remember when I saw him at practice. It was quite nice, I have to say that; a sense of something familiar despite all the switching of clubs. But I couldn't think of anything better than yelling: "Hey you, are you stalking me or what?"

"Of course, someone must make sure you have cornflakes in the fridge."

"But I refuse living on your mattress this time."

"If you're nice, you won't have to."

It felt good having Maxwell with me in Inter. He had come sometime before me, but had hurt his knee and had been doing rehab, so it took a while before I saw him. I don't think I know a more elegant player. He's that offensive Brazilian defender who dares playing a beautiful game deep down in defense, and often I just enjoy watching him play. But still, sometimes I'm surprised he's become so good. Nice guys like him usually don't make it in football. You need to be tough and hard, and I felt that I had become that after the years in Juventus, and more than ever in a team I had been part of winning the league the first year with Inter. Not just during the games, but all over, with my attitude.

All that nonsense with Brazilans in one corner and Argentines in the other was gone, and as every month passed my position in the club grew stronger, and of course Moratti noticed this. He was good to me and made sure the family was good, and on the pitch I continued to shine. We took the top of the league again. The dark nineties when Inter never made it were gone. What I had hoped for had worked out. The

whole team lifted themselves when I came, and of course Mino understood it, our position for negotiations was good.

It was time to re-negotiate the contract, and no one knows those things better than Mino. He did all his

little tricks on Moratti. I have no idea what he said or did. I was never part of the negotiations, but there

were rumors about Real Madrid wanting me so he used that and put some heavy pressure on Moratti. But

seriously, not that much was needed. It was a new situation now. When I signed for Inter I was so

desperate getting away from Juventus that Moratti of course could use that. In this business you always

look at the weakness of your opponent. It's part of the game. You put the knife to a throat and during the

negotiations he had lowered my wages four times. But that was getting back at him. Mino and I agreed on

that, and Moratti wasn't as strong anymore. Considering my importance to the team, he couldn't afford

losing me, and it didn't take long before he said:

"Give the guy what he wants."

I got an awesome deal. Later, when the details leaked out there was even talk about me being the highest paid player in the world. But back then no one knew. One of Moratti's demands was that everything was kept secret for six, seven months, but sooner or later it would leak and make a bang, we knew that, and honestly, the big thing wouldn't be the salary itself, but the hype it created.

If you're viewed as the best paid player in the world, people look on you differently. Another spotlight is turned on. The fans, the players, the sponsors all look at you with new eyes, and what is that you say? He who has, gets more. When you've reached the top you continue upwards. It's pure psychology. Everyone is interested in the one who's number one. That's how the market works even though I think no one deserves that kind of money, I knew my value on the market, and I had it in my blood: never get fucked like in the Ajax-deal. But it's true, with a high salary come a lot of other stuff, more pressure for example. You have to deliver and continue shining.

But I liked it too. I wanted pressure. It made me tick, and after half the season I had scored ten goals and there was hysteria everywhere. It was "Ibra, Ibra" and in February we seemed to have secured the league again. Nothing seemed to stop us. But I had gotten some discomfort in my knee. I tried ignoring it, like: No, that's nothing. But it returned, and got worse every time. We had won our group in Champions League, and things were looking good there too.

But in the round of last 16 we met Liverpool and in the first game at Anfield I really felt the injury limit me.

We had a terrible game and lost 2-0. I was in a lot of pain afterwards, and now I couldn't delay it anymore.

I had an examination and the results came quickly. I had an inflammation to the patellar tendon.

The patellar tendon is an extension of the thigh muscles, and I skipped the game against Sampdoria. I didn't think it was a big deal, not for me or the team. Sampdoria wasn't Liverpool. The guys should be able to handle it without me. We had an incredible run in the league. We had even broken the record of most straight wins in the Serie A. But that didn't help.

The play didn't work against Sampdoria. It was one of the first signs of things going wrong, and we seemed to lose. Hérnan Crespo saved us in the last minutes with a header. We got 1-1, barely, and like that it continued. After I had become injured our game went bad, either that was the reason or not, but our good game turned worse. We played 1-1 against Roma and lost against Napoli, and I heard Mancini and the other guys; they were worried. I had to play again. We couldn't lose our advantage in the league, and I was sent away for treatment. My recovery had to happen fast, and shortly thereafter, on the 8th of March, I was fielded against Reggina.

Reggina were second to last in the league, and you can really question if it was necessary to have me on the field. I had pains. I was playing on painkillers, some heavy shit, and Reggina shouldn't be a problem. But the nervousness had spread in the team. The confidence had disappeared while I was gone, and week by week Roma and Milan had gotten closer in the league table, so I guess Mancini didn't want to take any chances. From having been a winning machine, we now didn't even feel confident against the bottom teams of the league, and I couldn't say no. Especially not since the doctor said ok, although under pressure. In some ways that knee didn't belong to me.

