Pirlo on Joe Hart:
“As a goalkeeper he could not lick the sweat dripping from Buffon’s balls.”
After the wheel, the PlayStation is the best invention of all time. And ever since it’s existed, I’ve been Barcelona[/URL], apart from a brief spell way back at the start when I’d go [URL=‘http://www.theguardian.com/football/acmilan’]Milan.
I can’t say with any certainty how many virtual matches I’ve played over the last few years but, roughly speaking, it must be at least four times the number of real ones.
Pirlo v Nesta was a classic duel back in our Milanello days. We’d get in early, have breakfast at 9am and then shut ourselves in our room and hit the PlayStation until 11. Training would follow, then we’d be back on the computer games until four in the afternoon. Truly a life of sacrifice.
Our head-to-heads were pure adrenaline. I’d go Barcelona and so would Sandro. Barça v Barça. The first player I’d pick was the quickest one, Samuel Eto’o, but I’d still end up losing a lot of the time. I’d get pissed off and hurl away my controller before asking Sandro for a rematch. And then I’d lose again.
It’s not like I could use the excuse that his coach was better than mine: it was Pep Guardiola for him and Pep Guardiola for me. At least in terms of our manager we set out on a level footing.
One day we thought about kidnapping him. The flesh and bones, real-life version that is. It was August 25, 2010, and we were with Milan at the Nou Camp for the Gamper pre-season tournament. We thought better of our hostage-taking in the end. To avoid constantly falling out, we’d have needed to saw him in two when we got back to Italy, and that wouldn’t have been a good idea. How the poor thing would have suffered.
As it transpired, the notion of abduction had crossed Guardiola’s mind before ours. That very night at the Nou Camp, he whisked me away from my nearest and dearest. Looking back, perhaps those people weren’t actually as close to me as I thought but, anyway, on with the story.
At the end of the game, everyone was on the trail of Zlatan Ibrahimovic, a ticking timebomb of a madman who had been wound up by his agent (the legendary Mino Raiola). The Swede was set on a collision course with Barcelona and on the verge of signing for Milan. A few of my team-mates sought him out to try to encourage him to make the switch, while some of his friends from Barcelona were also on his case, armed with the opposite recommendation. And then there were the journalists, looking to force a few words from him, which didn’t exactly take them long.
“I’d love to play at San Siro in the same team as Ronaldinho,” he said. “The coach here doesn’t even talk to me. In the last six months, he’s spoken to me twice.”
I prefer how he mugged off purple nose
On istanbul
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…
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 bit less bitter. I’ve tried with Istanbul and haven’t managed to get beyond these words: for fuck’s sake.