Full here: I Am Zlatan
CHAPTER 1
Pep Guardiola, the coach in Barcelona, with his grey suits and troubled face, came up to me looking concerned.
I thought he was all right at that time, certainly not a Mourinho or Capello, but an ok guy. This was way before we started our war. It was the fall of 2009 and I was living my childhood dream. I was playing in the best team in the world and had been welcomed by 70 000 people at the Camp Nou. I was walking on clouds. Well maybe not entirely, there were some bullshit in the papers. I was the bad boy and all that. I was difficult dealing with. But still, I was here. Helena and the kids were also good. We had a nice house in Esplugues de Llobregat and I felt fully charged. What could go wrong?
"Hey you", Guardiola said. "Here in Barca we keep our feet down on the ground." "Sure", I said. "Fine."
"Here we don't drive any Ferraris or Porsches to training."
I nodded, didn't go cocky on him, like how the fuck is what car I'm driving your concern? But I thought "What does he want? What message is he giving me? Believe me, I don't need any fancy cars or parking on the sidewalk to show off anymore. That wasn't it. I love my cars. They're a passion of mine, but I sensed something else behind his words. Kind of: don't think you're so special.
I had already at that point understood that Barca is like a school. The players were all nice, nothing wrong with them, and there was Maxwell, my old friend from Ajax and Inter. But honestly, none of the guys acted like superstars, and I thought that was odd. Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, the whole gang, was like school kids. The world's best players stood there nodding, and I couldn't understand that. It was ridiculous. If a coach in Italy says "jump", the players ask "what? Why should we jump?"
Here, everyone jumped at any command. I didn't fit in, not at all. But I was thinking: Accept the situation. Don't confirm their thoughts about you. So I started adapting. I became too kind. It was insane. Mino Raiola, my agent, my friend, said:
"What's wrong with you Zlatan? I don't recognize you."
No one recognized me, not my buddies, no one. I became boring, bland, and you should know that ever since Malmö FF I've had one philosophy: I run my own race. I don't give a damn what people think and I've never felt comfortable with authority. I like guys who run the red light, if you know what I mean.
But now… I didn't say what I wanted. I said what I thought people expected of me. It was wack. I drove the club's Audi and stood there nodding like back in school, or like I should have stood nodding back in school. I didn't give my team mates any crap. I was boring. Zlatan wasn't Zlatan, and that hadn't happen since back in school when I saw chicks in Ralph Lauren shirts for the first time and almost shit my pants when I was asking them out. But still, I started the season great. I scored goal after goal after goal. We won the UEFA Super Cup. I was shining. I dominated. But I was somebody else. Something had
happened, nothing serious, not yet. I had been silenced, and that's dangerous, believe me. I have to be mad to play well. I have to shout and make scenes. Now I kept all that within me. Maybe it had to do with all pressure. I don't know.
I was the second most expensive transfer in history, and the papers kept saying I was a problem child and had issues with my personality, all kinds of bullshit, and unfortunately I felt the weight of it all - in Barca we don't stick out, and I guess I wanted to show that I could fit in. It was the most stupid decision of my entire life. I was still killing on the field. But it wasn't as fun anymore.
I even thought about quitting football. Not that I would break my contract, I'm a professional. But I lost the fun. And then came Christmas break. We went to Åre and I rented a snowmobile. Whenever life stands still, I want action. I always drive like a maniac. I've gone 325 km/hr in my Porsche Turbo, leaving chasing cops behind. I've done so many fucked up things I barely want to think about them. And now in the mountains I was giving it my all on the snowmobile, got freeze burns and had the time of my life.
Finally some adrenaline! Finally the old, the real Zlatan, and I were thinking to myself: Why am I doing this? I have money. I don't have to feel shit with idiot coaches. I can have fun instead and take care of my family. It was a great time, but it didn't last long. When we returned to Spain disaster struck. Not immediately, but slowly. Disaster was in the air.
A light snowfall came. It was like the Spaniards had never seen snow before, and in our hood, in the hills above Barcelona, cars were smashing to the left and right, and Mino, the fat idiot - the wonderful fat idiot I should add if anyone would misunderstand me - froze like a dog in his summer shoes and light jacket and convinced me to take the Audi. It almost ended in disaster. On a downhill street we lost control of the car and smashed into a stone wall. The whole right side of the car was demolished. Many had crashed during the bad weather, but no one as badly as me. I won the crash contest too, and we laughed a lot about that. And I was actually feeling like myself sometimes. I felt ok. But then Messi started talking. Messi is awesome.
Fucking unbelievable. I don't know him very well. We are very different personalities. He came to Barca 13 years old and is brought up in their culture. He doesn't have any problems with that school shit. In the team, the play revolves around him, which is natural really. He's brilliant, but now I had come, and I was scoring more than he did. He went to Guardiola and said:
"I don't want to play on the right side, on the wing, anymore. I want to be in the middle."
That was where I was. But Guardiola didn't give a shit. He changed tactics. From 4-3-3 he switched to 4-
5-1 with me on top and Messi right behind, leaving me in the shadow. All balls went through Messi and I couldn't play my game. I have to be free as a bird on the field. I'm the guy who wants to make a difference on all levels. But Guardiola sacrificed me. That's the truth. He locked me in up there. OK, I can understand his situation. Messi was the star.
Guardiola has to listen to him. But come on! I had scored goal after goal in Barca, I was lethal too. He couldn't adapt the team after one single guy. I mean: why the hell did he buy me then? No one pays that kind of money just to strangle me as a player. Guardiola had to think of both of us, and of course, the mood amongst the club management became nervous. I was their biggest investment ever, and I didn't feel good in the new lineup. I was too expensive not to feel good. Txiki Begiristain, the sports director, was pushing me; he said I had to speak with the coach.
"Work it out!"
I didn't like it. I'm a player who accepts the situation. But sure, fine, I did it! A friend of mine said "Zlatan, it's like if Barca bought a Ferrari but are driving it like a Fiat", and I thought, yeah, that's a good argument. Guardiola had transformed me into a simpler, worse player. And the whole team was losing from that.
So I went to the coach. I approached him on the pitch, during training, and I was careful about one thing. I
didn't want a fight, and I told him:
"I don't want to fight. I don't want a war. I just want to discuss things." He nodded. But maybe he looked a bit frightened, so I repeated:
"If you think I want a fight, I will leave. I just want to talk." "Good! I like talking with the players."
