ometimes I go on to hard. I don’t know. It was a thing with me from the start. My dad raged like a bear when he drank, and everyone in the family got scared or got out of there. But I stepped up to him, man against man, and I shouted things like: “You have to stop drinking!” it made him furious. “Damn it, this is my house. I do as I please. I’ll throw you out!”

It could become really chaotic. The whole apartment rumbled. We never got in a fist fight. He had a big heart. But honestly, I was ready for a fight.

I was ready for anything, and sometimes, I understood that it was pointless. It would just lead to confrontation and anger. We wouldn’t take one step forward. Despite that I just went on. I took the fights, and don’t think that I’m trying to brag about being the tough one in the family. I’m just saying how it was.

I had that character early. I stepped up. I didn’t run, and it wasn’t just when it came to dad. It was everywhere. My whole childhood was full of tough guys that raged like lightning: my mom, the sisters, the guys on the blocks, and since then I have it in me, that carefulness: What’s happening? Who wants to fight? The body is always up for a fight.

That was the way that I chose. Other in the family took other roles. You went to Sanela with your feelings. I was the fighter. I someone fucked with me, if fucked back. I was my way of surviving, and I taught myself to not keep in it. I said it right out, there was no “You’re very good, you’re very nice, but...” it was straight on: “You got to get a grip of yourself.” Then I took the consequences for it. It was just like that. It was my childhood, and of course, I had changed a lot when I came to Barcelona. I had met Helena and got children and calmed down, and, like, said “Be kind and pass the butter”. But a lot of it was still in me. I clenched my fists those days in the club and prepared to stand for what I believed in. It was early summer 2010. There was going to be a WC in South Africa, and in Barca Joan Laporta resigned.

A new president was going to be elected, and stuff like that always creates turbulence. People get insecure. I guy named Sandro Rosell was chosen. Rosell had been vice president until 2005 and friends with Laporta. But something had happened. They were now enemies, it was said. So of course, people were worried. Would Rosell clean out the old gang? No one knew. The sporting director Txiki Begiristain resigned before Rosell could fire him, and I wondered of course: What would this mean in my conflict?

It was Laporta who had bought me for record sums and it wasn’t a unreasonable thought that Rosell would want to get one over him by showing that the investment was idiotic. A lot of newspapers also wrote that Rosell’s first mission was to sell me. The journalists had no real clue about what had happened between me and Guardiola, and neither did I in a way. But they knew that something was wrong, and honestly, you don’t have to be a football expert to understand. I was unhappy and didn’t react the way I used to on the pitch. Guardiola had damaged me, and I remember that Mino called the new president. He told him what Guardiola had said on that meeting.

“What the hell did the guy mean?” he asked. “Is he trying to get rid of Zlatan?” “No, no”, Rosell answered. “Guardiola believes in him.”

“But why does he say that then?”

Rosell couldn’t answer. He was new and nobody seemed to know. The situation was insecure. We won the league and the vacation came. It was a long time ago I needed it so much. I needed to get away, and I and Helena travelled around: L.A., Vegas, everywhere, and during that time the WC was being played. I barely watched. I was too disappointed. Sweden wasn’t there, and honestly, I didn’t want to think about football at all. I tried to repress the mess in Barca. But that didn’t work for so long. The days were counting down. I had to be back soon, and as little as I wanted, all the questions came back. What’s going to happen? What should I do? I thought about it a lot, I knew, there was an obvious solution. I could get myself sold. But I didn’t want to give up my dream so easily. No way! I decided to work like an animal in training and become better than ever.

No one was going to break me. I was going to show them all. But what do you think happened? I didn’t have the time to show a thing. I hadn’t even put my football shoes on before Guardiola called me in again.

It was the nineteenth of July, I think. Most of the player hadn’t come back from the WC yet. It was calm around us, and Pep tried some small talk. He had obviously an errand. He was nervous and uncomfortable. Despite that was trying to be polite, I guess, for the sake of it.

“How has the vacation been?”

“Good, good!”

“And how do you feel before the new season?”

“Also good. I’m pumped. I’ll give everything.”

“You...”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to prepare yourself to sit on the bench”, he said, and as I said before, this was the first day. The pre season had not begun yet. Guardiola hadn’t seen me play yet, not even one minute. The words couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a personal attack. “Alright”, I just answered. “I understand.”

