Free I Think Therefore I Play by Andrea Pirlo, Alessandro Alciato Page A

winning the Ballon d’Or is a bridge too far for me. It’s a target I’ll never reach and I’ve come to terms with that.
    I don’t even properly watch the awards ceremony, even if it’s only once a year and I could really make the effort. I’ll have Sky Sports on in the background and get on with other stuff. The time I finished seventh, I could hear FIFA president Sepp Blatter rambling on in the distance. The same guy whose self-evident dislike for Italy had led him to delegate what he considered the horrible task of presenting us with the World Cup in 2006. He was speaking from the stage of the Kongresshaus in Zurich while I played football with my son Niccolò in Turin.
    “Daddy, over here, they’re about to say who’s won.”
    “Okay.”
    We carried on knocking the ball around, even though the fateful moment was getting closer.
    “Come on Daddy, let’s go and watch on the TV.”
    “Okay.”
    “Hurry, hurry.”
    “Okay, fine.”
    We were wasting our time. I really couldn’t have cared less about what they were about to reveal. It could have been the fourth secret of Fatima or the first of Blatter. We didn’t sit down to hear the results; we stayed firmly on our feet. Truth be told, Niccolò paid much more attention than me, grabbing the remote control and turning up the volume.
    “Messi won.”
    “What a surprise.”
    It was an inevitable, inarguable result. It crossed my mind that the World Cup and Champions League are worth a lot more than the Ballon d’Or, but I didn’t say it out loud. Otherwise I’d have had to add that I’ve won both while Messi hasn’t managed the World Cup yet. I’d have come across as an arrogant snob and that’s something I’m really not.
    “Ronaldo came second.”
    “Really?”
    “Iniesta third.”
    A few months previously, Iniesta had been named player of Euro 2012. Before the final against Spain, the guys from UEFA had blabbed to me that “you’re the best, but we’ll only give you the award if Italy win”. Needless to say we lost 4-0.
    “Daddy, Daddy, Falcao fifth, Casillas sixth. And Pirlo, Pirlo! That’s you Dad!”
    “You’re right.”
    “You came seventh, ahead of Drogba, Van Persie and even Ibrahimovic.”
    “Come on, let’s keep playing.”
    The headline news was that the first two places had both gone to forwards. Very much in keeping with how the wider world ranks the importance of different positions. The really big mistake that some club presidents make is not realising that it’s a different story when it comes to building teams.
    Big name collector cards sell season tickets, but it’s the glue they have behind them that wins games. The defence is the most important part of a team: in military terms, success starts in the zone behind the lines. Put more simply, the team that concedes fewest goals wins the match.
    In terms of pure technical ability, Ronaldo (the real one) is the most gifted guy I’ve had the pleasure of playing with. He was an absolute machine. But overall, Paolo Maldini is the best. A defender. A peerless defender. The best defender going.
    Both physically and mentally, he had everything, and the enjoyment he got from playing was as obvious at 40 years of age as it had been the day I first walked through the door at Milan. His passion is an example and an inspiration, a compass that I’ll carry with me not just for the rest of my playing days, but for the rest of my life. No cardinal points; just points in the league table.
    He taught me how to conduct myself. Taught me how to win, lose, sniff out a goal, come up with an assist, sit on the bench, suffer, celebrate, play, behave, get angry, forgive, turn the other cheek, land the first blow, be myself and sometimes someone else. Showed me how to stay quiet, speak, decide, trust, turn a blind eye, have both eyes wide open, take stock of a situation, act on instinct, stand on my own, welcome others in, be the captain, steer the ship, change course, lead the way. Everything