"Listen!" I continued. "You are not using my capacity. If it was a goal scorer you wanted, you should have bought Inzaghi or someone. I need space, and to be free. I can't run up and down constantly. I weigh 98 kilos. I don't have the physique for it."
He was thinking. He was often doing that. "I think you can play like this."
"No, then its better if you bench me. With all due respect, I understand you, but you are sacrificing me for other players. This isn't working. It's like you bought a Ferrari but are driving it like if it was a Fiat."
He continued thinking.
"OK, maybe it was a mistake. This is my problem. I will work it out." I was happy. He would work it out.
But then the ice cold came. He would barely look at me, and I'm not one who really cares about such things, and despite my new position I continued to be great. I scored more goals. Not as nice ones as in Italy. I was too high up on the pitch. It wasn't Ibracadabra anymore, but still… Against Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium in the Champions League we outplayed them completely. The stadium was boiling. The first twenty minutes were amazing, and I scored one goal… two goals. Beautiful goals, and I was thinking: Screw Guardiola! I'll run my own race! But then I was substituted, Arsenal came back and scored two goals. It was shit and afterwards my thigh hurt. Normally a coach cares about such things. An injured Zlatan is a serious thing for any team. But Guardiola was ice cold. He didn't say a single word, and I was out for three weeks. Not once did he face me and ask "How are you feeling, Zlatan? Can you play the next game?"
He didn't even say hello. Not a word. He avoided looking at me. If I entered a room, he would leave. What's going on? I was thinking. Have I done something? Do I look strange? Am I speaking strange? My mind was spinning in circles. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about it constantly. Not that I needed Guardiola's love or anything. He could hate me all he wanted. I'm triggered by hate and revenge. But now I lost focus, and I talked to the other players. No one understood what was going on. I asked Thierry Henry, who was on the bench during this time. Thierry Henry is the top scorer in the history of the French national team. He's cool. He was still amazing, and he was also having problems with Guardiola.
"He doesn't greet me. He doesn't look me in the eyes, what has happened?" I asked. "No idea", Henry said.
We started joking about it. "Hey, Zlatan, has he looked at you today?" "No, but I saw his back!"
"Congratulations, things are improving!" Shit like that, and it helped a little bit. But it was really getting on my nerves, and I asked myself every hour: What have I done? What's wrong? But I never got any answers. Nothing more than that the ice storm must have had to do with our talk about my position. There couldn't be any other explanation. But that would be twisted. Was he psyching me out because a chat about my position? I tried confronting him, I'd walk towards him try looking him in the eyes. He turned around. He seemed scared, and sure I could have booked an appointment and asked "What is this about?" But never. I had done enough crawling for that guy.
This was his problem. Not that I knew what it was. I still don't know it. Or, well… I don't think the guy can handle strong personalities. He wants nice school boys. And worse: he runs away from his problems. He can't look them in the eye, and that made everything so much worse.
It got worse.
The ash cloud from the volcano on Iceland came. No flights at all in Europe and we were going to San Siro to face Inter. We took the bus. Some brain-dead person in Barca thought that was a good idea. I was free from injuries then. But the trip became a disaster. It took 16 hours and we were all worn out when we arrived in Milano. It was our most important game so far that season, semifinal in the Champions League, and I was prepared for mayhem, booing and whistling at my old arena, no problems, that drive me. But the situation a part from that was terrible. And I think Guardiola had a hang up on Mourinho.
José Mourinho is a big star. He had won Champions League already with Porto. He was my coach in Inter. He's cool. The first time he met Helena he whispered to her: "Helena, you only have one mission. Feed Zlatan, let him sleep, keep him happy!" The guy says what he wants. I like him. He's the leader of an army. But he also cares. He was sending me text messages all the time in Inter asking how I was
feeling. He's the opposite of Guardiola. If Mourinho lights up a room, Guardiola pulls the blinds." I guess
Guardiola now tried to measure up to him.
"It's not Mourinho we are facing. It's Inter", he said, like we thought we'd play ball with the coach. And then he pulled his philosophy crap.
I was barely listening. Why would I? It was advanced crap about blood, sweat and tears, shit like that. I've never heard a coach talk like that. Pure garbage. But now he finally came up to me. It was during the practice at San Siro, and people were there watching, like "Wow, Ibra is back!"
"Can you play from start" Guardiola asked. "Definitely", I answered.
"But are you prepared?" "Definitely. I feel fine." "But are you ready?"
He was like a parrot, and I got some nasty vibes.
"Listen, it was a terrible trip, but I'm in good form. The injury is gone. I'll give it my everything."
Guardiola looked as though he doubted me. I didn't understand him, and afterwards I called Mino Raiola. I call Mino all the time. Swedish journalists use to say: Mino is bad image for Zlatan. Mino is this and that. You want the truth? Mino is a genius. I asked him:
"What does the guy mean?" None of us understood. We started losing it. But I got to play from start and we scored 1-0. Then the game turned, I was substituted after sixty minutes and we lost 3-1. It was shit. I was furious. But in the earlier days, like Ajax, I could dwell on a loss for days or even weeks. Now I have Helena and the kids. They help me forget and move on. And I was focusing on the return game at Camp Nou. The return game was incredibly important and the excitement was building up, day by day.
The pressure was incredible. It was like thunder in the air, and we had to win big to advance. But then… I don't even want to think about it, or, well, I do. It made me stronger. We won by 1-0. But that wasn't enough. We were eliminated from the Champions League, and afterwards Guardiola looked at me like it was my fault, and I was thinking: The bottle is empty now. We're out of playing cards. After that game it felt like I wasn't welcome in the club anymore, and I felt bad driving their Audi.
I felt like shit sitting in the dressing room and Guardiola would stare at me like I was a problem, some freak. It was insane. He was a wall, a stone wall. I didn't get a single sign of life from him, and I wanted to get far away every second.
I was no longer part of the team, and when we played Villa Real he let me play five minutes. Five minutes! I was boiling inside, not because I was on the bench. I can deal with that if the coach is man enough to say: You're not good enough, Zlatan.
