Free Carlo Ancelotti by Aleesandro Alciato, Carlo Ancelotti Page B

it was only the beginning of the season. Sinister clouds began to swirl around the Milan bench. What else is new? But, since He Himself had chosen Sacchi, and since Sacchi remained his favorite—his avatar here among us ordinary mortals—He kept his temper that time. He held it together very well. He believed deeply in his handpicked coach, and so He defended him tirelessly, especially against attacks from the sports press. The Communist sports press, I would have to imagine. There were a number of old-school journalists—Gianni Brera at the head of the pack—who questioned and criticized continually and relentlessly. Arrigo Sacchi was an innovator, and they failed to understand him. They had no patience with the things he tried to do. Sacchi was in the crosshairs, but he had a powerful shield of protection: Himself. He would often come to visit in training camp, He’d talk to us, ask us about work. He’d spend the whole day at Milanello, chatting with the whole team and then meeting with players for individual conversations, exploring our relationships with the coach. He conducted his first exit polls with us, and we already knew who had won: “Boys, I’m not getting rid of Sacchi.” On that point, He had been clear from the very beginning, and he was right. We weren’t winning, but in the locker room we all shared the same strong feeling: things were about to take a turn for the better. It was mathematically certain. Every week we knocked ourselves out, training hard, but, still, we were happy. Things couldn’t go badly forever. Our style of play was carefully planned out; it would just take time for our movements as a team to become natural. That was the only problem.
    In the past, He had been a reliable presence. But that was in the past. He was ultimately responsible for all decisions, and, before making those decisions, He consulted with the players. Often just with me and Franco Baresi. Once, in the spring of 1988, we were running into real problems as a team, on account of Claudio Borghi, the Chairman’s latest infatuation—and, in reality, a complete waste of time as a player. He had discovered Borghi during the Intercontinental Cup of 1986; it was a bolt from the blue. He’d acquired him, but, since the two slots allowed by Italian law for foreign players were already occupied by Gullit and van Basten, He’d stationed Borghi on the Como team. Stay there, be good, and we’ll be back to get you. At the end of the season, we were allowed to acquire another non-Italian player. And so He was pushing for Borghi, while Sacchi requested Frank Rijkaard.
    Himself: “Arrigo, we’re keeping Borghi.”
    Sacchi, with an expression of disgust on his face: “Mr. Chairman, taking for granted first of all that you are always right, that you are the greatest expert on soccer that the world has ever seen, that your choices are always spot on, as demonstrated by your decisions regarding coaches, it still may be that the player who could do the most good for the team is Rijkaard.”
    Himself: “But Arrigo, Borghi is Borghi.”
    Sacchi: “My point exactly.”
    So they came to a compromise: Borghi came to work with us at Milanello for the final training sessions of Sacchi’s first season at A. C. Milan, as well as to play in a couple of exhibition games: one at home against Real Madrid and the other at Manchester against Manchester United. It was a double test, but we already knew, byhis style of play, that he wasn’t really in tune with the rest of the team. Just to make things more challenging, right before the A. C. Milan–Real Madrid match, Borghi injured his ankle, but insisted on playing all the same. He was clearly in pain on the field, but he managed to score a goal.
    Himself: “You see Arrigo? He scored a goal.”
    Sacchi: “Yes, but aside from the goal, he didn’t do a thing.”
    He was hobbling across the field, bent over in pain. He seemed like a soccer Lazarus, but with a substantial difference. He