Gunning for Greatness: My Life: With an introduction by Jose Mourinho Read online

  These were sentences that burned into me. That pained me. That I’ll never forget. This 5–0 was the worst defeat I’d ever been involved in. I felt terrible and humiliated as I crawled back into the dressing room, plagued by self-doubt.

  Our performance had been a disgrace. This defeat was unforgivable. Words like ‘disappointment’ are inadequate to describe it. The whole world was watching. We let down every single employee in the club. The doctors and physiotherapists who did their best to prepare us physically for the game. We even felt thoroughly ashamed in front of the coach drivers and kit managers. And, of course, in front of all the fans, who’d spent money on the trip and the tickets.

  My aspiration, and that of everyone who plays for Real Madrid, is that we should be the best footballers in the world. Real Madrid is a collection of superstars, an assembly of the best of the best. But that night these best players neither gave their best nor played well, not even averagely. Quite simply, we failed. After a humiliation like that you feel self-doubt. Apparently – or so it occurred to me – I wasn’t as good as I’d always thought. Perhaps I’d just wildly overestimated my ability.

  Our profession is wonderful because it proceeds at such a fast pace. For the most part we can rise again as heroes in no time at all, make amends for our mistakes or failures. But even after the next victory over Valencia and the one after that against Real Zaragoza, the hammering we’d taken still hurt. The embarrassment remained. It stayed in our heads. Even though Mourinho did his best to relieve the ignominy. Right after the game he gave us a brief talk. ‘Forget the game,’ he said. ‘It was a bad defeat. Nothing more and nothing less. One game over the course of a long championship. Don’t think about it any more. I’m sure we’re going to break Barcelona’s dominance in this country. I’m sure we’re going to be champions. But we won’t do it if we allow this defeat to get on top of us.’

  I was impressed by the way Mourinho reacted. He could have just as easily punished us with extra training. But he knew exactly how every player felt at that moment. He realised that we were down on the ground. And that we didn’t need another kicking.

  Mourinho showed his phenomenal understanding of how his players felt on several occasions. Once he gave me some time off in the middle of the season when he noticed that I was utterly exhausted and needed a break. He came over to me and said, ‘Mesut, have some rest. Have some fun. Enjoy a few days without thinking about football and do exactly what you feel like.’

  I’ve never seen that from any other manager. He took me out of operations so I could recover my strength. Normally the opposite happens – the manager refuses to dispense with his best players for a second. Even if they’re slightly under the weather, the coach would rather his top footballers play at 80 per cent than not at all. But seeing that I wasn’t completely right mentally, and that I had some intensive weeks behind me, Mourinho’s reaction was superb. After five days he rang me and asked how I was. ‘Are you any better? How are you feeling?’ he asked. You can’t take enquiries like this for granted in our professional world. Most coaches expect you to be in good working order. And if you’re not, they ditch you.

  On that Monday in November, the Barça Mercedes with its perfectly meshed cogs hadn’t just outpaced Real, it had lapped us.

  Guardiola had won the first round. But luckily we had four further chances that season to pit ourselves against the high-fliers and close the gap.

  We stayed on Barcelona’s heels in the league, second place behind them in the table. In the Copa del Rey we made it to the final. And in the Champions League José Mourinho let us know that after 2,562 days, 74 matches and 9 coaches we were in a quarter-final again. For seven years Madrid hadn’t got past the last 16. In the quarters we knocked out Tottenham and then had Barcelona in the semis, giving us the opportunity for the perfect showdown.

  In other words, there would be four Clásicos in 18 days. Four Guardiola–Mourinho duels. Four unequal showdowns – unequal because although Mourinho’s work was immaculate, he was still at the start of his Ferrari inspection and repair. He was still in the process of taking it all apart and putting it back together again. He was still looking for the perfect tuning. And, of course, he was also looking for the weak spot in Barcelona’s champion team.

