Andrea Pirlo (182 Viewers)
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http://forum.juventuz.org/threads/32890-Andrea-Pirlo?p=4256974&viewfull=1#post4256974
i NEED that book, what a gold reading
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/fo...ool-Champions-League-final.html#ixzz2yuplKMDh
i NEED that book, what a gold reading
Blame Joe Hart for my showboat penalty
To be clear, I didn't do a Francesco Totti against England at Euro 2012. Back at Euro 2000, against Holland, just before he went up to take his penalty Totti told captain Paolo Maldini that he was going to chip the keeper.
I made my decision at the last second when I saw Joe Hart doing all sorts on his line. As I began my run-up, I still hadn't decided what to do. Then he moved and my mind was made up.
It was impromptu — the only way I could see of pushing my scoring chances close to 100 per cent. There was no showboating — that's not my style.
Many so-called experts perceived all manner of meanings in that episode. A secret desire for revenge; something I'd practised between games. Well, for one thing, we hardly trained towards the end of that tournament — the constant travelling between Poland and Ukraine ate into our time and energy.
Anyway, can you really plan something so far in advance? If you can, you're either Totti, a clairvoyant or stupid.
After the World Cup in Brazil, I'll retire from international football. I'll be hanging up my heart. Until that day, nobody must dare ask me to stop, apart from (Italy coach) Cesare Prandelli, should he have tactical reasons. I'll be 35 by then, and it'll be time to give someone else a go.Being part of a team that belongs to everyone makes me feel good. A lot of the time, it's better than sex: it lasts longer and if it falls flat, it can't just be your fault.Take someone like (Parma striker) Antonio Cassano. He says he's slept with 700 women but he doesn't get picked for Italy any more. Can he really be happy? I wouldn't be.
That shirt, with its Smurf-like blue, gives you a whole new image across the world. It takes you to a higher level. Much better to be a soldier on the pitch than in the bedroom.
Roy Hodgson always got my name wrong
I played a lot in my first season at Inter. Pre-season went really well, and Gigi Simoni gave me plenty of game time — a starter and from the bench.
Then, it was Mircea Lucescu, who tended to favour the older guys, Luciano Castellini thought I was OK, while Roy Hodgson mispronounced my name.
He called me Pirla (a term used in Milan dialect roughly translated as ****head), perhaps understanding my true nature more than the other managers. We went through four coaches that year (1999). I'd wake up in the morning and not remember who my coach was.
Istanbul loss made me want to retire
I thought about quitting because, after Istanbul, nothing made sense any more. The 2005 Champions League final simply suffocated me.
To most people’s minds, the reason we lost on penalties was Jerzy Dudek – that jackass of a dancer who took the mickey out of us by swaying about on his line and then rubbed salt into the wound by saving our spot kicks.
But in time the truly painful sentence was realising that we were entirely to blame.
How it happened I don’t know, but the fact remains that when the impossible becomes reality, somebody’s f***ed up – in this case, the entire team. A mass suicide where we all joined hands and jumped off the Bosphorus Bridge.
When that torture of a game was finished, we sat like a bunch of half-wits in the dressing room there at the Atatürk Stadium.
We couldn’t speak. We couldn’t move. They’d mentally destroyed us. The damage was already evident even in those early moments, and it only got more stark and serious as the hours went on.
Insomnia, rage, depression, a sense of nothingness. We’d invented a new disease with multiple symptoms: Istanbul syndrome.
I no longer felt like a player, and that was devastating enough. But even worse, I no longer felt like a man. All of a sudden, football had become the least important thing, precisely because it was the most important: a very painful contradiction.
I didn’t dare look in the mirror in case my reflection spat back at me. The only possible solution I could think of was to retire. And what a dishonourable retirement it would have been.
I glimpsed the end of the line: the journey was over. The story was finished and so was I. I walked with my head bowed even in the places I hold most dear. It wasn’t to avoid sympathetic glances, just that when you don’t know where you’re going, looking ahead makes you tired and worried.
People talk about performance anxiety. Well, 'non-performance’ anxiety is the perfect description for those of us who simply vanished from the pitch sometime during that final.
The match in Istanbul was on May 25 and the Italian championship had yet to finish. We had to go back to Milanello to carry our cross for four more days, right up until Sunday, May 29, when we played our last Serie A match against Udinese.
That parade of shame was the toughest punishment. A cavalcade of disgrace with us placed front and centre.
