I Think Therefore I Play (5 page)

Never would I have thought that the instant before taking a penalty could open my mind so marvellously and give me this higher understanding. I saw the inner workings of a motor car that was imperfect, full of defects, badly driven, old and worn, and yet still utterly unique. Italy’s a country you love precisely because it’s like that.

My penalty went in. Even if I’d missed, the lesson would have remained. Perhaps it would actually have been amplified by the resulting desperation. It’s incredible to know that what you’re feeling is shared by millions of people in the same way, at the same time, for the same reasons, in cities that moments before were rivals or at least too dissimilar to find any sort of common ground. That lukewarm shiver a second before I stuck the ball in the net is the most vivid sensation I’ve ever felt.

We’d talk about those moments in the months afterwards. I soon discovered I wasn’t the only one who had come back from Germany with lofty topics of conversation.

That penalty also helps define me. As usual, nobody will believe me but, in my own mind, I’m much more the Pirlo who stuck the ball down the middle at World Cup 2006 than the Pirlo of the inspired chip against England in the quarter-finals of Euro 2012. Even if the motivation was the same in both cases: selecting the best option to minimise the risk of error.

To be clear, I didn’t do a Francesco Totti. Back at Euro 2000, against Holland, just before he went up to take his penalty he told Luigi Di Biagio and Paolo Maldini that he was going to chip the keeper. I made my decision right at the last second, when I saw Joe Hart, the England goalie, doing all sorts on his line. As I began my run-up, I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do. And then he moved and my mind was made up. It was all impromptu, not premeditated. The only way I could see of pushing my chances of scoring close to 100%. There was absolutely no showboating about it – that’s not my style.

Many so-called experts perceived all manner of hidden meanings in that episode. A secret desire for revenge; something I’d practised again and again on the training pitch between games. Well, for one thing, we hardly trained at all towards the end of that tournament – the constant travelling between joint hosts Poland and Ukraine ate into our time and energy. And anyway, can you really plan something like that so far in advance? If you can, you’re either Totti, a clairvoyant or stupid.

Nobody knew I was going to strike the ball like that, simply because I didn’t know myself. I’m aware that this explanation will make some people unhappy and make others seem like liars, but the fact is the truth’s a lot less romantic than how it may have looked. It was pure calculation that made me chip the ball. At that precise instant, it was the least dangerous thing to do. The safest and most productive option.

In many people’s eyes, it was a nice way to win against opponents who had started out as favourites. A nice way to turn what had looked like defeat into victory and to go from almost being knocked out to qualifying for the semi-finals. But the whole thing came and went in a very short space of time, or at least it did for me; my team-mates declared themselves astonished and wanted to dig deeper.

At first they congratulated me, and then immediately asked the question they all had in their heads. They were a children’s choir made up of adults who’d apparently lost their minds. Their doubt was almost existential: “Are you mad, Andrea?”

They were amazed, but I was not. I knew why I’d done it. And for how many people.

 

10.
Italy beat France on penalties to win the final of the 2006 World Cup in Berlin
after the game ended 1-1. Pirlo was named in the FIFA team of the tournament after finishing up with a goal and three assists in Germany.

Chapter 6

It’s no coincidence that such overwhelming emotions come from wearing the Italy shirt. Blue’s the colour of the sky, and the sky belongs to everyone. Even when it’s covered by clouds, you still know it’s there.

After the World Cup in Brazil in 2014, 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 Cesare Prandelli, should he have tactical reasons. I’ll be 35 by then, and it’ll be time to give someone else a go. I’ll probably not feel as useful as I do now and have done in the past – but, to be clear, that day hasn’t arrived just yet.

Being part of a team that belongs to everyone makes me feel good and at peace with myself. It relaxes me. A lot of the time, it’s better than sex: it lasts longer and if it all falls flat, it can’t just be your fault.

Take someone like Antonio Cassano. He says he’s slept with 700 women in his time, but he doesn’t get picked for Italy any more. Deep down, can he really be happy? I certainly wouldn’t be. That second skin, with its smurf-like blue, gives you a whole new image across the world. It makes you better, takes you to a higher level. Much better to be a soldier on the pitch than in the bedroom.