  And indeed he did find a way in. Viewed from a distance Guardiola appeared to be a master of focusing on his team, concentrating on the work with his squad and preparing them for the next opponents with the highest possible degree of passion. He was totally focused, never wasting a drop of energy on other things.

  But that’s exactly what Mourinho made him do. He succeeded in breaking Guardiola’s strict focus on the next game by continually unsettling him. He created distractions that robbed the Catalan of strength. Mourinho actually managed to strip energy from Guardiola and Barcelona, disrupt them and lure them to another battleground. At the same time he injected us with the unswerving determination to beat Barcelona.

  ‘You don’t have to be enemies to be able to give your best, but it’s better if you are,’ he said on several occasions during my time at Madrid. ‘Especially if you’re very successful and tend to have a relaxed attitude.’ I took this completely to heart. Although I never regarded Barcelona as an enemy, never saw the club as bad, I was obsessed by the idea of having to beat them. In every league game, no matter who our opponents were, it was in my mind that we mustn’t lose or Barcelona would pull away in the title race. I imagined them delighting at us losing points and this thought made me even crazier about winning.

  At Schalke I saw the onus that’s on the players to beat Dortmund, for the sake of the fans and everyone in the club. At Bremen I realised how sharp the divide is between Werder and Hamburger SV. I saw how the German press went berserk in the run-up to these duels, trying to inject even more spice into the encounter. I experienced the verbal sparring that went back and forth between Dortmund and Gelsenkirchen. The attacks from the River Weser to the Elbe and back again. But none of this was anything like the Clásico.

  This was already the biggest duel between football teams in the world, but it was made even bigger and more interesting by the two managers standing on the touchline.

  Under no circumstances did Mourinho want to lose the first of the four Clásicos that were coming up. He instructed Pepe to stick right beside Lionel Messi at all times. ‘He’s got to feel your breath,’ he told him in the team meeting, when he put us in a more defensive formation than I’d ever encountered while playing for Real Madrid. For this reason I stayed on the outside to begin with.

  When you come out of the dressing room in Madrid and you’re waiting in the players’ tunnel to go out on to the pitch, it’s the most intense feeling you can imagine. In most stadiums around the world the teams are just lined up alongside each other. First the captain, then the goalie, then the rest of the team. On one side the home team, on the other the visitors. Usually you shake a few hands and engage in some small talk with players you know or who are friends, before it’s time to file out onto the pitch. The atmosphere is fairly relaxed and harmonious. Not in Madrid, where the two teams are separated by bars. You can’t really say hello. The atmosphere is different from the start. Less friendly. You feel like a gladiator about to engage in the fight of his life.

  Here in the tunnel your senses are sharpened, and the minutes you wait there seem more intense and to pass more slowly. It’s one of the many moments you experience as a footballer where things feel distorted. The voices of your teammates, who are generally mumbling a few motivational phrases to themselves, sound more muffled. The clacking of boots sounds more menacing than usual. Looking though the bars into the faces of Iniesta, Messi and Villa, you don’t see anything nice there, no smile – nothing that could be construed as a weakness. All that’s lacking to make this the perfect re-enactment is the war paint.

  My second Clásico, the first of this block of four, takes place on 16 April 2011. We stay deep and, to begin with, stick well to our task of disrupting B
arcelona’s game. Pepe carries out Mourinho’s order to mark Messi closely to perfection. He goes in hard at him five times, spoiling his enjoyment of the game. He demoralises Messi to such an extent that towards the end of the game he furiously wallops a ball into the crowd, striking a spectator.

  There are goals too. Both from the penalty spot. Messi scores after a foul on David Villa. Ronaldo after a foul on Marcelo. 1–1. Our first point against our arch-rivals after five defeats on the trot. Our first success since May 2008.

  In spite of this, Real Madrid legend Alfredo Di Stéfano criticises Mourinho’s defensive tactics, which reveals what really counts in Madrid. Sometimes even a confidence-inspiring point isn’t enough if the team hasn’t played beautifully enough to win it.

