The Guardian this week affords us tantalizing peeks into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's pending account of his footballing adventures, confirming the common-sense notion that most footballers think their lives are more important than we think they are.
THRILL to the news that he very nearly landed at Arsenal, a match foiled by Arsene Wenger's temerity in insisting on an audition from the striker before laying out the massive bucks. It wounded the tender sensibilities of the galloping Swede, and he was having none of it.
GASP IN ASTONISHMENT as he lays bare his undying devotion to a certain Portuguese super-manager, the capo at Inter during his time there, another man-child cut from his same man-child cloth.
Concerning Pep Guardiola, he relates a dressing-room dressing-down in which he gave his old Barca boss the old what-for, telling him he hadn't "got any balls," and that he should "go to hell." What happened next apparently mystified the striker, truly an innocent abroad in the world of fully-grown adults: Pep turned around and "left, never to mention it again, not a word."
My favorite bits are where he's trying to make sense of life at Barca, which obviously has a calmness and order which makes his yahoo-skin crawl. "...it was like being back at school. None of the lads acted like superstars, which was strange. Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, the whole gang – they were like schoolboys. The best footballers in the world stood there with their heads bowed, and I didn't understand any of it. It was ridiculous."
The poor fellow gave it the old college try and failed dismally: "I didn't fit in, not at all... So I started to adapt and blend in. I became way too nice. It was mental... I hardly even yelled at my team-mates any more. I was boring. Zlatan was no longer Zlatan."
Which is such a pity, right?
(POSTSCRIPT: In case you're worried about him, set your mind at ease. He's obviously found his Zlatan-ness again.)
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