I Think Therefore I Play (16 page)

I just hope they teach the younger cyclists that it’s wrong to cheat. Perhaps they need to take a piece of paper and write the names of everyone who already has. Or maybe it would be better to make a list of those who’ve gone too soon, having died in suspicious circumstances. That sort of shock treatment is certainly required. On cigarette packets you’ll see ‘smoking seriously endangers health’ in big block capitals, and from that point on, it’s completely the smoker’s responsibility if they happen to get ill. Perhaps on bike frames we should now be writing: ‘Don’t put any shit in your water bottle.’

If I look in the mirror when I get up, or before going to bed at night, I see a man of average ugliness. With stubble, an unruly mane of hair, a squint nose, slightly protruding ears and bags under my eyes. But I also see a man who’s completely happy with the figure staring back at him. Who’s proud of every single second of his past.

Gino Bolsieri at Flero and Roberto Clerici at Voluntas weren’t just the first coaches to understand that my ideal position is in front of the defence. Apart from my dad Luigi and mum Lidia, they were also the first people to remind me that taking a shortcut might help you finish first, but one day you’ll find yourself face to face with your demons and you’ll lose. You’ll perish in a hell that you yourself helped create.

I do have something that burns inside me, an Olympic torch deep within. It’s a violent fire, made of flames and passion and fed by pure pleasure. To put it out, to put
me
out, they’ll need to douse my soul. Pretty much everyone who’s been even half-listening knows what I’m talking about. As do the directors of Al-Sadd, the Qatari club who qualified for the 2011 FIFA Club World Cup.

When my agent Tinti rings and gets straight to the point without bothering to say hello, you know there’s something serious going down. “Andrea, the guys from Qatar want you.”

“Come again?”

“You’re going to play in Qatar.”

“Are you mad? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s too soon.”

My last season at Milan was on the home straight and I didn’t have the slightest intention of emigrating.

“But even Guardiola played over there.”

“Yes, at the end of his career.”

“Okay then. But you need to go and meet them, just to be polite.”

“Fine – when do they arrive?”

“They’re already in Milan. Stick on a tie – I’ll come and pick you up in an hour.”

They were waiting for me at the Principe di Savoia, a fabulously luxurious hotel close to the main train station, where David Beckham stayed during his time at Milan. The Qataris had booked out an enormous suite and in it were the club’s owner, a few directors and a swarm of lawyers.

“
Ciao
, your contract’s ready.”

“Good day to you as well; it’s an honour to meet you ...”

“You’ll look great in our strip.”

“Pleasure to meet you, my name’s Andrea Pirlo.”

“You don’t have to make up your mind straight away. We’ll give you a few minutes to think it over.”

“In truth, I’ve only come here to find out who you are.”

There was something of a linguistic incompatibility at work, a fissure in the space/time continuum. They were travelling in the future while I focused on the present. Even so, they made a good impression. That was the day I discovered that Father Christmas does exist.

“Andrea, how many kids have you got?” they asked.

“Two.”

“Well, we’ve an excellent English language school in Qatar.”

“I actually quite like hearing them speak Italian.”

“No problem. We’ll build a new one and employ only Italian teachers. Are you a fan of cars?”

“Yes ...”

“Great. We’d be delighted if you’d accept a few Ferraris as a gift.”

“A few?”

“And if you find yourself missing Italy, there will always be a private jet sat on the runway for you.”

“But ...”

“The contract’s ready. It’s for four years.”

“Thanks but ...”

“It’s for 40 million Euros.”

At that point Tinti almost passed out.

“40 million over four years, not per season. You’ll understand we can’t go overboard, what with the financial crisis.”

“Ah yes, I understand.”

“But if 10 million a year isn’t enough, don’t worry, let’s talk.”

It was all too much. If I’d asked them to reclaim the desert, perhaps they would have said ‘yes’. To avoid further temptation, I forced myself to end the chat.

“Many thanks, but I can’t,” I said. “Signing for you would mean signalling the end of my career, and I still think I’ve got a lot to give in Europe, in Italy. If I change my mind, I’ll be in touch in a year or two.”

“11 million.”

“Tullio, let’s go.”

“Twelve.”

“Tullio.”

“Thirteen.”

I had to basically drag away my agent, who was in a state of ecstasy. We made our escape. I looked at my watch and realised the time was 21:21. My favourite number, twice over. Destiny was whispering softly in my ear: “You did the right thing in there.”

My dad was born on the 21st. It’s also the day I got married and made my debut in Serie A. It became my shirt number early on and I’ve never let it go. It brings me luck, and that’s the reason this book stops at 20 chapters. I like to think that the next one is made up of blank pages, waiting to be filled with other tales and experiences yet to be written.

And one thing’s for sure – I’ve got a pen.

 

61.
A scan to assess the brain’s electrical activity

62.
After a goalless draw in Portugal, Porto won the second leg 1–0 to reach the final, where they beat Monaco 3–0

63.
The Italian Olympic Committee