I Am Zlatan Part 18

That's a trait I had from early on. I stepped up. I didn't run away, and not just with Dad. It was everywhere. My entire childhood was filled with tough people who would go off on a hair-trigger: Mum, my sisters, the lads around the estate, and ever since then I've had it in me, that watchful side: What's happening? Who wants a fight? My body is always ready for battle.

That's the path I chose. The others in our family took on different roles. Sanela was the one you went to with emotional things. I was the fighter. If anybody gave me s.h.i.+t, I'd give them s.h.i.+t back. That was my way to survive, and I learned not to sugar-coat things. I said things straight out, none of this "You're really good, you're great, but..." It was straight in there: "You've got to get a f.u.c.king grip." Then I'd take the consequences. That's how it was. That was how I grew up, and sure, I'd changed a lot by the time I got to Barcelona. I'd met Helena and had children and calmed down, and said stuff like, "Please pa.s.s me the b.u.t.ter." But most of it was still in there. Those days at the club I clenched my fists and prepared to defend my corner. This was in late spring, early summer 2010. The World Cup was coming up in South Africa, and Joan Laporta was leaving Bara.

They were choosing a new president for the club, and that kind of thing always generates unrest. People get uneasy. A guy called Sandro Rosell was appointed. Rosell had been vice-president up until 2005 and he'd been mates with Laporta. But something had happened. Now they were enemies, people said. So of course, people were concerned. Was Rosell going to clear out all the old gang? No one knew. Txiki Begiristain, the sporting director, resigned before Rosell could sack him, and of course I was wondering: what would this mean for my conflict with Guardiola?

Laporta was the one who'd bought me for a record amount, and it wasn't unreasonable to think that Rosell might give him one in the eye by showing it was a stupid investment. Many papers even wrote that Rosell's first task was to sell me. The journalists definitely had no clue about what had happened between me and Guardiola, and in a way, neither did I. But they'd twigged that something was wrong, and really, you didn't need to be a football expert to understand. I went round with my head hanging, and I didn't react the way I usually did on the pitch. Guardiola had wrecked me, and I remember Mino phoned the new club president. He told him what Guardiola had said in that meeting.

"What the h.e.l.l did the guy mean?" he asked. "Does he want to get rid of Zlatan?"

"No, no," Rosell replied. "Guardiola believes in him."

"Then why would he say that?"

Rosell couldn't answer. He was new, and n.o.body seemed to know. The situation was uncertain. We won the league t.i.tle, and then we went on holiday. I needed a holiday more than I had done in a long time. I needed to get away, so Helena and I travelled around to LA, Vegas, all over, and the World Cup was on then. I barely watched it. I was too disappointed. Sweden wasn't in the tournament, and really, I didn't want to think about football at all. I tried to block out the whole mess with Bara. But it couldn't last forever, of course. The days went by. I'd be going back soon, and no matter how much I tried to stop them, all the questions came back. What's going to happen? What should I do? My mind was buzzing, and of course I realised there was an obvious solution. I could make sure I got sold. But I didn't want to let go of my dream that easily. Never, ever. I decided to work like a dog in training sessions and get better than ever.

n.o.body was going to crack me. I'd show them all. But what do you think happened? I didn't get a chance to show anybody anything. I hadn't even put my boots on when Guardiola called me in again. This was on the 19th of July, I think. Most of them hadn't come back from the World Cup yet. It was pretty quiet around us, and Pep attempted some small talk. He clearly had an agenda. He was nervous and awkward. But he probably wanted to be a bit pleasant first, for the sake of things.

"How was your holiday?"

"Good, good!"

"And how do you feel, ahead of the new season?"

"Fine. I'm up for it. I'm going to give a hundred per cent."

"Look ..."

"Yeah."

"You should be prepared to sit on the bench," he said, and like I said, this was the first day. The pre-season hadn't even got underway yet. Guardiola hadn't even seen me play, not even for a minute. There was no way to interpret his words other than as a new personal attack.

"Okay," I merely replied. "I understand."

"And as you know, we've acquired David Villa from Valencia."