It was a brief, intense, s****y period. You couldn’t escape or pull the plug on a world that had turned upside down, and you were forever surrounded by the other guilty parties in this theft of our own dignity.
We always ended up talking about it. We asked each other questions, but nobody had any answers.
I could hardly sleep and even when I did drop off, I awoke to a grim thought: I’m disgusting. I can’t play any more. I went to bed with Dudek and all his Liverpool team-mates.
The game against Udinese ended 0-0, goals a perfect stranger. A nightmare is a nightmare because you know it’ll start when you close your eyes but won’t stop when you reopen them, and so the torment went on.
Painfully slowly, things started to improve during the holidays, even if the wounds didn’t heal completely.
I’ll never fully shake that sense of absolute impotence when destiny is at work. The feeling will cling to my feet forever, trying to pull me down. Even now if I mess up a pass, that malign force could be to blame. For that reason, I steer well clear of the DVD from the Liverpool game.
It’s an enemy that I can’t allow to wound me a second time. It’s already done enough damage: most of it hidden far from the surface.
I’ll never watch that match again. I’ve already played it once in person and many other times in my head, searching for an explanation that perhaps doesn’t even exist.
It was suggested we hang a black funeral pall as a permanent reminder on the walls of Milanello, right next to the images of triumph. A message to future generations that feeling invincible is the first step on the path to the point of no return.
Personally, I’d add that horrendous result to the club’s honours board. I’d write it slap bang in the middle of the list of leagues and cups they’ve won, in a different coloured ink and perhaps a special font, just to underline its jarring presence.
It would be embarrassing but, at the same time, it would enhance the worth of the successes alongside.
There are always lessons to be found in the darkest moments. It’s a moral obligation to dig deep and find that little glimmer of hope or pearl of wisdom.
You might hit upon an elegant phrase that stays with you and makes the journey that little less bitter. I’ve tried with Istanbul and haven’t managed to get beyond these words: for f***’s sake.
Ferguson set his guard dog on me
Even Sir Alex Ferguson, the purple-nosed manager who turned Manchester United into a fearsome battleship, couldn’t resist the temptation. He's a man without blemish, but he ruined that purity just for a moment when it came to me. A fleeting shabbiness came over the legend that night.
At Milan, he unleashed Park Ji-sung to shadow me. He rushed about at the speed of an electron. He'd fling himself at me, his hands all over my back, trying to intimidate me. He'd look at the ball and not know what it was for.
They'd programmed him to stop me. His devotion to the task was almost touching. Even though he was a famous player, he consented to being used as a guard dog.
Berlusconi blew my Chelsea move
It was August 2009 and I’d reached agreement with Chelsea, the club where Ancelotti had just come in as manager.
Carlo was like a father and a teacher for me, a kind, friendly man who knew how to make things fun.
I’d spent the best years of my career with him. If you’re a player who wants to get on and give everything, you won’t find anyone better than him.
Carlo Ancelotti was my motivation for agreeing to head to London. But, in the meantime, Berlusconi had pulled out a second piece of paper.
This time there were loads of names with ticks next to them, and one that had been circled. 'Stay. We’ve signed Huntelaar'. Huntelaar…
Klaas-Jan Huntelaar is an excellent player. He knows how to score goals, loads of goals and, at that point in time, he was playing for Real Madrid. But he’s not the type of guy who’s going to win the Ballon d’Or.
'We could have brought in other guys, people like Claudio Pizarro, but we chose him.' Huntelaar...
'Listen, Andrea, you just can’t do this, damn it. You’re the symbol of Milan, a standard bearer for this team, and we’ve already sold Kaká. You can’t jump ship as well. It’d be a terrible blow, to our image as much as anything. We can’t have everyone leaving.'
Ancelotti and I spoke a fair bit on the phone. He wanted to bring me to London at all costs, and cost was indeed the last hurdle still to be overcome. Insurmountable, as it transpired.
Milan wanted too much cash, and they were also pushing for Branislav Ivanovic to be included in the deal. Chelsea hadn’t the slightest intention of letting the defender go.
'Mr President, I really like all this talk of being a standard bearer. But my contract here is about to run out, and those guys are offering me four years.'
At five million euros a season. It wasn’t money that had convinced me, more the length of the deal. That’s always very important.
'Where’s the problem, Andrea? You can sort all that out with Galliani, can’t you? Take it as read.'