  Four days later we meet Barcelona again in the cup final in Valencia. This is Pep Guardiola’s tenth final as manager of the Catalan team. And he’s won nine of them. Madrid hasn’t won the Spanish Cup since 1992–93, almost two decades.

  Once again Mourinho has me in the starting line-up. This time I’m to play as a deep centre forward and disturb their defensive lines, which works pretty well. We also manage to contain Barça; they virtually have no shots at our goal.

  There’s no score for 101 minutes. It’s a very intense period of extra time. The referee has given six yellow cards for harsh challenges. Messi has also been warned for unfair play because he tried to take a free kick from too close.

  In the 102nd minute Di María crosses from the left. Ronaldo spirals into the air and heads the ball in. 1–0 to us – the winning goal. A title for us. Admittedly a minor title, because the Spanish Cup isn’t regarded as highly as the championship. But the fact that we’ve won it against the über team – against the perennial victors, against an almost perfect side – enhances the value of our win.

  After the final whistle Messi flees to the dressing room in tears. He’s devastated to have lost a final. He’s forgotten what it’s like not to be the shining hero after a final. His tears are a very important signal to us. For now Barcelona finally have to take us seriously. After a tough, intense struggle, we’ve regained their respect, which has been lacking in recent years.

  While Mourinho prepares us for the remaining two clashes with the Catalans he also launches a few verbal missiles in the direction of Barcelona. He wants to drain Guardiola of more strength. And he succeeds in drawing the Catalan into a slanging match in the media, which is completely unlike him. In the first press conference before the Champions League semi-final Guardiola says, ‘Off the field Mourinho has won all year, all season, and will continue to do so in the future. He can have his own Champions League off the pitch. Let him have his fun; I’m perfectly happy with that. He can take it home with him and enjoy it there. In this room [i.e. where the press conference is taking place] he is the bloody boss. He knows the workings of this world better than anyone else. I don’t want to have to compete with him for a moment longer in this field.’

  The match itself is another heated affair. Álvaro Arbeola and Dani Alves are both shown yellow cards in the first half. On our way back to the dressing rooms emotions are running high. Arbeola shoves Keita. In response Barça’s substitute keeper, José Manuel Pinto, goes at him and gets the red card. Soon after the resumption Pepe crashes a little over-keenly into Dani Alves with his outstretched leg and also gets the red card. This is a serious handicap, because now we have to play a man down for half an hour in such an important game.

  Mourinho doesn’t agree with the card and applauds the referee ironically. Afterwards he complains to Thorsten Kinhöfer, the fourth official, after which he’s banned from the touchline. Mourinho defended Pepe and put himself behind the team, an important signal for us.

  Unfortunately Barcelona exploits its numerical advantage and Messi scores two goals in our stadium, which are painful in the extreme.

  In the official press conference Mourinho again attacks the referee for sending Pepe off. It turned the game on its head, he claims. ‘Why did the referee do something like that in an evenly balanced game which was still undecided?’ he asks. And then says provocatively, ‘I’d be ashamed to win the Champions League in that way, like Guardiola. If I were to tell the referee and UEFA what I really think about what happened this evening my career would be over in a flash. Madrid has been denied a place in the Champions League final. We’ll leave with pride, with respect for our world, the world of football, which sometimes disgusts me. It disgusts me to live in this world, but it is our world.’

  Because of his severe criticism of the European Football Association, Mourinho is given a five-match ban from games. This is reduced to three on appeal. Which means he can’t be there for our return match and coach us. We finish 1–1 – impressive for a game in the Camp Nou, but we’re knocked out all the same.

  In spite of this there are clear signs that there’s more parity in the Clásicos. Gone are the days when Real had no chance against Barça. Gone are the days of the shameful 6–2 or 5–0 thrashings. Twice we drew with Barcelona, once we won – and that in a final too – and once the Catalans won, putting them into the Champions League final.