But Guardiola didn't say a single word, nothing, and at this point I'd had it. I could feel it in my entire body, and if I was Guardiola, I would have been scared. Not that I'm a fighter. I've done all kinds of crazy shit. But I don't fight, well, on the pitch I've knocked one or two out. But still, when I get angry, my eyes turn black. You don't want to be anywhere near. And let me tell you in detail what happened. After the game I went into the dressing room, I hadn't exactly planned some raging attack… But I wasn't happy, to use
mild words, and in the dressing room my enemy stood, scratching his bald head. Few others were in
there. Touré and a few others, and the big metal box where we put our clothes, and I was staring at the box. Then I kicked it. I think it flew like three meters, but I wasn't done yet. Far from it. I yelled:
"You have no balls", and probably some worse things, and added: "You shit yourself in front of Mourinho. You can go fuck yourself!"
I went insane, and maybe you'd expect Guardiola to say something, maybe: Calm down, you don't talk like that to your coach! But he's not like that. He's a weak coward. He just picked up the box, like a little cleaner, and then he left and never talked about it again, nothing at all. But of course words spread. In the bus everyone was crazy:
"What happened, what happened?!"
Nothing, I thought. Just a few words of truth. But I didn't have the energy talking about it. I was so pissed off. My coach had frozen me out week after week without explaining why. It was sick. I've had some bad fights before. But the day after we'd always sorted things out and moved on. Now the silence and terror
just continued, and I thought: "I'm 28 years old. I've scored 22 goals and 15 assists only here in Barca, and still I'm treated like I don't exist, like air. Should I accept this? Should I continue adapting? No way!
When I understood I'd be on the bench against Almeria, I remembered those words: "Here, in Barca, we don't drive Ferrari or Porsche to the practice!" What bullshit was that anyway? I drive what I want, at least if it pisses off some idiot. I jumped into my Enzo, floored it and parked outside the door at practice. Of course it resulted in a circus. The papers wrote that my car cost as much as the monthly salary for the entire Almeria squad. But I didn't care. Media bullshit meant nothing at this point. I had decided to give back.
I decided to fight back seriously, and you should know one thing, that's a game I can play. I've been a bad boy before, believe me. But I didn't want to mess with the preparations just because of that, so obviously I called Mino. We always plan the smart and dirty tricks together. I also called my buddies.
I wanted different perspectives on the situation, and oh god, I got all kinds of advice. The Rosengård guys wanted to come down and "trash stuff", and of course that was nice of them to offer, but it didn't feel like the right strategy at that point. And of course I discussed everything with Helena. She's from another world. She's cool. She can also be tough. But now she tried encouraging me:
"You've become a better dad. When you don't have a team where you feel good, you team up with us", she said, and that made me happy.
I played some ball with the kids and tried to make sure everyone was feeling alright, and of course I spent time with my video games. It's like a disease for me. They eat me up. But since the time in Inter when I could play until four, five in the morning and go to practice after just a couple of hours sleep, I've set some rules for myself: no Xbox or Playstation after 10 at night.
I can't let time run away from me, and during these weeks in Spain I really tried to spend time with my family and just chill in our garden. I even had a Corona now and then. That was the good side of it. But at nights when I would be lying awake, or at practice when I saw Guardiola, the dark side of me woke up. The anger was pounding inside my head and I planned my next move and my revenge.
No, I realized it more and more, there was no turning back. It was time to stand up for myself and become the real me again.
Because don't forget: You can take the kid away from the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto away from the kid.
CHAPTER 24
We were playing against Real Madrid at home at Camp Nou. It was November 2009. I had been away for fifteen days again. I had some discomfort in my tigh and I would start on the bench, and of course that wasn't fun. Not many things are as huge as El Clasico. The pressure was incredible. It's war, and the papers had extra editions with like 60 pages about the game. People don't talk about anything else. It's the big teams, the big enemies against each other.
I had a good start of the season despite the fracture in my hand and the whole adjustment to a new country. I had scored five goals in my first five games and I was praised everywhere. It felt good and La Liga was clearly the place to be. Real and Barca had invested almost 250 million euros in Kaka, Cristiano and me, and Serie A and Premiere League had lost some. La Liga was the hot place now. Everything would be extraordinary. That's what I thought.
Already during pre-season when I ran around with plaster and nails in my hand I had become one of the gang. The language was a bit of a problem of course and I hung a lot with the guys who talked English, Thierry Henry and Maxwell. But it worked great with everyone. Messi, Xavi and Iniesta are down to earth, nice guys, killing on the football field, and very easy being around, far from "Here I come, I'm the greatest and most beautiful", not a sign of anything like that, and no fashion shows in the locker room like many italian players have. Messi and the guys turned up in tracksuits and kept a low profile and then of course there was Guardiola.
He seemed OK. He came up to me after every practice and talked. He really wanted me to get into the team, but sure, the manners in the club were special. I had felt that immediately. It was like a school, a bit like Ajax. But this was Barca, the best team in the world. I had expected a bit more cocky attitude. But everyone was so silent and nice and part of the group, and sometmes I'd think: These guys are superstars. But still they act like school boys, and maybe that's sympathetic, what do I know? But I couldn't help thinking: How would these guys be treated in Italy? They would have been gods.
Now they all lined up for Pep Guardiola. Guardiola is a Catalan. He's an old midfielder. He won La Liga five or six times with Barcelona, and became their captain in 1997. When I came he had been the coach for two years and had had huge success. I'm sure the guy deserved all the respect, and I saw it as important trying to adjust and fit in. It wasn't like a new thing for me. I had switched clubs several times before, and I had never walked in telling people how to do things. I sense the atmosphere. Who's strong? Who's weak? What are they talking about and which are the different groupings?
At the same time I knew my qualities. I had proved what I could mean for a team with my winning mentality, and I used to take up space pretty quickly anyway, and make a lot of jokes. Not too long ago I kicked Chippen a bit for fun at a national team practice and I didn't understand a thing when I opened up the papers the next day. It was looked on as some mean attack. But it was nothing, nada. That's how we do it. It's playful and very serious at the same time. We're a bunch of quys who spend all days together and sometimes do some crazy stuff to keep going. It's not more difficult than that. We're joking. But in Barca I became boring. Too nice. And I didn't dare screaming on the pitch like I need to do.