'You sure?'
'Absolutely positive.'
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he shot out of the room to tell the media: 'Andrea Pirlo is not for sale. He’s staying with Milan and he’ll finish his career right here.'
As it turned out, I moved to Juventus. That’s Berlusconi all over, though. He’s theatrical and knows exactly what he wants. It’s what makes him such a fantastic president and lover of pure, beautiful football.
Mario combats racist poison
Mario Balotelli is a special kind of medicine, an antidote to the potentially lethal poison of the racists you find in Italian grounds.
They're an horrendous bunch, a herd of frustrated individuals who've taken the worst of history and made it their own. And they're more than just a minority, despite what certain mealy-mouthed spin doctors would have you believe.
Whenever I see Mario, I'll give him a big smile. It's my way of letting him know that I'm right behind him and he mustn't give up. A gesture that means 'Thank you'.
Gennaro Gattuso and the red mist
You could see the red mist coming down and he just wasn't able to hide it. We could tell what was coming and so we'd commandeer all the knives. Gattuso would grab a fork and try to stick it in us.
Some of us ended up missing games because of one of Rino's fork attacks, even if the official explanation from the club was one of muscle fatigue
On warm-ups
One part of my job I’ll never learn to love is the pre-match warm-up. I hate it with every fibre of my being. It actually disgusts me. It’s nothing but masturbation for conditioning coaches.
No Coaching for me. I'll get a life
I wouldn't bet a cent on me becoming a manager. There are too many worries and the lifestyle is far too close to that of a player. In the future, I'd like to get back a semblance of a private life.
To be clear, I didn't do a Francesco Totti against England at Euro 2012. Back at Euro 2000, against Holland, just before he went up to take his penalty Totti told captain Paolo Maldini that he was going to chip the keeper.
I made my decision at the last second when I saw Joe Hart doing all sorts on his line. As I began my run-up, I still hadn't decided what to do. Then he moved and my mind was made up.
It was impromptu — the only way I could see of pushing my scoring chances close to 100 per cent. There was no showboating — that's not my style.
Many so-called experts perceived all manner of meanings in that episode. A secret desire for revenge; something I'd practised between games. Well, for one thing, we hardly trained towards the end of that tournament — the constant travelling between Poland and Ukraine ate into our time and energy.
Anyway, can you really plan something so far in advance? If you can, you're either Totti, a clairvoyant or stupid.
After the World Cup in Brazil, I'll retire from international football. I'll be hanging up my heart. Until that day, nobody must dare ask me to stop, apart from (Italy coach) Cesare Prandelli, should he have tactical reasons. I'll be 35 by then, and it'll be time to give someone else a go.Being part of a team that belongs to everyone makes me feel good. A lot of the time, it's better than sex: it lasts longer and if it falls flat, it can't just be your fault.Take someone like (Parma striker) Antonio Cassano. He says he's slept with 700 women but he doesn't get picked for Italy any more. Can he really be happy? I wouldn't be.
That shirt, with its Smurf-like blue, gives you a whole new image across the world. It takes you to a higher level. Much better to be a soldier on the pitch than in the bedroom.
Roy Hodgson always got my name wrong
I played a lot in my first season at Inter. Pre-season went really well, and Gigi Simoni gave me plenty of game time — a starter and from the bench.
Then, it was Mircea Lucescu, who tended to favour the older guys, Luciano Castellini thought I was OK, while Roy Hodgson mispronounced my name.
He called me Pirla (a term used in Milan dialect roughly translated as ****head), perhaps understanding my true nature more than the other managers. We went through four coaches that year (1999). I'd wake up in the morning and not remember who my coach was.
Istanbul loss made me want to retire
I thought about quitting because, after Istanbul, nothing made sense any more. The 2005 Champions League final simply suffocated me.
To most people’s minds, the reason we lost on penalties was Jerzy Dudek – that jackass of a dancer who took the mickey out of us by swaying about on his line and then rubbed salt into the wound by saving our spot kicks.
But in time the truly painful sentence was realising that we were entirely to blame.
How it happened I don’t know, but the fact remains that when the impossible becomes reality, somebody’s f***ed up – in this case, the entire team. A mass suicide where we all joined hands and jumped off the Bosphorus Bridge.
When that torture of a game was finished, we sat like a bunch of half-wits in the dressing room there at the Atatürk Stadium.