“And as you know we have bought David Villa from Valencia.”

David Villa was hot, no doubt about that. He was one of the stars in the Spanish National team who by them was on their way to win the WC, but still, he was a winger. I played in the middle. He had nothing to do with me, not really.

“And what to you say about that?” he continued.

Nothing, I thought first, more than like congratulations. But then it hit me: why not test Guardiola? Why not

check if this has anything remotely to do with football, or if this is only about kicking me out of the club?

“What do I think about that?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Well, that I’m going to work harder. I will really, really go for a spot in the team. I will convince you that I’m good enough”, and honestly, I didn’t think it was true.

I had never sucked up to a coach like that. My philosophy was to let my game do the talking. It’s just silly to go around and talk about giving everything you got. You get paid to give everything you got. But this was my way of trying to understand. I wanted to hear what he answered. If he said: Alright, then we’ll have to see if you can take a sport, it would mean something. But now he just looked at me. “I know that. But how can we proceed?”

It was silly, and I guessed that he wanted me to flip out and shout: I won’t accept this. I’m leaving the club! Then he could easily say: Zlatan wanted to get out himself, it’s not my decision. But I may be a savage, and guy that makes the confrontation too often. But I also know when to control myself. I had nothing to gain by declaring myself for sale, so I calmly thanked for the talk and got out of there.

I was of course furious. I was boiling. But the meeting had still given me something. I had understood the seriousness: he wasn’t going to let me if even if I learned how to fly through the air, and the question really was now: would I be able to put up with it, and go to training everyday and have this guy standing in front of me? I doubted it. Maybe I must change tactics. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time.

We went to South Korea and China for pre season training, and over there I got to play some games. It didn’t mean a thing. The most important player had not come from the WC yet. I was still the black sheep, and Guardiola stayed away. If he wanted something he sent other to talk with me and during the whole time the media were like crazy. It had been going on all summer: What will happen with Zlatan? Is he going to be sold? Will he stay? They were on me all the time, and it was the same for Guardiola. He got questions about it all the time, and how do you think he answered? Nice and clean: I don’t like Zlatan, I want to get him sold? Not really. He looked uncomfortable, and talked his nonsense.

“Zlatan decides his own future.”

Shit like that, and it started ticking in me. I felt pointed out and pissed. I wanted to do something explosive. But also, how should I say, something got me going. I understood: the situation had gone into a new stage. It wasn’t only war not. The fight on the transfer market had started now and I like that game, at my side I have the guy who’s best in the world at it – Mino. He and I talked all the time and we decided to play rough and tough: Guardiola didn’t deserve anything else.

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

“Zlatan, if you have any offers, consider them”, he said.

“I’m not going anywhere”, I answered. “I’m a Barcelona player. I stay in Barca.” Josep Maria Bartomeu looked surprised. “But how should we solve this?”

“I have an idea”, I answered.

“You have?”

“You can call Real Madrid.”

“Why would we call them?”

“Because if I really have to leave Barca, I want to go to Real. You can make the deal happen.”

Josep Maria Bartomeu got terrified.

“You’re kidding”, he said.

I looked dead serious.

“Not at all. We have a problem.” I continued. “We have a coach who’s not man enough to say that he doesn’t want me here. I want to stay. But if he wants to sell me he has to say it himself, clear and distinctly. And the only club I want to go to is Real, just so you know.”

I left the room, and now it was definite. The game was on. I had said Real. But of course, it was just a move, and provocation, a strategically trick. In reality we had Manchester City and Milan as options. Sure, I knew about the incredible thins that had happened in City and all the money that was there since the gang from the United Arab Emirates had taken over. City could very well become a top club in a few years. But I was soon to be twenty nine. I didn’t have time for plans in the long run, and money was never to most important. I wanted to go to a team that’s good now and no club in Europe had to history of Milan. “We go for Milan”, I said.

When I afterwards think about it it’s incredible. From the day Guardiola had called me in and said that I was going to sit on the bench we played a tough game, and we noticed of course: we were stressing Guardiola and the management. It was the plan. The guys were going to get so psyched that it would make them let me go for cheap. And that would help me get a new contract! We had a meeting with Sandro Rosell, the new president, and you could notice afterwards. Sandro Rosell was in a fox trap.