The papers writing about me being a bad boy and all that helped. That made me wanting to prove the opposite and I'm sure I went too far. Instead of being myself I was trying to be the nicest guy around and that was stupid. You can't let media bullshit put you down. It was unprofessional. I admit it. But that wasn't the big thing. That was:
"We have our feet on the ground here. We are fabricantes. We work. We are ordinary guys!"
Maybe it didn't sound so strange, but there was something about those words, and I started wondering: Why is Guardiola telling me those things? Does he think I'm so different? I couldn't put my finger on it at first. But it didn't feel so good. Sometimes it was like in the youth team in MFF. Did I once again have a coach who thought I came from the wrong neighbourhood? Still, I hadn't done anything, I hadn't head- butted a teammate, no stealing bikes, nothing. I had never been such a pussy my whole life. I was the opposite of what the papers were writing. I was the guy who stepped around on his toes and thought about everything before doing anything. The old wild Zlatan was gone! Lots of stuff was gone! I ended up in my own shadow.
It had never happened before, and so far it wasn't a big deal. It'll work out, I thought, I'll be myself soon again. I'll get going, and maybe I'm just imagining things, having fantasies. Guardiola wasn't unpleasant, not at all. He seemed to believe in me. He saw me scoring goal after goal and how much I meant to the team, but stil… that feeling didn't disappear. Did he think I was that different?
"We keep our feet on the ground here!"
Did Guardiola meen I was the guy who didn't? I didn't get it and I tried to shake it off me. Saying: Focus instead! Just forget about it! But the vibes were still there, and I wondered more and more: Should everyone be the same in this club? It didn't feel healthy. No one's the same. People try sometimes, sure. But then they strangle themselves, and ruin things for the team. Absolutely, Guardiola had been a huge success. The club had won a lot under him. I have to applaud that, and a victory is a victory.
But now afterwards I think it came at a price. The price was that the big personalities were chased away. It wasn't a coincidence that the guy had problems with guys like Ronaldhino, Deco, Eto'o, Henry and me. We're no "ordinary boys". We have threatened him and then he tries to chase us away, it's not more complicated that that, and I hate stuff like that. If you're no "ordinary boy", you shouldn't be forced into becoming one. No one gains from that. Fuck, if I had tried becoming like the guys in MFF I wouldn't be where I am today. Listen, don't listen, is the foundation of my success.
That doesn't work for everyone. But it works for me, and Guardiola didn't understand shit about that. He thought he could change me. In his Barca everyone should be like Xavi, Iniesta and Messi. I have nothing bad to say about them, like I said, not at all, on the contrary. It was amazing being on the same team as them. Good players trigger me and I was watching them like I've always watched great talents: Can I learn something? Can I work a little harder?
But look at their backgrounds. Xavi came to Barca when he was eleven years old. Iniesta was twelve, Messi thirteen. They were shaped by the club. They didn't know anything else and I'm sure that was good for them. It was their thing, but it wasn't mine. I came from the outside, I came with all my personality, and there wasn't room for it, not in Guardiola's little world. But like I said, I just had a sense of these things back in November. At that point the problems were simpler:
Would I play and would I do it well after my break?
The pressure on us was incredible ahead of the El Clasico at Camp Nou. Back then the Chilean Manuel Pellegrini was coach of Real. There were speculations that he would get fired if Real didn't win. They were talking about me, Kaka, Cristiano, Messi, Pellegrini and Guardiola. It was a lot of "that guy against
that guy". The city was boiling of all expectations, and I came to the stadium in the club Audi and walked into the locker room. Guardiola would start with Thierry Henry on top and Messi to the right and Iniesta to the left. It was dark outside then. The stadium was lit up and the cameras were flashing everywhere.
You could feel it immediately, Real were more triggered. They created more chances, and in the 20th minute Kaka dribbled beautifully and quickly and passed a clear Cristiano. He had a great chance, but blew it. Victor Valdés, our goalie, saved it with his foot, and only a minute later Higuain in Real was making his way through. It was close, close. There were many chances and we played to stagnant, didn't move enough and had problems with the passes. The nervousness spread in the team and our fans started booing, especially at Casillas in Real's goal. He was delaying the game and his goal kicks. But Real continued dominating and we were lucky having 0-0 after 45 minutes.
In the beginning of the second half Guardiola asked me to start warming, and that was a great feeling, I have to say. The crowd was screaming and cheering. The thunder from the stands filled me, and I applauded them back as a thank you, and in the 51st minute Thierry Henry went off and I came in, and I was hungry. I hadn't been gone for long. But it felt like it, maybe because I had missed a group game in the Champions League against my old team Inter. But now I was back and only a few minutes had passed when the Brazilian, Daniel Alves, got the ball on the right side. Alves reads the game quickly and the attack was fast. There was a bit of a commotion in the Real defence, and in situations like that, I don't think. I just run into the box, and then the cross ball came, a long pass. I blasted forward.
I was clear in front of the goal and shot a volley with my left foot, bang, boom, goal, and the stadium woke up like a vulcano, and I felt in my body, nothing can stop me now. We won 1-0. I was the man of the match, and was praised everywhere. At that moment no one questioned my price of almost 70 million. I was on fire.
Then Christmas break came. We went to Åre [ed note: ski resort, northern Sweden] and I drove snowmobiles, like I told you, and had a great time. But that was also the turning point. After New Years the things that had been tough during fall became much worse and I wasn't myself anymore. That's what it felt like. I had become another, much more insecure Zlatan, and everytime Mino had had meetings with the Barca management I asked him:
"What do they think of me?"
"They think you're the best forward in the world." "I mean privately, as a person."
I had never cared about that before. I used to not give a shit. I wanted to play well. And then people could say what they want. But now all of a sudden it was important, and that showed that I wasn't feeling well. My confidence went away and I felt inhibited. I barely cheered when I scored anymore. I didn't dare getting angry, and that's no good, not at all. I locked things up inside of me, and then I'm really not sensetive to stuff. I'm tough. I've experienced a lot. But still, day after day getting those looks and comments about me not fitting in or being different, that tears you apart. It was like having been thrown back in time, to the years before my career took off. A lot of it could barely be talked about, it was small stuff, a glance, some comments, the tone of voice, stuff I had never cared about before. I was used to some tough lingo and language. I'm grown up with that. But now I got that feeling: Am I like the foster kid in this family, the guy who doesn't belong? How sick wasn't that?