We couldn’t speak. We couldn’t move. They’d mentally destroyed us. The damage was already evident even in those early moments, and it only got more stark and serious as the hours went on.
Insomnia, rage, depression, a sense of nothingness. We’d invented a new disease with multiple symptoms: Istanbul syndrome.
I no longer felt like a player, and that was devastating enough. But even worse, I no longer felt like a man. All of a sudden, football had become the least important thing, precisely because it was the most important: a very painful contradiction.
I didn’t dare look in the mirror in case my reflection spat back at me. The only possible solution I could think of was to retire. And what a dishonourable retirement it would have been.
I glimpsed the end of the line: the journey was over. The story was finished and so was I. I walked with my head bowed even in the places I hold most dear. It wasn’t to avoid sympathetic glances, just that when you don’t know where you’re going, looking ahead makes you tired and worried.
People talk about performance anxiety. Well, 'non-performance’ anxiety is the perfect description for those of us who simply vanished from the pitch sometime during that final.
The match in Istanbul was on May 25 and the Italian championship had yet to finish. We had to go back to Milanello to carry our cross for four more days, right up until Sunday, May 29, when we played our last Serie A match against Udinese.
That parade of shame was the toughest punishment. A cavalcade of disgrace with us placed front and centre.
It was a brief, intense, s****y period. You couldn’t escape or pull the plug on a world that had turned upside down, and you were forever surrounded by the other guilty parties in this theft of our own dignity.
We always ended up talking about it. We asked each other questions, but nobody had any answers.
I could hardly sleep and even when I did drop off, I awoke to a grim thought: I’m disgusting. I can’t play any more. I went to bed with Dudek and all his Liverpool team-mates.
The game against Udinese ended 0-0, goals a perfect stranger. A nightmare is a nightmare because you know it’ll start when you close your eyes but won’t stop when you reopen them, and so the torment went on.
Painfully slowly, things started to improve during the holidays, even if the wounds didn’t heal completely.
I’ll never fully shake that sense of absolute impotence when destiny is at work. The feeling will cling to my feet forever, trying to pull me down. Even now if I mess up a pass, that malign force could be to blame. For that reason, I steer well clear of the DVD from the Liverpool game.
It’s an enemy that I can’t allow to wound me a second time. It’s already done enough damage: most of it hidden far from the surface.
I’ll never watch that match again. I’ve already played it once in person and many other times in my head, searching for an explanation that perhaps doesn’t even exist.
It was suggested we hang a black funeral pall as a permanent reminder on the walls of Milanello, right next to the images of triumph. A message to future generations that feeling invincible is the first step on the path to the point of no return.
Personally, I’d add that horrendous result to the club’s honours board. I’d write it slap bang in the middle of the list of leagues and cups they’ve won, in a different coloured ink and perhaps a special font, just to underline its jarring presence.
It would be embarrassing but, at the same time, it would enhance the worth of the successes alongside.
There are always lessons to be found in the darkest moments. It’s a moral obligation to dig deep and find that little glimmer of hope or pearl of wisdom.
You might hit upon an elegant phrase that stays with you and makes the journey that little less bitter. I’ve tried with Istanbul and haven’t managed to get beyond these words: for f***’s sake.
Ferguson set his guard dog on me
Even Sir Alex Ferguson, the purple-nosed manager who turned Manchester United into a fearsome battleship, couldn’t resist the temptation. He's a man without blemish, but he ruined that purity just for a moment when it came to me. A fleeting shabbiness came over the legend that night.
At Milan, he unleashed Park Ji-sung to shadow me. He rushed about at the speed of an electron. He'd fling himself at me, his hands all over my back, trying to intimidate me. He'd look at the ball and not know what it was for.
They'd programmed him to stop me. His devotion to the task was almost touching. Even though he was a famous player, he consented to being used as a guard dog.
Berlusconi blew my Chelsea move
It was August 2009 and I’d reached agreement with Chelsea, the club where Ancelotti had just come in as manager.
Carlo was like a father and a teacher for me, a kind, friendly man who knew how to make things fun.
I’d spent the best years of my career with him. If you’re a player who wants to get on and give everything, you won’t find anyone better than him.
Carlo Ancelotti was my motivation for agreeing to head to London. But, in the meantime, Berlusconi had pulled out a second piece of paper.