The management was the boss of my knee in some ways. A football player at my level is a little bit like an orange. The club will squeeze it until there's no more juice, and it's time to sell the guy. It sounds a bit harsh, but that's the reality. It's a part of the game. We're owned by the club and we're there to win titles, not improving our health, and sometimes not even the team doctors know which foot to lean on. Should they see the players as patients or products belonging to the club? They're not working at a hospital; after all, they're part of the team. And then there's you. You can question it. You can even scream: This won't work; I'm in too much pain. No one knows your body better than yourself.

But the pressure is hard and often you just want to play without considering the consequences. It's a risky game. Maybe I can do some good today, but damage myself for me and the club in the longer run. You have those problems all the time. What to do? Who should you listen to? Doctors who after all are more careful or the coach who only wants to see you on the pitch and only is thinking about the next game. Like: fuck tomorrow, let's win today.

I played against Reggina and Mancini was right - at least for the short run. I scored my 15th goal in that game and lead us to victory, and of course that was a relief. But it also meant the club wanted me to play the next game, and I agreed. What else could I do? I got more painkiller shots and more Voltaren, and all the time I kept hearing or feeling: We have to have Ibra with us. We can't afford letting him rest, and I really don't blame anyone. Like I said, I wasn't a patient at a hospital. I was the one who had been leading us since I joined the club, and it was decided that I also would play our return game against Liverpool in the Champions League, and that was really important both to me and the team.

Champions League had become sort of a hang up for me. I wanted to win that damn thing. But since we had lost the first game we were force to win the second one huge to advance, and of course, we tried everything. We worked hard. But our game didn't work no either, and I wasn't great, not at all. I missed some chances and in the 50th minute Burdisso got the red card.

It sucked. And we had to fight even harder. It didn't help and I felt more and more: This doesn't work. I have too much pain. I'm destroying myself, and eventually I left the pitch with pains in my knee and I won't ever forget that.

Their fans were booing and whistling at me, and I'm sure you understand, as injured you keep asking yourself: Should I play or not, and how much are you willing to sacrifice for this game? Not that you know it, it's like roulette, you make a bet and hope not to lose it all: an entire season, or anything. But I had stayed long on the pitch because the coach wanted me to and because I thought I could mean something to the team. But the only thing that happened is that the injury got worse and we lost 1-0. I had put my health on the line and we hadn't won shit, and the English fans there were yelling at me. Me and the English fans and media have never really made a match, and now I was called "a whing primadonna" and "the most overrated player in Europe", and normally those things just trigger me. Like when the parents signed their lists to get rid of me. I fight even harder and show those bastards. But now I didn't have a body to respond with. I had pains and the atmosphere in the team was awful. Everything was like switched. All the good harmony and optimism was like gone. The media said something is wrong with Inter, and Roberto Mancini declared that he would leave the club. He would get away, he said. But then he took it back. All of a sudden he wasn't going anywhere, and the trust in him disappeared. What did he want? As a coach you can't do it like that: I won't stay. I will stay. It isn't professional, and we continued losing points.

We had had a big advantage in the league, but it decreased all the time. We only got 1-1 against Genoa and lost at home against Juventus. I was on the pitch then as well. I, the stupid idiot, didn't know how to say no. But afterwards I could barely walk, and I remember coming into the locker room, I wanted to tear that place down and I was screaming at Mancini, I was completely wild. This is fucking it! I have to get some rest and some rehab. I couldn't play everything no matter what the situation in the league was. I had no choice. I had to step off. But believe me, it wasn't easy. It was shit.

You're sitting there. The other ones go to practice. You go to the gym and through the window you can see the other ones through the window. It's like watching a film you should be starring in, but aren't

allowed. It hurts. That feeling is almost worse than the injury itself, so I decided to fly away from the circus in the club. I went home to Sweden. It was spring. It was beautiful, but I didn't enjoy it, not at all.

I only had one thing on my mind, and that was getting well, and I had myself examined by our national team doctor, and I remember him getting upset. How could I have been allowed playing for so long on painkillers? It was only two months left until the Euros in Switzerland and Austria, and now that seemed to be at stake for me too.

I had pressured myself too hard, and it was just shit, and I had to do everything to get well again. I called Rickard Dahan. Dahan was a physician at MFF, and we knew each other since my time there. We started working together, and then I got a tip about a doctor.

He was in Umeå, northern Sweden, and I flew there and got some shots that killed all the cells in the patellar tendon, and I got better. But far from perfect, and I still couldn't play. It felt hopeless, and I was pissed off and angry and surely no fun to be around, and in the league the bad stretch went on. The guys could secure the scudetto against Siena, just win it, and Patrick Viera shot 1-0 and the fans started dancing and singing. It looked like it would work out, and Balotelli, the young talent who had stepped in for me, scored another goal. It simply couldn't fail, not against a team like Siena.

