I Think Therefore I Play by Andrea Pirlo, Alessandro Alciato Page B

and thus completely without purpose. The only thing that counted was my presence at his side, or, more accurately, his presence at mine. We rolled along together, me and my imperfect shadow. I’d move, and he’d follow. I’d slow down, and he’d pull up the handbrake, too. I was the victim of a close encounter of the third kind. Had we been alone in a dark alley and not on a football pitch in front of 20,000 fans, I’d have called the cops. I’d have been within my rights to report that his passion had turned a little violent, because he certainly wasn’t holding back on the physical stuff.
    “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him.
    “Sorry?” came the reply.
    “What are you up to? You’ve been staring at me so long you must know every inch of my face. You’re booting me up and down the pitch and you’ve not even touched the ball yet. Do you maybe want to think about actually playing and not just trotting around after me?”
    “Not possible. Our coach said the only thing I should think about is marking you. That and nothing else. My mission is to stop you.”
    “Yes, but the ball’s away over there. It’s miles from us. At least let me breathe – you don’t need to be 10 centimetres from my face the whole time.”
    “Who gives a toss about the ball? I’ve to watch you. You and nothing else.”
    Had he been in possession of a ring, I’m sure he’d have got down on one knee and proposed. “I, André, take you, Andrea, as my lawful wedded target. To kick you, follow you and chop you all the days of my life, until ref do us part.”
    The way he was carrying on really got on my nerves. I’d love to think that leeches are an endangered species, not one that’s perpetually on heat. But every time I end up disappointed. Malta were playing Italy, but Schembri was playing only me. An experience like that is enough to drive you mad. It’s just utterly exhausting.
    “Are you actually having fun out here? I feel sorry for you,” I said.
    “Who said anything about having fun? I’m simply carrying out the coach’s orders.”
    “But you’re never going to enjoy the game like this.”
    “Ah, but neither are you.”
    And he was absolutely right. I didn’t enjoy it, and it wasn’t the first or last time. Back in the day, coaches would have their best guy mark the opposition No.10. He was the player who tended to have the most class and so the objective was obvious: stop him touching the ball.
    Things have changed since then, though. Football has moved on, and it’s now the centre midfielders who get the most attention. Guys in my position are the ones who plot and construct the play and it’s us who now have the toughest bloke on the other team snapping away at our heels.
    It’s always the same – every game I’ll leave the pitch with a load of bruises. I’ve even had Francesco Totti taking aim at me in a match we played against Roma. 48 Every so often he does go off on one, but at least he apologised afterwards. The foul he committed really wasn’t like him and I’m sure he didn’t do it deliberately. I certainly don’t have any issue with him now.
    It’s not easy to tame a mastiff that’s running around after you for a full 90 minutes. He’s the dog and you’re the bone: that’s just how it is for me, even if I’ll never get used to it. Football’s becoming more and more like wrestling and that’s really not a good thing.
    I usually wind up swapping shirts with my pursuer at the end of a game. I even went through the ritual with Schembri. When you’ve been studied so intently for an hour-and-a-half, it’s as if you’ve known each other your whole lives. I always try to give these guys the slip. I’ll look to get into space and find a way to take the ball and play my normal game; to do my thing even with chains around my ankles. But there are times when it’s bloody hard. Even players who don’t have much ability can run and tackle all day long. They might be brainless robots,