The moment the first bars of the national anthem
Inno di Mameli
ring out, you’re representing everyone – a soloist becoming part of an orchestra. And, in theory, you should never say goodbye to the national team; it should always be a coach taking the decision for you. That would make things that little bit sweeter and a whole lot less complicated.

Apart from a few friendlies, no club I’ve played for has ever put any pressure on me to turn down an Italy call-up. Probably because they know fine well what the response would be – not a particularly polite one. I think that if it did happen, I’d act on instinct and go against the wishes of the directors. Italy is simply more important. More important than Inter, Milan, Juventus or any other club side. It’s the biggest deal there is.

I find it really irritating when we’re in camp at Coverciano and it’s obvious that clubs are looking after their own interests. Remembering Italy only when there’s a World Cup or European Championship, bringing with it a bandwagon they can always climb aboard if there’s success to celebrate. For these people, it’s the league, the Coppa Italia and the Champions League that matter; they don’t give a toss about anything else except for a month every other year.

This sporadic pride really makes me angry. It wounds me more than people can possibly imagine. Players know that if they get injured with Italy, there’ll be trouble waiting for them when they return to their clubs. And yet I’ll never rein myself in or take a backwards step – for me, that would be high treason.

My first experience of international football was with Italy’s under-15s and, since then, I’ve never looked back. I’ve ticked every box along the way. I think of it as a ladder where you can’t see the top, but you’re well aware of a plaque positioned on the bottom rung: Paradise This Way. To tell the truth, my first experience of that under-15 team was a little bit unlawful. I didn’t meet the minimum age to take part in tournaments, but the selector, Sergio Vatta, called me up anyway for a spot of work experience.

We could have forged the documents, but that’s not the right thing to do even if, a few years later, a similar ruse was considered to allow me to play in the Brescia reserves. It’s funny – women knock a few years off their age, but people always seem to want to make me older.

I was happy to receive a call-up because I got three days off school – let’s just say that my priorities were different back then. I made up for it later on, with catch-up courses undertaken in person: travelling the world with Italy (geography), winning (history), running (PE), getting to know Guardiola (philosophy, art history, and languages: not Spanish but definitely Catalan).

I’m a lucky boy. The shirt I wear has a rare prestige and it’s the team I’ve always supported. I’m what you’d call an Italy
ultra
.
¹¹
I can only just recall Mexico 1986, but I remember every last detail of Italia 90. One thing sticks with me in particular: the theme tune,
An Italian Summer
, sung by Edoardo Bennato and Gianna Nannini (“Maybe a song won’t change the rules of the game/but I want to live the adventure just like this/without boundaries and with my heart in my mouth.”)

For footballers of my generation, it’s both a hymn to joy and a battle cry. In Germany in 2006, we all had it on our iPods. Some guys were still listening to it at Euro 2012: it’s a song that’s always current, even after 22 years, just like the ones penned by Lucio Battisti.
¹²
He’s immortal, and so are the emotions he brings out in you.

Some of the bonds you forge in camp also have that timeless quality. They’re true, pure friendship. Room 205 at Coverciano, spartan as it is with its two single beds, a little bathroom and tiny terrace, has been a chamber of secrets for me. First I shared it with Alessandro Nesta, and then with Daniele De Rossi, the two extremes of Roman football. Sandrino is a heartfelt
Laziale
and Daniele a committed
Romanista
, but in Germany they were united in internal torment that proved difficult to deal with.

We tried together; just us three. Nesta got injured straight away, against the Czech Republic in the group stage. Lots of tears and tension followed – he was worn out and refused to speak to anyone apart from Daniele and I. Lippi occasionally gave us the night off and we’d take him out for dinner, trying everything we could to distract him and lift his spirits, but he kept repeating the same phrase: “I don’t feel part of this team; I’m always getting injured.”