David Villa was a hot property, no doubt about it. He was one of the stars of the Spanish national side who were down there winning the World Cup, but still, he was a winger. I played in the centre. He was nothing to do with me, not really.

"And what do you say to that?" he continued.

Nothing, I thought at first, beyond, like, congratulations. But then it struck me: why not test Guardiola?

Why not check whether this has anything at all to do with football, or whether it's all just about driving me out of the club?

"What do I say to that?" I began.

"Yes."

"Well, that I'll work harder. I'll work like a madman to earn my place in the team. I'll convince you I'm good enough," and to be honest, I could hardly believe it myself.

I'd never sucked up to a coach like that before. My philosophy had always been to let my playing do the talking. It's just ridiculous to go round saying you're going to give a hundred per cent. You're paid to give a hundred per cent. But this was my way of trying to understand. I wanted to hear what he'd say. If he said, okay, then we'll see if you make it, that would mean something. But now he just looked at me.

"I know that. But how are we going to continue?" he asked.

"Just like that," I replied. "I'll work hard, and if you think I'm good enough, I'll play in whatever position you want, behind or in front of or underneath Messi. Wherever. You decide."

"I know that. But how are we going to continue?"

He kept repeating the same thing, and not once did he say anything that made sense. He has no apt.i.tude for that. But it wasn't necessary. I understood. This had nothing to do with whether I earned a spot or not. This was personal, and instead of coming out and saying he didn't like my personality, he was trying to sugar-coat it in a single obscure phrase.

"How are we going to continue?"

"I'll do like everybody else, I'll play for Messi," I said.

"I know that. But how are we going to continue?"

It was ridiculous, and I supposed he wanted me to go off on one and shout, I won't accept this, I'm leaving the club! Then he'd be able to come out and say, Zlatan was the one who wanted to leave, it wasn't my decision. Maybe I am a savage, a guy who goes in for confrontations too often. But I also know when I need to restrain myself. I had nothing to gain by announcing I was for sale, so I thanked him calmly for speaking to me and got out of there.

Of course I was furious. I was seething. But still, the meeting had been productive. I understood where things stood. He had no intention of letting me play, even if I learned to fly, and the real question now was: would I be able to cope with that, go to training sessions every day and have that guy standing in front of me? I doubted it. Maybe I needed to change tack. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time.

We headed to South Korea and China for pre-season training, and I got to play a few matches out there. It meant nothing. The key players hadn't returned from the World Cup yet. I was still the black sheep, and Guardiola was keeping his distance. If he wanted anything, he'd send others to speak to me, and the media were completely out of control. It had been like that all summer: What's happening with Zlatan? Will he be transferred? Will he stay? They were constantly after me, and it was the same for Guardiola. He got questions about it all the time, and what do you think he told them? Nice and straight, like, I don't like Zlatan, I want to get rid of him? Not exactly. He looked uncomfortable, and came out with his waffle.

"Zlatan will decide his own future."

What rubbish. Something started ticking inside me. I felt under fire, and I was furious. I wanted to do something explosive. But also how can I put it? Something was sparked off inside me as well. I understood, things had entered a new phase. Now it wasn't just war. Now the fight on the transfer market had begun, and I like that game, and I had the guy who's the best of them all at that on my side Mino. He and I talked all the time, and we decided to play tough and hard. Guardiola deserved nothing else.

In South Korea I had a meeting with Josep Maria Bartomeu, the club's new vice president. We sat in the hotel and talked, and at least that guy was clear.

"Zlatan, if you've got any offers, think them over," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere," I replied. "I'm a Barcelona player. I'm staying at Bara."

Josep Maria Bartomeu looked surprised.

"But how are we going to resolve this?"

"I've got an idea," I replied.

"Have you?"

"You can phone up Real Madrid."

"Why should we phone them?"

"Because if I really have to leave Bara, I want to go to Real. You can make sure I get sold to them."

Josep Maria Bartomeu was horrified.

"You're joking," he said.

I looked deadly serious.

"Not at all. We've got a problem," I continued. "We have a coach who isn't man enough to say he doesn't want me here. I want to stay. But if he wants to sell me he'll have to come out and say so himself, loud and clear. And the only club I want to go to is Real Madrid, just so you know."

