staying. I was going to have the number 10 s.h.i.+rt for the next season at Inter, the same number Ronaldo had when he was in the squad. There were a few things like that, PR stuff and other things I was involved in. Everything was uncertain. The mood was unsettled.

I heard that Joan Laporta and Txiki Begiristain, Bara's sporting director, were in their private plane again. This trip had nothing to do with me. They were on their way to Ukraine to purchase Dmytro Chygrynskiy, one of the key players at FK Shakhtar Donetsk, who'd stunned everyone by winning the UEFA Cup that year. But their trip still had implications for us. Mino's a sly one. He knows all the tricks. He'd just had yet another meeting with Moratti and sensed an opening, in spite of everything. So he phoned Txiki Begiristain, who was on the plane with Laporta. They were on their way back to Barcelona.

"You should land in Milan instead," Mino said.

"Why?"

"Because I know Moratti's sitting at home right now, and if you go and knock on his door, I think you can put together a deal for Ibrahimovic."

"Okay, wait a minute. I need to discuss it with Laporta."

That minute dragged by, and the stakes were high. Moratti hadn't promised anything, and he had no idea anyone might come knocking on his door. But now everything was happening at once. Txiki Begiristain phoned back. "Okay," he said, "we'll turn round. We'll land in Milan instead," and of course, I got word about that straight away.

Mino rang me. There were calls and texts going back and forth. Phones were ringing off the hook. Moratti was told, "Bara's managers are on their way!" He might have thought it was a bit out of the blue, I don't know, or that those guys could at least have booked a meeting ahead of time. But of course, he let them in. He had style. He didn't want to lose face, and in that situation I didn't hesitate. I had to do whatever I could.

I texted Marco Branca. I wrote: "I know Bara's management are on their way to Moratti. You've promised me you'll talk to them, and you know I want to join their club. Don't mess this up, and I won't mess things up for you," and I waited a long time for a reply. I didn't get any. I'm sure they had their reasons. It's a game, like I said. But now I could sense it in the air, now it's serious. It's happening! Or the door will shut. It was one or the other, and the minutes pa.s.sed. What were they talking about in there? I didn't have a clue.

I knew what time they were meeting and I watched the clock, expecting it to take hours. But after 25 minutes Mino rang, and of course it made me jump. What now? Had Moratti sent them on their way again? My pulse was racing. My mouth went dry.

"Yeah," I said.

"It's set," he replied.

"What do you mean, set?"

"You're going to Barcelona. Pack your bags."

"You can't f.u.c.king joke about stuff like this."

"I'm not joking."

"How the h.e.l.l could it have happened so fast?"

"No time to talk now."

He hung up, and I couldn't quite take it in. My head was whirling. I was at the hotel. What should I do? I went out into the corridor. I needed to talk to someone. Patrick Vieira was standing there, and he's a guy you can trust.

"I'm set for Bara," I said.

He looked at me.

"No way," he replied.

"Yeah, I promise."