He didn’t either get what the problem was between me and Guardiola. He had just understood that the situation was unsustainable and that he had to sell me to any price, if he wasn’t going to sack the coach. But he couldn’t do that. Not after all the success the club had. Rosell had no choice. Didn’t matter if he loved or hated me, he had to get rid of me.

“I’m sorry for this”, he said. “But it is what it is. Do you have any club that you want to go to?” Mino and I

didn’t the same thing as with Bartomeu

“Yes, actually”, I said. “There’s one.”

“Good, very good.” He lit up. “Which club?”

“Real Madrid.”

He got pale. To let a Barca star go to Real is like high treason.

“Not possible”, he answered. “Anything but that.”

He was shaken up and now both I and Mino felt it: Now we play our game, and I continued calmly: “But

you asked and I answered, and I’ll say it gladly again: Real Madrid is the only club I can think of. I like Mourinho. But then you have to call and tell it to Real yourselves. Is that alright?”

It wasn’t alright. Nothing in the world was less alright, and we knew that of course, and Sandro Rosell started to panic now. The club had bought me for seven hundred millions. The guy had all the pressure on him to get the money back, but he sold me to Real, that was the new club of Mourinho, Rosell would almost get shot by the fans.

It wasn’t easy for him, you can say that. He couldn’t keep me because of the coach. He couldn’t sell me to the arch enemy. The guy had lost the initiative, and we continued hard:

“But think about how smooth it will be. Mourinho have said it himself that he wants me!” We didn’t know anything about that. But we pretended.

“No”, he said.

“That's bad. Really! Real is the only club we can think about.”

We went out and smiled. Real, Real we had kept saying. It was our official line. But we were in talks with Milan, and we were working for them. If Rosell was desperate it wasn’t really good for Barca. But it was good for Milan. The more Rosell had to sell, the cheaper it would be to buy me, and that was good for us. It was a game, and it went on, on different levels, one for the outside, and one behind the scenes. But the clock was also ticking.

The transfer window was closing at the thirty first of August, and the twenty seventh we were going to play a friend against Milan at Camp Nou. Nothing was done yet. But the thing was in the media. There was speculations everywhere, and Galliani, the vice president of Milan, declared solemnly that he wouldn’t leave Barcelona without Ibrahimovic.

At the arena the supporters were showing banners with: “Stay Ibra!” There was a lot of focus on me of course. But it was mostly Ronaldinho’s game. Ronaldinho is a god in Barcelona. He played in Milan, but he had been in Barca and then been chosen as the best player in the world two years in a row. Before the game we would get to see his best stuff on a big screen at the arena, and he was going to run a honorary lap around the stadium. But that guy... he does as he wishes.

We sat in the locker room and waited to get into the arena. It felt weird. Outside we could hear the roar from the crowd. Guardiola didn’t look at me of course, and I wondered: Is this my last game with the team? What will happen? I had no clue. Then everybody jumped. Ronaldinho looked in through the door, and Ronaldinho, he is shines. He is one of the greatest. Everyone was looking at him. “Ibra”, he shouted and smiled.

“Yes”, I answered.

“Have you packed your bags? I’m here to take you with me to Milano!” he continued, and everyone started laughing, so typical of Ronaldinho you know, to just get in there to us, and people were watching me.

I kind of knew already of course. But no one had heard about it like that before. Now it was repeated over and over again. I got to play from the start. The game didn’t mean anything really, and just before kick of me and Ronaldinho continued to joke around about it: Like, are you crazy? The pictures of us, laughing on the pitch were shown everywhere later. But it was the craziest in the player tunnel before the second half. Then all the bigger names shouted at me, Pirlo, Gattuso, Nesta and Ambrosini:

“You have to come Ibra! We need you!”

Milan hadn’t had an easy time lately. Inter had dominated the Italian league, and everyone in Milan were longing of course for the great times again, and I know now afterwards that many of the players, especially Gattuso, had pressured the management:

“For fuck sake, buy Ibra. We need a real winner in the team.”

But it wasn’t so easy. Milan didn’t have as much money as before, and as desperate as Sandro Rosell was he tried to the end to get as much as he could for me. He wanted fifty, forty million Euros for me. But Mino continued to play tough.

“You’re not getting shit. Ibra will go to Real. We don’t want to go to Milan.” “What about thirty they?”