This time there were loads of names with ticks next to them, and one that had been circled. 'Stay. We’ve signed Huntelaar'. Huntelaar…
Klaas-Jan Huntelaar is an excellent player. He knows how to score goals, loads of goals and, at that point in time, he was playing for Real Madrid. But he’s not the type of guy who’s going to win the Ballon d’Or.
'We could have brought in other guys, people like Claudio Pizarro, but we chose him.' Huntelaar...
'Listen, Andrea, you just can’t do this, damn it. You’re the symbol of Milan, a standard bearer for this team, and we’ve already sold Kaká. You can’t jump ship as well. It’d be a terrible blow, to our image as much as anything. We can’t have everyone leaving.'
Ancelotti and I spoke a fair bit on the phone. He wanted to bring me to London at all costs, and cost was indeed the last hurdle still to be overcome. Insurmountable, as it transpired.
Milan wanted too much cash, and they were also pushing for Branislav Ivanovic to be included in the deal. Chelsea hadn’t the slightest intention of letting the defender go.
'Mr President, I really like all this talk of being a standard bearer. But my contract here is about to run out, and those guys are offering me four years.'
At five million euros a season. It wasn’t money that had convinced me, more the length of the deal. That’s always very important.
'Where’s the problem, Andrea? You can sort all that out with Galliani, can’t you? Take it as read.'
'You sure?'
'Absolutely positive.'
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he shot out of the room to tell the media: 'Andrea Pirlo is not for sale. He’s staying with Milan and he’ll finish his career right here.'
As it turned out, I moved to Juventus. That’s Berlusconi all over, though. He’s theatrical and knows exactly what he wants. It’s what makes him such a fantastic president and lover of pure, beautiful football.
Mario combats racist poison
Mario Balotelli is a special kind of medicine, an antidote to the potentially lethal poison of the racists you find in Italian grounds.
They're an horrendous bunch, a herd of frustrated individuals who've taken the worst of history and made it their own. And they're more than just a minority, despite what certain mealy-mouthed spin doctors would have you believe.
Whenever I see Mario, I'll give him a big smile. It's my way of letting him know that I'm right behind him and he mustn't give up. A gesture that means 'Thank you'.
Gennaro Gattuso and the red mist
You could see the red mist coming down and he just wasn't able to hide it. We could tell what was coming and so we'd commandeer all the knives. Gattuso would grab a fork and try to stick it in us.
Some of us ended up missing games because of one of Rino's fork attacks, even if the official explanation from the club was one of muscle fatigue
On warm-ups
One part of my job I’ll never learn to love is the pre-match warm-up. I hate it with every fibre of my being. It actually disgusts me. It’s nothing but masturbation for conditioning coaches.
No Coaching for me. I'll get a life
I wouldn't bet a cent on me becoming a manager. There are too many worries and the lifestyle is far too close to that of a player. In the future, I'd like to get back a semblance of a private life.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/fo...ool-Champions-League-final.html#ixzz2yuplKMDh
BOOK EXTRACT
By Andrea Pirlo It's the summer of 2006, we've just won the World Cup, and I'm thoroughly drunk on life. I go out and about on my bike in the quiet little streets of Forte dei Marmi and, as I pass by on the seafront, people stop and pat me on the back.
They must have thought that beating France in the final had fried my brain, but there was something they didn't know. They were missing a vital piece of the story, namely that as things stood, I belonged to Real Madrid, not Milan. I was a Madrid player in my head, my heart and my soul. I had a five-year contract sitting waiting, and a salary that was out of this world.
It seemed that certain people at Milan had got themselves into one too many scrapes – or at least that was the story doing the rounds. Calciopoli was the second most popular topic of conversation back then, a close second to Italy's penalty shootout triumph in Germany.
One day you'd read that we were going to be relegated to Serie B, the next that we were looking at a 15-point penalty. The next again they'd be talking about us handing back trophies and having our titles removed from the record books. After a while I began to suspect that it wasn't Mark David Chapman who killed John Lennon. It had been one of the Milan directors.
The whole thing was an absolute shambles. Nobody had a clue what was going on and what Milan's fate would actually be, least of all me. One thing I was sure of, though: I would never drop down to Serie B. And if I had to leave, I wouldn't feel like a traitor. There was no way I was going to pay for other people's sins, if that's what they turned out to be.