But Siena equalized, it was 2-2, the density was incredible, and only ten minutes left of the game. Then Materazzi was fouled and we got a penalty, and people were trembling. This had to be a goal. Everything seemed at stake, and during this time Julio Cruz, the Argentinian, was first penalty shooter. But Materazzi, that guy had authority and temper, everyone knows that, and he said, like: I don't give a shit. I'll take this penalty, and I guess many felt ok with that after all. Materazzi was 34. He had experience; he had been part of winning a World Cup final. But he shot a terrible penalty kick. The goalie took it and the supporters screamed out of pain and anger, I'm sure you understand. It was the sense of complete disaster, and sure, if anyone should be able to handle that it would be Materazzi. He's like me. He's triggered by hate and revenge. But it couldn't have been easy for him.

The Ultras were raging and very aggressive, and the papers went mad, and no one in club was well, not at all. When we had missed our opportunity, Roma had beaten Atalanta and gained on us. Roma seemed to have the initiative and there was only one round left of the league, and that made us worry, of course!

We had had the scudetto in our hands. Most people had said the league was done. But then I had become injured and our nine point lead had narrowed down to one and it wasn't surprising that most people said the odds were against is, and probably the gods as well. There were many questions flying around. It didn't feel good. What had happened to Inter? Why doesn't anything work anymore? There was talk like that everywhere.

The fact was that if we lost or drew against Parma and Roma won against bottom of the league-team Catania, which Roma definitely should do, we would fall and lose everything that we thought we had already won. I was back in Milan then, but I still wasn't well. But that didn't matter and I heard it more and more, louder than ever: Ibra has to play; we've got to have him with us. The pressure on me turned into the insane. I had never experienced anything like it. I had been away on rehab training for six weeks. and I was in bad shape. The last time I had played a game was on the 29th of March. Now we were in the middle of May, and everyone knew my shape couldn't be too good.

But no one cared about any of that, and I don't blame anyone, not at all. I was considered the most important player of Inter, and in Italy football is more important than life itself, especially in situations like that one. It had been years since that kind of tension had reached into the last round of the league, and it was Milan against Rome, the two big cities against each other, and people didn't talk about anything else. If you turned on the TV there were sports broadcasts all the time, and my name was mentioned every other minute. Ibra, Ibra. Is there a chance that he plays? Can he make it? Is he good, despite the break? No one knew. Everyone was talking about it and the fans were screaming: Ibra, help us!

It wasn't easy thinking about my well-being and the Euros that waited for me. The game against Parma was buzzing in my head all the time, and if I went out, I'd see myself on all the front pages, with headlines

like "Stand up for the team and for the city", and I remember Mancini. He came up to me. It was just a few days before the team would leave. Roberto Mancini is a bit of a fancy boy. He likes shiny suits, handkerchiefs and that kind of stuff, and I had never had anything against him, not at all. But his position in the club had become much worse since he had been whining about his job back and forth. I mean, either you leave or you don't. You don't say: I want to leave, I'll stay. It bothered a lot of people. The club needed stability, and no questions about where the coach had his focus. But now Mancini was fighting to get his status back. He had to. The most important day in his life as a coach was getting closer and nothing could go wrong, so it wasn't too surprising that he looked "demanding". "Yes", I said.

"I know your injury isn't completely healed."

"No."

"But I don't really give a shit", he said.

"That's probably smart, I guess."

"Good! I'm gonna take you in the squad against Parma, no matter what you say. Either you play from the start, or you start on the bench. But I have to have you with me. We have to win this now."

"I know. I want to play."

I wanted that more than anything else. I didn’t want to be away when the scudetto was secured. That would be one of those things you can't live with. I'd rather have pain for a few weeks or months than miss a fight like this. But it was true; I didn’t know anything about my form. I didn't know how my knee would react in a match situation or if I would dare going 100% and maybe Mancini could sense my hesitation, and he didn't want his message to be misunderstood.

He sent Mihajlović on me as well. You remem ber him. He and I had that hate game back when I was in Juventus. I had head butted him, or marked a head butt, and he had been screaming all kinds of crap at me. But all that was history. What happens on the pitch stays on the pitch, and often I've become friends with guys I've been fighting with, maybe because we're alike, I don't know. But I feel comfortable with warriors and Mihajlović is a fighter. He had always done everything to win. Now he had quit as a player and was the second coach under Mancini, and honestly, few guys have thought me so much about shooting a free kick like him. He was a master at it. He had scored close to thirty goals on free kicks in Serie A. He was a good guy. He was big and straight to the point. "Ibra", he said.

"I know what you want", I replied.

"Okey, but you have to know one thing. You don't have to train or work out. You don't have to do shit. But you are playing against Parma and you will help us win the scudetto." "I will try", I said.

"You're not trying to do it, you're doing it", he said, and then we left with the bus.