ep Guardiola, the coach in Barcelona, with his grey suits and troubled face, came up to me looking concerned.

I thought he was all right at that time, certainly not a Mourinho or Capello, but an ok guy. This was way before we started our war. It was the fall of 2009 and I was living my childhood dream. I was playing in the best team in the world and had been welcomed by 70 000 people at the Camp Nou. I was walking on clouds. Well maybe not entirely, there were some bullshit in the papers. I was the bad boy and all that. I was difficult dealing with. But still, I was here. Helena and the kids were also good. We had a nice house in Esplugues de Llobregat and I felt fully charged. What could go wrong?

"Hey you", Guardiola said. "Here in Barca we keep our feet down on the ground."

"Sure", I said. "Fine."

"Here we don't drive any Ferraris or Porsches to training."

I nodded, didn't go cocky on him, like how the fuck is what car I'm driving your concern? But I thought "What does he want? What message is he giving me? Believe me, I don't need any fancy cars or parking on the sidewalk to show off anymore. That wasn't it. I love my cars. They're a passion of mine, but I sensed something else behind his words. Kind of: don't think you're so special.

I had already at that point understood that Barca is like a school. The players were all nice, nothing wrong with them, and there was Maxwell, my old friend from Ajax and Inter. But honestly, none of the guys acted like superstars, and I thought that was odd. Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, the whole gang, was like school kids. The world's best players stood there nodding, and I couldn't understand that. It was ridiculous. If a coach in Italy says "jump", the players ask "what? Why should we jump?"

Here, everyone jumped at any command. I didn't fit in, not at all. But I was thinking: Accept the situation. Don't confirm their thoughts about you. So I started adapting. I became too kind. It was insane. Mino Raiola, my agent, my friend, said:

"What's wrong with you Zlatan? I don't recognize you."

No one recognized me, not my buddies, no one. I became boring, bland, and you should know that ever since Malmö FF I've had one philosophy: I run my own race. I don't give a damn what people think and I've never felt comfortable with authority. I like guys who run the red light, if you know what I mean.

But now… I didn't say what I wanted. I said what I thought people expected of me. It was wack. I drove the club's Audi and stood there nodding like back in school, or like I should have stood nodding back in school. I didn't give my team mates any crap. I was boring. Zlatan wasn't Zlatan, and that hadn't happen since back in school when I saw chicks in Ralph Lauren shirts for the first time and almost shit my pants when I was asking them out. But still, I started the season great. I scored goal after goal after goal. We won the UEFA Super Cup. I was shining. I dominated. But I was somebody else. Something had

happened, nothing serious, not yet. I had been silenced, and that's dangerous, believe me. I have to be mad to play well. I have to shout and make scenes. Now I kept all that within me. Maybe it had to do with all pressure. I don't know.

I was the second most expensive transfer in history, and the papers kept saying I was a problem child and had issues with my personality, all kinds of bullshit, and unfortunately I felt the weight of it all - in Barca we don't stick out, and I guess I wanted to show that I could fit in. It was the most stupid decision of my entire life. I was still killing on the field. But it wasn't as fun anymore.

I even thought about quitting football. Not that I would break my contract, I'm a professional. But I lost the fun. And then came Christmas break. We went to Åre and I rented a snowmobile. Whenever life stands still, I want action. I always drive like a maniac. I've gone 325 km/hr in my Porsche Turbo, leaving chasing cops behind. I've done so many fucked up things I barely want to think about them. And now in the mountains I was giving it my all on the snowmobile, got freeze burns and had the time of my life.

Finally some adrenaline! Finally the old, the real Zlatan, and I were thinking to myself: Why am I doing this? I have money. I don't have to feel shit with idiot coaches. I can have fun instead and take care of my family. It was a great time, but it didn't last long. When we returned to Spain disaster struck. Not immediately, but slowly. Disaster was in the air.

A light snowfall came. It was like the Spaniards had never seen snow before, and in our hood, in the hills above Barcelona, cars were smashing to the left and right, and Mino, the fat idiot - the wonderful fat idiot I should add if anyone would misunderstand me - froze like a dog in his summer shoes and light jacket and convinced me to take the Audi. It almost ended in disaster. On a downhill street we lost control of the car and smashed into a stone wall. The whole right side of the car was demolished. Many had crashed during the bad weather, but no one as badly as me. I won the crash contest too, and we laughed a lot about that. And I was actually feeling like myself sometimes. I felt ok. But then Messi started talking. Messi is awesome. Fucking unbelievable. I don't know him very well. We are very different personalities. He came to Barca 13 years old and is brought up in their culture. He doesn't have any problems with that school shit. In the team, the play revolves around him, which is natural really. He's brilliant, but now I had come, and I was scoring more than he did. He went to Guardiola and said:

"I don't want to play on the right side, on the wing, anymore. I want to be in the middle."

That was where I was. But Guardiola didn't give a shit. He changed tactics. From 4-3-3 he switched to 4-5-1 with me on top and Messi right behind, leaving me in the shadow. All balls went through Messi and I couldn't play my game. I have to be free as a bird on the field. I'm the guy who wants to make a difference on all levels. But Guardiola sacrificed me. That's the truth. He locked me in up there. OK, I can understand his situation. Messi was the star.