Shortly after, I was due back at Milanello. To make the Champions League proper, we had to get through a qualifier against Red Star Belgrade. At that point Tullio said to me: "Hold off on going back. Let me speak to Real. If you really want a change of scene from Forte dei Marmi, head back to your house in Brescia. And keep your mobile on – in a little while you'll get a call."
No sooner had he said it than the phone started ringing. Nostradamus was a mere amateur compared to our Tullio.
"Hello Andrea, it's Fabio Capello here." Only one of the most successful coaches in the history of the sport.
"Hello, coach. How are you?"
"I'm great, and I imagine you're even better. Come and join us. We've just signed Emerson from Juventus and you're the man to play beside him in midfield."
"Okay then."
He didn't need much time to convince me. Less than a minute, I reckon. Not least because I'd already seen the contract. My agent had studied it in great detail and then shot off to Madrid.
"Andrea, we're on."
"I'm really happy about that, Tullio."
I pictured myself in that white jersey. Pristine, and at the same time aggressive; a mean streak running through its unusual purity. My thoughts often wandered to the Santiago Bernabeu, the Temple, a ground that struck terror into opponents. Bruised and battered slaves at the king's banquet.
"What do we do now then, Tullio?"
"Let's go for lunch in a few days."
"Where? Meson Txistu in Plaza de Angel Carbajo?"
"No, Andrea; not Madrid. Milanello."
"What do you mean 'Milanello'? Are you stupid?"
"Nope, you heard right: Milanello. We haven't got Galliani's approval yet."
[TABLE="width: 100%"] [TR] [TD="align: center"]
[/TD] [TD="align: left"]I was a Madrid player in my head, my heart and my soul. I had a five-year contract sitting waiting, and a salary that was out of this world"
[/TD] [/TR] [/TABLE]
The menu was always the same: I knew it off by heart. Antipasto, starter, main course and then the legendary ice cream with crunchy bits on top.
We met in the room used for team meals, halfway between the kitchens and the hall with the hearth where Berlusconi would pound away on the piano and tell various kinds of jokes.
Tullio spoke first. "Andrea's going to sign for Real."
Then me: "Yes…"
Then it was Galliani, staring straight at me. "Andrea, my friend, you're not going anywhere."
He pulled out a little case from under the table. That made me smile, thinking it had been just as well hidden as Monica Lewinsky under Bill Clinton's desk in the Oval Office.
A contract then appeared from the case, with Mr Biro (Galliani) adding, "You're not leaving, because you're going to sign this. It's for five years, and we've left the salary details blank so you can write in whatever you like."
Tullio just about ripped it out of my hands. "I'll keep hold of this."
He took his time, brought it home, read it and read it again. I went off to the national team training camp at Coverciano and, for a few days, I didn't hear anything. I thought it was a done deal: I was thinking in Spanish, dreaming in Spanish. My imagination was in overdrive, flying off to Madrid and landing somewhere between Plaza Mayor and Puerta del Sol.
And then my agent phoned me.
"Sign for Milan. Right now, they'll not let you leave."
"No…"
"Yes."
"Ok, fine."
You're then forced to tell the media a lot of crap; provided, of course, that they manage to ask you the right question. If they enquire whether it's right you'd practically signed for Madrid, you're duty-bound to respond hiding behind well-worn clichés and half-truths. You read a dull, lifeless script written by press officers with no talent or creative spark.
"No, that's not the case. I'm perfectly happy at Milan."
F*** off!
It's a pity it went the way it did. I'd have signed for Real in a heartbeat. They're a club with more glamour than Milan; more prospects, more appeal, more everything. They strike fear in their opponents, whoever they happen to be.
All that said, at the end of the season I had the consolation of winning the Champions League. It could have gone a lot worse
By Andrea Pirlo It's the summer of 2006, we've just won the World Cup, and I'm thoroughly drunk on life. I go out and about on my bike in the quiet little streets of Forte dei Marmi and, as I pass by on the seafront, people stop and pat me on the back.
They must have thought that beating France in the final had fried my brain, but there was something they didn't know. They were missing a vital piece of the story, namely that as things stood, I belonged to Real Madrid, not Milan. I was a Madrid player in my head, my heart and my soul. I had a five-year contract sitting waiting, and a salary that was out of this world.
It seemed that certain people at Milan had got themselves into one too many scrapes – or at least that was the story doing the rounds. Calciopoli was the second most popular topic of conversation back then, a close second to Italy's penalty shootout triumph in Germany.