On one occasion, we were coming back by car from Dusseldorf, the closest city to our base in Duisburg. Sandrino was driving, with me, Daniele and Andrea Barzagli also in the vehicle. We were on the motorway when, out of the blue, first me and then Daniele shouted out the same thing: “You’re going the wrong way; you’ve got to come off here at Ausfahrt.”

“What?”

“Seriously, Sandrino, take the exit!”

“You sure?”

“Of course we are. You’ve got to come off right here, otherwise we’ll end up getting back late and have to pay a fine.”

To follow our instructions, Sandrino pulled off a quite audacious manoeuvre. A hundred miles an hour to zero in the space of five seconds, a stamp on the brakes followed by a huge swerve towards a hairpin bend. Naturally enough, we ended up in a ghostly spot with no lights, surrounded by fields that looked like they’d been taken straight out of
Children of the Corn
, the worst film I’ve ever seen. We were lost. Daniele and I were killing ourselves laughing, but Nesta was all worried. “What the fuck are you laughing about? How are we going to get back now?”

“Sandrino…”

“Fuck me; it’s bad enough that I have to read in the papers every day that I’m losing it. Now they’re going to write that I’m the first Italy player to go missing in action during a World Cup.”

“Sandrino…”

“Where the fuck are we?”

“Sandrino…”

“Will you stop laughing? What do you want?”

“Sandrino,
ausfahrt
means exit in German.”

The only reason he didn’t beat us to within an inch of our lives was because he’d have ended up with an injured arm as well. He certainly wanted to. I didn’t think it was humanly possible for someone to swear as much as he did that night, but we’d achieved our goal: for a few hours he’d thought about something else and managed to enjoy himself.

He held up pretty well until a few days before the semi-final against Germany in Dortmund. In training, he’d undergone a fitness test to see how he was. If he’d really healed, there was a definite possibility he could get back out on the pitch. At a certain point he raised his leg just a little, and was instantly struck by the terrible realisation that something had gone.

He was dying inside and we weren’t much better, having seen the effort he’d put into sustaining a hope that was now extinguished. He managed to hold it together in front of Lippi and the rest of the squad, but back in his room it was a different story. I’m not sure anyone has ever cried as many tears all in one go. He didn’t want people seeing him like that, and, knowing him as I do, I believe it took a superhuman effort to avoid the collapse taking place in public.

When a dream dies like that, there’s no way of striking back. You take the punch and suffer the consequences. Physical ones, yes, but more than anything they’re psychological.

Daniele wasn’t having a much better time of it. Everyone remembers the elbow on Brian McBride in the game against the United States.
¹³
What the fans don’t know (apart from a few guilty ones) is that in camp, my team-mate started to receive menacing letters, insults and threats against his family. There were some awful things directed at his parents, two absolute diamonds.

Every day there was post for him. The postman always rings twice, but if we were expecting to see Maria De Filippi
¹⁴
on the doorstep, it turned out to be Hannibal Lecter, standing there with poison pen letters in his hand. Daniele took it all really badly. I remember long periods, whole days in fact, when he didn’t want to see another soul. Anyone who knows him will tell you he’s got a massive heart, something that actually makes things worse when you’re in such a bad place.

Sometimes he’d come up to us and whisper: “Sandro, Andrea, how’s it going?” A banal little question thrown out there to let us know that he was going mad; that his desire to unburden himself was heading off the scale.

A four-match ban is long enough under normal circumstances. When you’re playing a World Cup, it’s a prison sentence. You realise you’re running the risk of never getting out of there.

We, his team-mates, weren’t exactly the most tactful to begin with. “Daniele, what the fuck have you done?” we asked him. We knew we were losing one of our most important assets. Almost immediately, though, friendship got the upper hand. Mates are there to be cared for, not questioned. You love them regardless.

The letters didn’t stop arriving, but they polluted things less and less. De Rossi came back and scored a penalty in the final, a nice reply with return receipt to all those classless scribblers. Judging by the spelling and grammar mistakes that cropped up in between the insults, they lacked intellect as well as dignity.