  In those four clashes an unbelievable 25 yellow cards were handed out, in addition to which there were four sendings off and Mourinho’s ban.

  The battles lasted for the best part of three weeks. They were energy-sapping, especially for Guardiola, who admitted afterwards that it was a ‘very tough time, with lots of stress: highly intense and absolutely exhausting’.

  Once we’d been knocked out of the Champions League Mourinho was even more determined to destroy Guardiola’s supremacy in Spain. ‘When I was the manager of Inter Milan, it took me three games to work out how to beat Barcelona and adapt to Guardiola’s side,’ he told us. And, full of confidence, he assured us, ‘We’ll be at that point soon.’

  We get our next opportunity right at the start of the following season, my second year at Real. As cup winners, we meet league title-holders Barcelona in the Spanish Super Cup, which they’ve won for the past two seasons.

  I put us in the lead in the thirteenth minute, having been set up by Karim Benzema. David Villa equalises, then Messi and finally Xabi Alonso score to make it 2–2. We’ve got every chance in the return game three days later at the Camp Nou, which will prove to be one of the most intense matches I’ve ever played.

  We scent the opportunity to snatch another title from the Barcelona side who are spoiled by success. They’re going to do everything they can to preserve their dominance, and so this game is being played for high stakes.

  Iniesta puts the Catalans in the lead, Ronaldo equalises. Messi scores, Benzema makes it 2–2. Then Messi gets another goal. 3–2 to Barcelona. Anything but deserved. Particularly as Barça put on an unparalleled diving display. No sooner do we move to make a tackle than they’re already airborne. At the slightest body contact they contort as if they’ve been seriously injured. The moment one of their players is lying on the ground, no matter how harmless the incident, the rest of the team surrounds the alleged offender. I’ve rarely played a game with so much mass confrontation.

  They provoke us in turn with their non-stop comments. A little provocation here, a little provocation there. That evening Barça is anything but a team of goodie two shoes. But of course we get the majority of yellow cards. A total of five until five minutes before the end of the game. Barça are given two.

  In the ninety-third minute the Catalans are in possession of the ball on the halfway line, and still leading by a goal. I can predict that the result’s not going to change from here. Xavi eases the ball over Alonso, Fàbregas takes it elegantly in the air with his right instep, knocking it to his feet. All of a sudden Marcelo comes flying towards him. His left leg outstretched, he slices with his right like a pair of scissors. He brings Fàbregas down with full force, right between Barcelona’s and Madrid’s substitute benches. A completely unnecessary challenge that cannot go unpunished.

  Within a few seconds, the place is in total c
haos. From the outside the whole thing looks like a bundle of white, red and blue jerseys, shoving, threatening, insulting and cursing each other. Within the action it’s a scrum, with even the physios and men in suits getting involved. A large number of Barça players are gunning for Marcelo. They rush up and hassle and insult him in a really uncalled-for way. His red card is appropriate. The fierceness with which he’s attacked after the foul isn’t.

  I stand in front of Marcelo in an attempt to protect him. I pull him back so he doesn’t do anything else stupid. In moments like that you’re no longer in control of your senses. Marco has given everything for Real Madrid. He’s thrown himself into every tackle. He’s fought for every ball. He’s fought splendidly and defended the honour of Los Blancos with all he’s got. When, in a situation like that, you commit a bad foul and the opposition gangs up on you, with all the emotions flying around and the adrenalin levels it’s easy to do something stupid. No player in the world consciously head-butts or slaps others. Nobody punches an opposition player deliberately or with a clear head. These sorts of things occur in exceptional circumstances. And that’s precisely what I was trying to protect Marcelo from. But while I’m trying to be sensible, all of a sudden David Villa comes up from behind like a cowardly dog and gives me a smack on the head. That really takes the biscuit!