Guardiola has to listen to him. But come on! I had scored goal after goal in Barca, I was lethal too. He couldn't adapt the team after one single guy. I mean: why the hell did he buy me then? No one pays that kind of money just to strangle me as a player. Guardiola had to think of both of us, and of course, the mood amongst the club management became nervous. I was their biggest investment ever, and I didn't feel good in the new lineup. I was too expensive not to feel good. Txiki Begiristain, the sports director, was pushing me; he said I had to speak with the coach. "Work it out!"

I didn't like it. I'm a player who accepts the situation. But sure, fine, I did it! A friend of mine said "Zlatan, it's like if Barca bought a Ferrari but are driving it like a Fiat", and I thought, yeah, that's a good argument. Guardiola had transformed me into a simpler, worse player. And the whole team was losing from that.

So I went to the coach. I approached him on the pitch, during training, and I was careful about one thing. I didn't want a fight, and I told him:

"I don't want to fight. I don't want a war. I just want to discuss things."

He nodded. But maybe he looked a bit frightened, so I repeated:

"If you think I want a fight, I will leave. I just want to talk."

"Good! I like talking with the players."

"Listen!" I continued. "You are not using my capacity. If it was a goal scorer you wanted, you should have bought Inzaghi or someone. I need space, and to be free. I can't run up and down constantly. I weigh 98 kilos. I don't have the physique for it."

He was thinking. He was often doing that.

"I think you can play like this."

"No, then its better if you bench me. With all due respect, I understand you, but you are sacrificing me for other players. This isn't working. It's like you bought a Ferrari but are driving it like if it was a Fiat." He continued thinking.

"OK, maybe it was a mistake. This is my problem. I will work it out."

I was happy. He would work it out.

But then the ice cold came. He would barely look at me, and I'm not one who really cares about such things, and despite my new position I continued to be great. I scored more goals. Not as nice ones as in Italy. I was too high up on the pitch. It wasn't Ibracadabra anymore, but still… Against Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium in the Champions League we outplayed them completely. The stadium was boiling. The first twenty minutes were amazing, and I scored one goal… two goals. Beautiful goals, and I was thinking: Screw Guardiola! I'll run my own race! But then I was substituted, Arsenal came back and scored two goals. It was shit and afterwards my thigh hurt. Normally a coach cares about such things. An injured Zlatan is a serious thing for any team. But Guardiola was ice cold. He didn't say a single word, and I was out for three weeks. Not once did he face me and ask "How are you feeling, Zlatan? Can you play the next game?"

He didn't even say hello. Not a word. He avoided looking at me. If I entered a room, he would leave. What's going on? I was thinking. Have I done something? Do I look strange? Am I speaking strange? My mind was spinning in circles. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about it constantly. Not that I needed Guardiola's love or anything. He could hate me all he wanted. I'm triggered by hate and revenge. But now I lost focus, and I talked to the other players. No one understood what was going on. I asked Thierry Henry, who was on the bench during this time. Thierry Henry is the top scorer in the history of the French national team. He's cool. He was still amazing, and he was also having problems with Guardiola. "He doesn't greet me. He doesn't look me in the eyes, what has happened?" I asked.

"No idea", Henry said.

We started joking about it. "Hey, Zlatan, has he looked at you today?" "No, but I saw his back!" "Congratulations, things are improving!" Shit like that, and it helped a little bit. But it was really getting on my nerves, and I asked myself every hour: What have I done? What's wrong? But I never got any answers. Nothing more than that the ice storm must have had to do with our talk about my position. There couldn't be any other explanation. But that would be twisted. Was he psyching me out because a chat about my position? I tried confronting him, I'd walk towards him try looking him in the eyes. He turned around. He seemed scared, and sure I could have booked an appointment and asked "What is this about?" But never. I had done enough crawling for that guy.

This was his problem. Not that I knew what it was. I still don't know it. Or, well… I don't think the guy can handle strong personalities. He wants nice school boys. And worse: he runs away from his problems. He can't look them in the eye, and that made everything so much worse.

It got worse.

The ash cloud from the volcano on Iceland came. No flights at all in Europe and we were going to San Siro to face Inter. We took the bus. Some brain-dead person in Barca thought that was a good idea. I was free from injuries then. But the trip became a disaster. It took 16 hours and we were all worn out when we arrived in Milano. It was our most important game so far that season, semifinal in the Champions League, and I was prepared for mayhem, booing and whistling at my old arena, no problems, that drive me. But the situation a part from that was terrible. And I think Guardiola had a hang up on Mourinho.

José Mourinho is a big star. He had won Champions League already with Porto. He was my coach in Inter. He's cool. The first time he met Helena he whispered to her: "Helena, you only have one mission. Feed Zlatan, let him sleep, keep him happy!" The guy says what he wants. I like him. He's the leader of an army. But he also cares. He was sending me text messages all the time in Inter asking how I was

feeling. He's the opposite of Guardiola. If Mourinho lights up a room, Guardiola pulls the blinds." I guess Guardiola now tried to measure up to him.