One day you'd read that we were going to be relegated to Serie B, the next that we were looking at a 15-point penalty. The next again they'd be talking about us handing back trophies and having our titles removed from the record books. After a while I began to suspect that it wasn't Mark David Chapman who killed John Lennon. It had been one of the Milan directors.
The whole thing was an absolute shambles. Nobody had a clue what was going on and what Milan's fate would actually be, least of all me. One thing I was sure of, though: I would never drop down to Serie B. And if I had to leave, I wouldn't feel like a traitor. There was no way I was going to pay for other people's sins, if that's what they turned out to be.
Kiss goodbye | Pirlo almost bid farewell to Milan in 2006
The Madrid coach Fabio Capello phoned. And then Franco Baldini, their director of football. Everyone wanted to speak to me. I had a word with my agent, Tullio Tinti, and asked him to find out what Milan were saying about it all.
Shortly after, I was due back at Milanello. To make the Champions League proper, we had to get through a qualifier against Red Star Belgrade. At that point Tullio said to me: "Hold off on going back. Let me speak to Real. If you really want a change of scene from Forte dei Marmi, head back to your house in Brescia. And keep your mobile on – in a little while you'll get a call."
No sooner had he said it than the phone started ringing. Nostradamus was a mere amateur compared to our Tullio.
"Hello Andrea, it's Fabio Capello here." Only one of the most successful coaches in the history of the sport.
"Hello, coach. How are you?"
"I'm great, and I imagine you're even better. Come and join us. We've just signed Emerson from Juventus and you're the man to play beside him in midfield."
"Okay then."
He didn't need much time to convince me. Less than a minute, I reckon. Not least because I'd already seen the contract. My agent had studied it in great detail and then shot off to Madrid.
"Andrea, we're on."
"I'm really happy about that, Tullio."
I pictured myself in that white jersey. Pristine, and at the same time aggressive; a mean streak running through its unusual purity. My thoughts often wandered to the Santiago Bernabeu, the Temple, a ground that struck terror into opponents. Bruised and battered slaves at the king's banquet.
"What do we do now then, Tullio?"
"Let's go for lunch in a few days."
"Where? Meson Txistu in Plaza de Angel Carbajo?"
"No, Andrea; not Madrid. Milanello."
"What do you mean 'Milanello'? Are you stupid?"
"Nope, you heard right: Milanello. We haven't got Galliani's approval yet."
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The menu was always the same: I knew it off by heart. Antipasto, starter, main course and then the legendary ice cream with crunchy bits on top.
We met in the room used for team meals, halfway between the kitchens and the hall with the hearth where Berlusconi would pound away on the piano and tell various kinds of jokes.
Tullio spoke first. "Andrea's going to sign for Real."
Then me: "Yes…"
Then it was Galliani, staring straight at me. "Andrea, my friend, you're not going anywhere."
He pulled out a little case from under the table. That made me smile, thinking it had been just as well hidden as Monica Lewinsky under Bill Clinton's desk in the Oval Office.
A contract then appeared from the case, with Mr Biro (Galliani) adding, "You're not leaving, because you're going to sign this. It's for five years, and we've left the salary details blank so you can write in whatever you like."
Tullio just about ripped it out of my hands. "I'll keep hold of this."
He took his time, brought it home, read it and read it again. I went off to the national team training camp at Coverciano and, for a few days, I didn't hear anything. I thought it was a done deal: I was thinking in Spanish, dreaming in Spanish. My imagination was in overdrive, flying off to Madrid and landing somewhere between Plaza Mayor and Puerta del Sol.
And then my agent phoned me.
"Sign for Milan. Right now, they'll not let you leave."
"No…"
"Yes."
"Ok, fine."
You're then forced to tell the media a lot of crap; provided, of course, that they manage to ask you the right question. If they enquire whether it's right you'd practically signed for Madrid, you're duty-bound to respond hiding behind well-worn clichés and half-truths. You read a dull, lifeless script written by press officers with no talent or creative spark.
"No, that's not the case. I'm perfectly happy at Milan."
F*** off!
It's a pity it went the way it did. I'd have signed for Real in a heartbeat. They're a club with more glamour than Milan; more prospects, more appeal, more everything. They strike fear in their opponents, whoever they happen to be.
All that said, at the end of the season I had the consolation of winning the Champions League. It could have gone a lot worse