When I for the first time tried to fit in and really adjust, I was ignored, and like if that wasn't enough, then came this thing with Messi. You remember it from the first chapter. Messi was the big star. And in a way the team was his. The guy was shy, and sure, I liked him. But now I had come and dominated on the field and caused a huge commotion.
It must have been a bit like I had knocked on the door of his house and went in and lay down in his bed. He explained to Guardiola that he didn't want play out wide, to the right, anymore. He wanted to play in the middle, and I was locked up and didn't receive many balls anymore, and the situation flipped up-side- down from the fall. Now I wasn't the one scoring anymore, Messi was, and I had that talk with Guardiola. The club management had pressured me a bit:
"Talk to him! Work things out!"
But how did that work? That was the beginning of the war, the frezzing me out thing. He stopped talking to me. He stopped looking at me. He said good morning to everyone else. To me he said nothing. And that was very unpleasant, I'm sorry but it was. I would like to have said: I didn't care. Why should I care about some guy doing some bullying shit? Normally I would have done that of course. But I wasn't very strong at that point.
The whole situation broke me down and that wasn't easy. Having a boss with that kind of power over you who consciously ignored you, it'll crawl up under your skin eventually, and now I wasn't the only one seeing this. Others did too, and they were wondering: What's happening? What's going on? They told me: "You have to talk to him. This won't work."
But no, I had done enough talking with that guy. I wasn't gonna crawl, so I held it together, and started playing well again despite my position on the field and the atmosphere in the club. I came into a turn when I scored five, six goals. But Guardiola was as ice cold anyway, and that wasn't strange, I understand that now.
It was never, ever about my game. It was my personality, and night and day my mind was buzzing: Is it something I said or done? Do I look weird? I went through everything, every little meeting and event. I found nothing. I had been quiet, a perfect bore. But still I went on: Is it this or is it that? So no, I didn't just react with anger.
Just as much I was looking at the faults with me. I thought about it all the time. But the guy wouldn't give up and that wasn't just shit. It was unprofessional. The whole team was affected the management became more and more nervous. Guardiola was fucking up the biggest investment the club had ever made and important games were waiting in the Champions League. We were playing Arsenal away, and the status quo between me and the coach continued and I'm sure he would have liked to leave me at home, but he didn't dare going that far. And I started with Messi on top.
But did he give me any instructions? None! Nothing! I just had to play on my own. It was the Emirates Stadium. It was huge, and as always in England all media were against me, and there was all that talk: he doesn't score against English teams. I held a press conference. I tried being myself after all. I said like "Wait and see". "I will show you."
But it wasn't easy, not with that coach, and I stepped out on the field, and it was a difficult start. The tempo was high and Guardiola disappeared from my mind. It was almost like magic. I have played few games so well I think. But sure, I missed some chances. I shot straight at Arsenal's keeper, or outside. I should have scored, but nothing came out of it and at half time it was 0-0.
Guardiola will put me on the bench, I thought. But he let me continue, and the second half had barely begun before I got a long ball from Piqué and I ran deep, I had a defender next to me and the goalie ran towards me and the ball bounced, and I chipped it. I chipped the ball over him and in the goal. It was 1-0, and only ten minutes later I received a beautiful pass from Xavi and I ran like an arrow. But now I didn't chip it. I went full force. I smashed it in with power. 2-0 and the game seemed to be over. But what did Guardiola do? Did he applaud? He substituted me! Smart move! After that the team fell a part and Arsenal managed to equalize. 2-2.
I hadn't felt anything during the game. But afterwards I had some pain in a calf, and it got worse, and it was shit. I had found form again. But now I would miss the return game against Arsenal and the second El Clasico, and I didn't get any support from Guardiola. There were even more mind games. If I came into a room, he would leave. He didn't even want to be near me, and now afterwards when I think about it, it feels insane.
No one knew what was going on, not the management, not the players, no one. But it's strange with that man. Like I said, I don't want to take his success away from him, or say that he's not a good coach in other ways. But he must have some serious problems. He can't handle guys like me. Maybe it's because he's afraid of losing his authority. Probably not an unusual thing, right? Bosses who have some qualities
but can't handle strong personalities, and don't see any other way than freezing them out. Coward bosses in other words!
Anyway, he didn't ask me about my injury. He didn't dare. Or, well, he talked to me about it before the semifinal in Champions League away against Inter. But then he was acting weird, and it fucked up, like I said before. Mourinho was right. We didn't win the Champions, he did, and after that Guardiola treated me like it had been my fault, and the explosion was in the air, waiting to happen.
It was scary in some ways, and that feeling that everything you had inside of you needed to get out and I was glad I had Thierry Henry. He understood me, and we were having laughs, like I said. That eased the pressure, and somehow I started not caring about the whole thing. What else could I do? For the first time football didn't feel that important. I spent more time with Maxi and VIncent and Helena and I came much closer to them during this time. I'm grateful for that. The kids mean everything. That's the truth.
But still, I couldn't ignore the atmosphere in the club totally and the outburst that had been building up for some time really came eventually. In the locker room after the game against Villareal I screamed at Guardiola. I screamed about his balls and how he shit himself all over in front of Mourinho, and you can imagine. It became a war and we were two people. He the little scared philosopher who didn't dare looking me in the eyes, or even saying good morning, and then me, who had been quiet and careful for a long time, but now finally had become myself again.
It wasn't a game. In another situation with a different person it wouldn't have been a big deal. Raging like that isn't a big deal for me, not giving them and not receiving them. I grew up like that. It's routine for me, and often stuff like that is good. It clears the air. Viera and me had become friends after a huge fight. But with Pep… you noticed it right away.
He couldn't handle it. He avoided me completely and often during nights I'd be lying awake thinking about everything: What's the next step? What should I do? One thing was for sure: it was like back in MFF's youth team. I was viewed as different. So I had to become an even better player. I had to become so fucking good not even Gyuardiola could place me on the bench. But I wasn't going to pretend being someone else anymore, not a fucking chance. Fuck: Here we are like this and do it like that. Here we are normal boys. More and more I understood how immature that was. A real coach can handle different personalities. It's part of his job. A team benefits from different kinds of guys. Some are a bit tougher. Some are like Maxwell, or like Messi and the gang.