The clock was ticking and Rosell went down in price time after time. It felt very promising, and Galliani came and visited me and Helena at our house in the mountains. Galliani is a real heavy weight and an old friend and business partner to Berlusconi. He’s a bastard when it comes to negotiations. I had dealt with him earlier. It was when I was leaving Juventus, and that time he had said: “I offer you this, or nothing!” Juventus was in a crisis then, and he had the upper hand.

The situation was the other way around now. He had the pressure on him. He couldn’t come home without me, not after the promises he had made and the pressure from the players and the fans. Besides we had helped him. We had gotten the price down. He was getting me on the cheap.

“This is my terms”, I said. “It’s this, or nothing”, and I saw how he was thinking and sweating.

The terms weren’t so bad.

“Alright”, he said.

“Alrigh.”

We shook hands and afterwards the negotiations about my price continued. It was between the club and I didn’t care, not really. But it was a drama and many things were involved. The time was one of them. The concern of the seller was another. The fact that the coach couldn’t handle me was the third. For every hour that went Rosell got more nervous, and my price went down and down. Eventually I was sold for twenty million Euros. Twenty million! Just because of one person my price had fell down with fifty millions.

Because of Guardiola’s problems the club was forced to make a catastrophic deal, it was sick, and I told all that to Rosell. Not because I needed to. He knew it. He had probably been awake at nights swearing at it. I mean: I had mad twenty two goals and fifteen assists during my season in Barcelona. Despite that I had almost dropped seventy per cent in value. Whose fault was that? Sandro Rosell knew very well, and I remember how we all stood there, him, Mino, I, Galliani, my lawyer and Josep Maria Bartomey in the office at Camp Nou. Before us was the contract. I just had to sign it and say good bye.

“I want you to know...” Rosell started.

“Yes?”

“That I’m doing the worst piece of business in my whole life”, he continued. “I’m giving you away for free, Ibra.”

“You can see what bad leadership can cost.”

“I know that this has been dealt with badly”, he said and I signed.

Then it was my turn. I held that pen and everyone was looking at me and I felt, it was time to say something. Or I don’t really know if it was the time for it. Maybe I should have been quiet. But I wanted to get some things out in the air.

“I have a message to Guardiola”, I started, and everyone got nervous of course. What’s happening now?

Haven’t it been enough of trouble already? Can’t the guy just sign?

“Do you really have to?”

“Yes. I want you to tell him...”, and then I said exactly what I wanted them to tell Guardiola from me.

Everyone in the room must have thought, why does he come with this stuff now? But trust me, I needed it. Something happened in my head at that moment. I got my motivation back. Just the thought of getting even lit me up, it’s the truth.

When I signed that paper and said those words, I became myself again. I was woken up from a bad dream and for the first time in a long time I wanted to play football. All the thoughts about retiring were gone and afterward I entered a period when I played out of pure joy. Or, I played out of pute joy and anger, joy because of getting out of Barca and anger because on single person had crushed my dream.

I was like I had been exempted, and I started to look at the situation in a different way. When I was in the middle of it I had mostly tried to cheer myself up: it’s not that bad, I’ll come back, I’ll show them. I did like this all the time. But then, when it finally was over I realised. It had been tough. The one person who should mean the most to me had completely frozen me out, and that was worse than most things I had been trough. I’ve had terrible pressure on me and in times like that you need your coach.

But what did I have? A guy that avoided me. A guy that tried to treat me like I wasn’t there. I was supposed to be one of the stars there. But in reality I had walked around down there and felt unwelcomed. The hell, I have had Mourinho and Capello, two of the most disciplined coaches in the world and I had never had any problems with them. But then that Guardiola came along... I was boiling when I thought about it, and I don’t forget when I told Mino:

“He screwed up everything.”

“Zlatan”, he answered.

“Yes.”

“Dreams can come true, and make you happy.”

“Yeah.”

“But dreams can also come true and kill you”, and it was true, I felt that right away.

A dream had come true and been crushed in Barca, and I continued down the stairs to the journalists that waited out there, and then I thought: I didn’t want to call the guy by his real name. I needed something else, and I remember all the nonsense he had said, and then suddenly outside Camp Nou, I thought of it. The Philosopher!

I was going to call him the Philosopher.

“Ask the Philosopher what the problem is”, I said with all the pride and anger that I felt.