I left the room, and now there was no more messing about. It was game on. Real Madrid, I'd said. But of course, that was just the kickoff, a provocation, a strategic bluff. In reality we had Manchester City and AC Milan in the works.

Sure, I knew all about the incredible things that had happened at Man City and all the money that seemed to be there since the crew from the United Arab Emirates had taken over. City could surely become a big club within a few years. But I'd soon turn 29. I didn't have time for long-term plans, and money was never the key thing. I wanted to go to a team that could be good now, and there was no club with a history like AC Milan.

"Let's go for Milan," I said.

Now when I look back on it, it's really incredible. Ever since that day Guardiola called me in and told me I'd be sitting on the bench, we'd played a tough game, and of course we realised we were stressing Guardiola and the management out. That was entirely according to plan. The idea was that those guys would become so demoralised they'd have to let me go cheap, which would help us get a good personal contract! We had a meeting with Sandro Rosell, the new president, and we could sense it right away: Sandro Rosell was in a tight spot.

He hadn't understood what the problem was between me and Guardiola either. He only realised that the situation was untenable and he was going to have to sell me at any price, unless he was going to sack the manager. But he couldn't do that. Not after all the successes the club had had. Rosell had no choice. Regardless of whether he loved me or hated me, he had to get rid of me.

"I'm sorry about this," he said. "But things are the way they are. Do you have a particular club you want to go to?"

Mino and I gave him the same line we'd played against Bartomeu.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," I said, "I do."

"Good, very good." Sandro Rosell's face brightened. "Which club?"

"Real Madrid."

He went pale. Letting a Bara star go to Real is tantamount to high treason.

"Not possible," he replied. "Anything but that."

He was shaken, and both Mino and I could tell: now we're playing our game. I continued calmly: "Well, you asked a question and I gave you an answer, and I'm happy to say it again: Real Madrid is the only club I can see myself going to. I like Mourinho. But you've got to phone them up and tell them yourselves. Is that okay?"

It was not okay. There was nothing in the world that was less okay, and of course we knew that, and now Sandro Rosell was starting to panic. The club had purchased me for the equivalent of 700 million Swedish kronor. The guy was under pressure to get the money back, but if he sold me to Real, which was Mourinho's new club, Rosell would basically get lynched by the fans. This wasn't easy for him, to put it mildly. He couldn't keep me because of the manager. He couldn't sell me to their arch-enemy. The bloke had lost the upper hand, and we kept up the pressure.

"But think how smoothly it'll go. Mourinho's said himself how much he wants me!"

We knew no such thing. But that was the line we took.

"No," he said.

"That's a shame. Really! Real Madrid is the only club we have in mind. "

We left the room and smiled. We'd gone on and on about Real Madrid. That was our official line. But we had AC Milan on the go, and we were working on them. If Rosell was desperate, that was no good for Bara. But it was good for Milan. The more desperate Rosell was to sell, the cheaper it would be to buy me, and that would benefit us in the end. It was a game, and it was being played on multiple levels, one in public and one behind the scenes. But the clock was ticking. The transfer window was closing on the 31st of August, and on the 26th we had a friendly match against none other than AC Milan at Camp Nou. Nothing was set yet. But the matter was out in the media anyway. There was speculation everywhere, and Galliani, vice president of AC Milan, formally announced that he was not leaving Barcelona without Ibrahimovic.

In the stadium, supporters waved signs saying 'Ibra, stay!' There was a lot of attention on me, of course. But it was mostly Ronaldinho's match. Ronaldinho is like a G.o.d at Barcelona. He played for AC Milan, but he'd been at Bara before, and he'd been voted the World Player of the Year two years in a row. Before the match we were going to be shown clips of his best moments on the big screen, and he was supposed to run a lap of honour around the pitch. But, that bloke... well, he just does what he wants.

We were sitting in the changing room, waiting to run out onto the pitch. It felt odd. I could hear the roar of the crowd outside. Obviously Guardiola wasn't looking at me, and of course I was wondering, is this my last match with the team? What's going to happen? I didn't have a clue. Then everybody sat up. Ronaldinho looked in through the doorway and Ronaldinho, he's got charisma. He's one of the true greats. Everybody was staring at him.