But Guardiola couldn't handle it, and because of that he wanted revenge. I could feel it. It was in the air, and that it would cost the club tens of millions of euros didn't matter to him. We were going to play the last game of the league. He put me on the bench. I didn't expect anything else. But now all of a sudden he wanted to talk to me. He called me into his office at the stadium. It was in the morning, and in there he had match jerseys, pictures of himself and stuff like that. The atmosphere was ice cold. We hadn't talked at all since my outburst. But he was nervous. His eyes were wandering around.
That guy is not a born authority, no real carisma. If you didn't know he was the coach of a great team, you wouldn't notice him entering a room, and now he sat there crumbling. I'm sure he was waiting for me to say something. I didn't say a word. I waited.
"So, well…", he began.
He didn't look me in the eyes.
"I don't know what I want from you next season." "Okay."
"It's up to you and Mino what happens. I mean, you are Ibrahimovic. You're not a guy who plays every third game, right?"
He wanted me to answer. But I'm not stupid. I know very well: he who speaks the most in situations like that, he loses. So I kept quiet. Didn't change my face. I sat still. But of course I knew: he had a message, what it wasn’t quite clear. But it sounded like he wanted to get rid of me and that wasn't some minor thing.
I was the biggest investment the club had ever made. So I sat quiet. I did nothing. So he repeated
himself:
"I don't know what I want from you. What do you say about that? What's your comment?" I didn't have any comments.
"Is that all?" I just replied. "Yes, but…"
"OK, thanks", I said and left.
I guess I appeared tough and cool. At least that was what I wanted. But I was boiling inside, and when I
came out I called Mino.
CHAPTER 25
Sometimes I go on to hard. I don’t know. It was a thing with me from the start. My dad raged like a bear when he drank, and everyone in the family got scared or got out of there. But I stepped up to him, man against man, and I shouted things like: “You have to stop drinking!” it made him furious. “Damn it, this is my house. I do as I please. I’ll throw you out!”
It could become really chaotic. The whole apartment rumbled. We never got in a fist fight. He had a big heart. But honestly, I was ready for a fight.
I was ready for anything, and sometimes, I understood that it was pointless. It would just lead to confrontation and anger. We wouldn’t take one step forward. Despite that I just went on. I took the fights, and don’t think that I’m trying to brag about being the tough one in the family. I’m just saying how it was.
I had that character early. I stepped up. I didn’t run, and it wasn’t just when it came to dad. It was everywhere. My whole childhood was full of tough guys that raged like lightning: my mom, the sisters, the guys on the blocks, and since then I have it in me, that carefulness: What’s happening? Who wants to fight? The body is always up for a fight.
That was the way that I chose. Other in the family took other roles. You went to Sanela with your feelings. I was the fighter. I someone fucked with me, if fucked back. I was my way of surviving, and I taught myself to not keep in it. I said it right out, there was no “You’re very good, you’re very nice, but...” it was straight on: “You got to get a grip of yourself.” Then I took the consequences for it. It was just like that. It was my childhood, and of course, I had changed a lot when I came to Barcelona. I had met Helena and got children and calmed down, and, like, said “Be kind and pass the butter”. But a lot of it was still in me. I clenched my fists those days in the club and prepared to stand for what I believed in. It was early summer
2010. There was going to be a WC in South Africa, and in Barca Joan Laporta resigned.
A new president was going to be elected, and stuff like that always creates turbulence. People get insecure. I guy named Sandro Rosell was chosen. Rosell had been vice president until 2005 and friends with Laporta. But something had happened. They were now enemies, it was said. So of course, people were worried. Would Rosell clean out the old gang? No one knew. The sporting director Txiki Begiristain resigned before Rosell could fire him, and I wondered of course: What would this mean in my conflict?
It was Laporta who had bought me for record sums and it wasn’t a unreasonable thought that Rosell would want to get one over him by showing that the investment was idiotic. A lot of newspapers also wrote that Rosell’s first mission was to sell me. The journalists had no real clue about what had happened between me and Guardiola, and neither did I in a way. But they knew that something was wrong, and honestly, you don’t have to be a football expert to understand. I was unhappy and didn’t react the way I used to on the pitch. Guardiola had damaged me, and I remember that Mino called the new president. He told him what Guardiola had said on that meeting.
“What the hell did the guy mean?” he asked. “Is he trying to get rid of Zlatan?” “No, no”, Rosell answered. “Guardiola believes in him.”
“But why does he say that then?”
Rosell couldn’t answer. He was new and nobody seemed to know. The situation was insecure. We won the league and the vacation came. It was a long time ago I needed it so much. I needed to get away, and I and Helena travelled around: L.A., Vegas, everywhere, and during that time the WC was being played. I barely watched. I was too disappointed. Sweden wasn’t there, and honestly, I didn’t want to think about football at all. I tried to repress the mess in Barca. But that didn’t work for so long. The days were counting down. I had to be back soon, and as little as I wanted, all the questions came back. What’s going to happen? What should I do? I thought about it a lot, I knew, there was an obvious solution. I could get myself sold. But I didn’t want to give up my dream so easily. No way! I decided to work like an animal in training and become better than ever.
No one was going to break me. I was going to show them all. But what do you think happened? I didn’t have the time to show a thing. I hadn’t even put my football shoes on before Guardiola called me in again.
It was the nineteenth of July, I think. Most of the player hadn’t come back from the WC yet. It was calm around us, and Pep tried some small talk. He had obviously an errand. He was nervous and uncomfortable. Despite that was trying to be polite, I guess, for the sake of it.
“How has the vacation been?” “Good, good!”
“And how do you feel before the new season?” “Also good. I’m pumped. I’ll give everything.” “You...”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to prepare yourself to sit on the bench”, he said, and as I said before, this was the first day. The pre season had not begun yet. Guardiola hadn’t seen me play yet, not even one minute. The words couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a personal attack.
“Alright”, I just answered. “I understand.”
“And as you know we have bought David Villa from Valencia.”
David Villa was hot, no doubt about that. He was one of the stars in the Spanish National team who by them was on their way to win the WC, but still, he was a winger. I played in the middle. He had nothing to do with me, not really.
“And what to you say about that?” he continued.
Nothing, I thought first, more than like congratulations. But then it hit me: why not test Guardiola? Why not check if this has anything remotely to do with football, or if this is only about kicking me out of the club?
“What do I think about that?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Well, that I’m going to work harder. I will really, really go for a spot in the team. I will convince you that
I’m good enough”, and honestly, I didn’t think it was true.
I had never sucked up to a coach like that. My philosophy was to let my game do the talking. It’s just silly to go around and talk about giving everything you got. You get paid to give everything you got. But this was my way of trying to understand. I wanted to hear what he answered. If he said: Alright, then we’ll have to see if you can take a sport, it would mean something. But now he just looked at me.
“I know that. But how can we proceed?”
It was silly, and I guessed that he wanted me to flip out and shout: I won’t accept this. I’m leaving the club! Then he could easily say: Zlatan wanted to get out himself, it’s not my decision. But I may be a savage, and guy that makes the confrontation too often. But I also know when to control myself. I had nothing to gain by declaring myself for sale, so I calmly thanked for the talk and got out of there.
I was of course furious. I was boiling. But the meeting had still given me something. I had understood the seriousness: he wasn’t going to let me if even if I learned how to fly through the air, and the question really was now: would I be able to put up with it, and go to training everyday and have this guy standing in front of me? I doubted it. Maybe I must change tactics. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time.
We went to South Korea and China for pre season training, and over there I got to play some games. It didn’t mean a thing. The most important player had not come from the WC yet. I was still the black sheep, and Guardiola stayed away. If he wanted something he sent other to talk with me and during the whole time the media were like crazy. It had been going on all summer: What will happen with Zlatan? Is he going to be sold? Will he stay? They were on me all the time, and it was the same for Guardiola. He got questions about it all the time, and how do you think he answered? Nice and clean: I don’t like Zlatan, I want to get him sold? Not really. He looked uncomfortable, and talked his nonsense.
“Zlatan decides his own future.”
Shit like that, and it started ticking in me. I felt pointed out and pissed. I wanted to do something explosive. But also, how should I say, something got me going. I understood: the situation had gone into a new stage. It wasn’t only war not. The fight on the transfer market had started now and I like that game, at my side I have the guy who’s best in the world at it – Mino. He and I talked all the time and we decided to play rough and tough: Guardiola didn’t deserve anything else.
In South Korea I had a meeting with Josep Maria Bartomeu, the new vice president in the club. We sat at the hotel and talked, and that guy was at least clear.
“Zlatan, if you have any offers, consider them”, he said.
“I’m not going anywhere”, I answered. “I’m a Barcelona player. I stay in Barca.” Josep Maria Bartomeu looked surprised.
“But how should we solve this?” “I have an idea”, I answered. “You have?”
“You can call Real Madrid.” “Why would we call them?”
“Because if I really have to leave Barca, I want to go to Real. You can make the deal happen.” Josep Maria Bartomeu got terrified.
“You’re kidding”, he said.
I looked dead serious.
“Not at all. We have a problem.” I continued. “We have a coach who’s not man enough to say that he doesn’t want me here. I want to stay. But if he wants to sell me he has to say it himself, clear and distinctly. And the only club I want to go to is Real, just so you know.”
I left the room, and now it was definite. The game was on. I had said Real. But of course, it was just a move, and provocation, a strategically trick. In reality we had Manchester City and Milan as options.
Sure, I knew about the incredible thins that had happened in City and all the money that was there since the gang from the United Arab Emirates had taken over. City could very well become a top club in a few years. But I was soon to be twenty nine. I didn’t have time for plans in the long run, and money was never to most important. I wanted to go to a team that’s good now and no club in Europe had to history of Milan.
“We go for Milan”, I said.
When I afterwards think about it it’s incredible. From the day Guardiola had called me in and said that I was going to sit on the bench we played a tough game, and we noticed of course: we were stressing Guardiola and the management. It was the plan. The guys were going to get so psyched that it would make them let me go for cheap. And that would help me get a new contract! We had a meeting with Sandro Rosell, the new president, and you could notice afterwards. Sandro Rosell was in a fox trap.
He didn’t either get what the problem was between me and Guardiola. He had just understood that the situation was unsustainable and that he had to sell me to any price, if he wasn’t going to sack the coach. But he couldn’t do that. Not after all the success the club had. Rosell had no choice. Didn’t matter if he loved or hated me, he had to get rid of me.
“I’m sorry for this”, he said. “But it is what it is. Do you have any club that you want to go to?” Mino and I
didn’t the same thing as with Bartomeu
“Yes, actually”, I said. “There’s one.”
“Good, very good.” He lit up. “Which club?” “Real Madrid.”
He got pale. To let a Barca star go to Real is like high treason. “Not possible”, he answered. “Anything but that.”
He was shaken up and now both I and Mino felt it: Now we play our game, and I continued calmly: “But you asked and I answered, and I’ll say it gladly again: Real Madrid is the only club I can think of. I like Mourinho. But then you have to call and tell it to Real yourselves. Is that alright?”
It wasn’t alright. Nothing in the world was less alright, and we knew that of course, and Sandro Rosell started to panic now. The club had bought me for seven hundred millions. The guy had all the pressure on him to get the money back, but he sold me to Real, that was the new club of Mourinho, Rosell would almost get shot by the fans.
It wasn’t easy for him, you can say that. He couldn’t keep me because of the coach. He couldn’t sell me to the arch enemy. The guy had lost the initiative, and we continued hard:
“But think about how smooth it will be. Mourinho have said it himself that he wants me!” We didn’t know anything about that. But we pretended.
“No”, he said.
“That's bad. Really! Real is the only club we can think about.”
We went out and smiled. Real, Real we had kept saying. It was our official line. But we were in talks with Milan, and we were working for them. If Rosell was desperate it wasn’t really good for Barca. But it was good for Milan. The more Rosell had to sell, the cheaper it would be to buy me, and that was good for us. It was a game, and it went on, on different levels, one for the outside, and one behind the scenes. But the clock was also ticking.
The transfer window was closing at the thirty first of August, and the twenty seventh we were going to play a friend against Milan at Camp Nou. Nothing was done yet. But the thing was in the media. There was speculations everywhere, and Galliani, the vice president of Milan, declared solemnly that he wouldn’t leave Barcelona without Ibrahimovic.