"Ibra," he shouted, grinning.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Have you packed your bags? I'm here to take you along with me to Milan!" he said, and everybody laughed, like, typical Ronaldinho, sneaking into our changing room like that, and people looked at me.

Of course everybody'd had their suspicions. But n.o.body'd heard it straight out like that before. Now it was being repeated over and over again. I got to play from the start. The match didn't really mean anything, and just before kick-off Ronaldinho and I carried on joking about it, like, are you mad? Photos of us laughing on the pitch appeared everywhere. But the worst thing was in the players' tunnel on our way out after half-time. All the big names were calling to me: Pirlo, Gattuso, Nesta and Ambrosini.

"You have to come, Ibra! We need you!"

AC Milan hadn't been having an easy time recently. Inter had dominated the Italian league in recent years, and of course everyone at AC Milan was longing for a new era of glory, and I know now that many of the players, especially Gattuso, had put pressure on the club's management.

"For Christ's sake, buy Ibra. We need somebody with a real winner's mindset in the team."

But it wasn't that simple. AC Milan didn't have as much money as they used to, and no matter how desperate Sandro Rosell was, he carried on trying to extract as much money for me as possible. He wanted 50, 40 million euro. But Mino continued to play hardball.

"You won't get a d.a.m.n thing. Ibra's going to Real Madrid. We don't want to go to Milan."

"How about 30?"

Time was ticking away, and Rosell lowered his price again and again. Things were looking more and more promising, and Galliani came to visit Helena and me in our house in the hills. Galliani is a real heavyweight and an old mate and business partner of Berlusconi. He's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a negotiator.

I'd had dealings with him before. That was when I was leaving Juventus, and that time he'd said: "I'll offer you this, or nothing!" Juventus was in crisis then, and he had the upper hand. Now the tables were turned. He was the one under pressure. He couldn't go home without me, not after the promises he'd made and the pressure from the players and fans. Besides, we'd helped him. We'd made sure we got the transfer fee down. It was like he was getting me in the sales.

"These are my conditions," I said. "It's this, or nothing," and I could see how he was thinking things over and sweating.

They were some pretty tough terms.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

We shook hands, and then the negotiations for my transfer fee continued. That was between the clubs and I wasn't bothered, not really. But it was quite a drama, and there were a number of factors involved. Time was one. The clock was ticking. The seller's unease was another. The fact that the manager couldn't deal with me was another. With every hour, Sandro Rosell got more nervous, and my fee kept going down. Finally, I was sold for 20 million. Twenty million! Thanks to a single person, my price tag had gone down by 50 million euro.

Because of Guardiola's problem, the club was forced to do a disastrous deal it was crazy, and I said all this to Sandro Rosell as well. Not that I really needed to. He knew it, and I'm sure he'd been kept awake at night, cursing the situation. I mean, I'd scored 22 goals and 15 a.s.sists during my season at Barcelona. Yet I'd lost nearly 70 per cent of my value. Whose fault was that? Sandro Rosell knew all too well, and I remember how we were all standing there in the office at Camp Nou: him, Mino, me, Galliani, my lawyer and Josep Maria Bartomeu. The contract was lying there in front of us. The only thing remaining was to sign it and then say thanks and goodbye.

"I want you to know..." Rosell began.

"Yes?"

"I'm doing the worst deal in my entire life here," he continued. "I'm selling you off dirt cheap, Ibra!"

"You see how much rotten leaders.h.i.+p can cost."

"I know it wasn't handled well," he said, and then he signed.

Then it was my turn. I took hold of that pen and everybody was watching me, and I felt I ought to say something. Then again, maybe not. Maybe I should have kept quiet. But I had a few things I wanted to get off my chest.

"I've got a message for Guardiola," I began, and of course that made everybody nervous. What's happening now? Hasn't there been enough arguing? Can't the guy just sign?

"Do you have to?"

"Yes. I want you to tell him ..." I began, and then I told them exactly what I wanted them to say to him.