At the arena the supporters were showing banners with: “Stay Ibra!” There was a lot of focus on me of course. But it was mostly Ronaldinho’s game. Ronaldinho is a god in Barcelona. He played in Milan, but he had been in Barca and then been chosen as the best player in the world two years in a row. Before the game we would get to see his best stuff on a big screen at the arena, and he was going to run a honorary lap around the stadium. But that guy... he does as he wishes.
We sat in the locker room and waited to get into the arena. It felt weird. Outside we could hear the roar from the crowd. Guardiola didn’t look at me of course, and I wondered: Is this my last game with the team? What will happen? I had no clue. Then everybody jumped. Ronaldinho looked in through the door, and Ronaldinho, he is shines. He is one of the greatest. Everyone was looking at him.
“Ibra”, he shouted and smiled. “Yes”, I answered.
“Have you packed your bags? I’m here to take you with me to Milano!” he continued, and everyone started laughing, so typical of Ronaldinho you know, to just get in there to us, and people were watching me.
I kind of knew already of course. But no one had heard about it like that before. Now it was repeated over and over again. I got to play from the start. The game didn’t mean anything really, and just before kick of me and Ronaldinho continued to joke around about it: Like, are you crazy? The pictures of us, laughing on the pitch were shown everywhere later. But it was the craziest in the player tunnel before the second half. Then all the bigger names shouted at me, Pirlo, Gattuso, Nesta and Ambrosini:
“You have to come Ibra! We need you!”
Milan hadn’t had an easy time lately. Inter had dominated the Italian league, and everyone in Milan were longing of course for the great times again, and I know now afterwards that many of the players, especially Gattuso, had pressured the management:
“For fuck sake, buy Ibra. We need a real winner in the team.”
But it wasn’t so easy. Milan didn’t have as much money as before, and as desperate as Sandro Rosell was he tried to the end to get as much as he could for me. He wanted fifty, forty million Euros for me. But Mino continued to play tough.
“You’re not getting shit. Ibra will go to Real. We don’t want to go to Milan.” “What about thirty they?”
The clock was ticking and Rosell went down in price time after time. It felt very promising, and Galliani came and visited me and Helena at our house in the mountains. Galliani is a real heavy weight and an old friend and business partner to Berlusconi. He’s a bastard when it comes to negotiations. I had dealt with him earlier. It was when I was leaving Juventus, and that time he had said: “I offer you this, or nothing!” Juventus was in a crisis then, and he had the upper hand.
The situation was the other way around now. He had the pressure on him. He couldn’t come home without me, not after the promises he had made and the pressure from the players and the fans. Besides we had helped him. We had gotten the price down. He was getting me on the cheap.
“This is my terms”, I said. “It’s this, or nothing”, and I saw how he was thinking and sweating. The terms weren’t so bad.
“Alright”, he said. “Alrigh.”
We shook hands and afterwards the negotiations about my price continued. It was between the club and I didn’t care, not really. But it was a drama and many things were involved. The time was one of them. The concern of the seller was another. The fact that the coach couldn’t handle me was the third. For every hour that went Rosell got more nervous, and my price went down and down. Eventually I was sold for twenty million Euros. Twenty million! Just because of one person my price had fell down with fifty millions.
Because of Guardiola’s problems the club was forced to make a catastrophic deal, it was sick, and I told all that to Rosell. Not because I needed to. He knew it. He had probably been awake at nights swearing at it. I mean: I had mad twenty two goals and fifteen assists during my season in Barcelona. Despite that I had almost dropped seventy per cent in value. Whose fault was that? Sandro Rosell knew very well, and I remember how we all stood there, him, Mino, I, Galliani, my lawyer and Josep Maria Bartomey in the office at Camp Nou. Before us was the contract. I just had to sign it and say good bye.
“I want you to know...” Rosell started. “Yes?”
“That I’m doing the worst piece of business in my whole life”, he continued. “I’m giving you away for free, Ibra.”
“You can see what bad leadership can cost.”
“I know that this has been dealt with badly”, he said and I signed.
Then it was my turn. I held that pen and everyone was looking at me and I felt, it was time to say something. Or I don’t really know if it was the time for it. Maybe I should have been quiet. But I wanted to get some things out in the air.
“I have a message to Guardiola”, I started, and everyone got nervous of course. What’s happening now? Haven’t it been enough of trouble already? Can’t the guy just sign?
“Do you really have to?”
“Yes. I want you to tell him...”, and then I said exactly what I wanted them to tell Guardiola from me.
Everyone in the room must have thought, why does he come with this stuff now? But trust me, I needed it. Something happened in my head at that moment. I got my motivation back. Just the thought of getting even lit me up, it’s the truth.
When I signed that paper and said those words, I became myself again. I was woken up from a bad dream and for the first time in a long time I wanted to play football. All the thoughts about retiring were gone and afterward I entered a period when I played out of pure joy. Or, I played out of pute joy and anger, joy because of getting out of Barca and anger because on single person had crushed my dream.
I was like I had been exempted, and I started to look at the situation in a different way. When I was in the middle of it I had mostly tried to cheer myself up: it’s not that bad, I’ll come back, I’ll show them. I did like this all the time. But then, when it finally was over I realised. It had been tough. The one person who should mean the most to me had completely frozen me out, and that was worse than most things I had been trough. I’ve had terrible pressure on me and in times like that you need your coach.
But what did I have? A guy that avoided me. A guy that tried to treat me like I wasn’t there. I was supposed to be one of the stars there. But in reality I had walked around down there and felt unwelcomed. The hell, I have had Mourinho and Capello, two of the most disciplined coaches in the world and I had never had any problems with them. But then that Guardiola came along... I was boiling when I thought about it, and I don’t forget when I told Mino:
“He screwed up everything.”
“Zlatan”, he answered. “Yes.”
“Dreams can come true, and make you happy.” “Yeah.”
“But dreams can also come true and kill you”, and it was true, I felt that right away.
A dream had come true and been crushed in Barca, and I continued down the stairs to the journalists that waited out there, and then I thought: I didn’t want to call the guy by his real name. I needed something else, and I remember all the nonsense he had said, and then suddenly outside Camp Nou, I thought of it. The Philosopher!
I was going to call him the Philosopher.
“Ask the Philosopher what the problem is”, I said with all the pride and anger that I felt.