"It's not Mourinho we are facing. It's Inter", he said, like we thought we'd play ball with the coach. And then he pulled his philosophy crap.

I was barely listening. Why would I? It was advanced crap about blood, sweat and tears, shit like that. I've never heard a coach talk like that. Pure garbage. But now he finally came up to me. It was during the practice at San Siro, and people were there watching, like "Wow, Ibra is back!"

"Can you play from start" Guardiola asked.

"Definitely", I answered.

"But are you prepared?"

"Definitely. I feel fine."

"But are you ready?"

He was like a parrot, and I got some nasty vibes.

"Listen, it was a terrible trip, but I'm in good form. The injury is gone. I'll give it my everything."

Guardiola looked as though he doubted me. I didn't understand him, and afterwards I called Mino Raiola. I call Mino all the time. Swedish journalists use to say: Mino is bad image for Zlatan. Mino is this and that. You want the truth? Mino is a genius. I asked him:

"What does the guy mean?" None of us understood. We started losing it. But I got to play from start and we scored 1-0. Then the game turned, I was substituted after sixty minutes and we lost 3-1. It was shit. I was furious. But in the earlier days, like Ajax, I could dwell on a loss for days or even weeks. Now I have Helena and the kids. They help me forget and move on. And I was focusing on the return game at Camp Nou. The return game was incredibly important and the excitement was building up, day by day.

The pressure was incredible. It was like thunder in the air, and we had to win big to advance. But then… I don't even want to think about it, or, well, I do. It made me stronger. We won by 1-0. But that wasn't enough. We were eliminated from the Champions League, and afterwards Guardiola looked at me like it was my fault, and I was thinking: The bottle is empty now. We're out of playing cards. After that game it felt like I wasn't welcome in the club anymore, and I felt bad driving their Audi.

I felt like shit sitting in the dressing room and Guardiola would stare at me like I was a problem, some freak. It was insane. He was a wall, a stone wall. I didn't get a single sign of life from him, and I wanted to get far away every second.

I was no longer part of the team, and when we played Villa Real he let me play five minutes. Five minutes! I was boiling inside, not because I was on the bench. I can deal with that if the coach is man enough to say: You're not good enough, Zlatan.

But Guardiola didn't say a single word, nothing, and at this point I'd had it. I could feel it in my entire body, and if I was Guardiola, I would have been scared. Not that I'm a fighter. I've done all kinds of crazy shit. But I don't fight, well, on the pitch I've knocked one or two out. But still, when I get angry, my eyes turn black. You don't want to be anywhere near. And let me tell you in detail what happened. After the game I went into the dressing room, I hadn't exactly planned some raging attack… But I wasn't happy, to use mild words, and in the dressing room my enemy stood, scratching his bald head. Few others were in there. Touré and a few others, and the big metal box where we put our clothes, and I was staring at the box. Then I kicked it. I think it flew like three meters, but I wasn't done yet. Far from it. I yelled: "You have no balls", and probably some worse things, and added:

"You shit yourself in front of Mourinho. You can go fuck yourself!"

I went insane, and maybe you'd expect Guardiola to say something, maybe: Calm down, you don't talk like that to your coach! But he's not like that. He's a weak coward. He just picked up the box, like a little cleaner, and then he left and never talked about it again, nothing at all. But of course words spread. In the bus everyone was crazy:

"What happened, what happened?!"

Nothing, I thought. Just a few words of truth. But I didn't have the energy talking about it. I was so pissed off. My coach had frozen me out week after week without explaining why. It was sick. I've had some bad fights before. But the day after we'd always sorted things out and moved on. Now the silence and terror

just continued, and I thought: "I'm 28 years old. I've scored 22 goals and 15 assists only here in Barca, and still I'm treated like I don't exist, like air. Should I accept this? Should I continue adapting? No way!

When I understood I'd be on the bench against Almeria, I remembered those words: "Here, in Barca, we don't drive Ferrari or Porsche to the practice!" What bullshit was that anyway? I drive what I want, at least if it pisses off some idiot. I jumped into my Enzo, floored it and parked outside the door at practice. Of course it resulted in a circus. The papers wrote that my car cost as much as the monthly salary for the entire Almeria squad. But I didn't care. Media bullshit meant nothing at this point. I had decided to give back.

I decided to fight back seriously, and you should know one thing, that's a game I can play. I've been a bad boy before, believe me. But I didn't want to mess with the preparations just because of that, so obviously I called Mino. We always plan the smart and dirty tricks together. I also called my buddies.

I wanted different perspectives on the situation, and oh god, I got all kinds of advice. The Rosengård guys wanted to come down and "trash stuff", and of course that was nice of them to offer, but it didn't feel like the right strategy at that point. And of course I discussed everything with Helena. She's from another world. She's cool. She can also be tough. But now she tried encouraging me:

"You've become a better dad. When you don't have a team where you feel good, you team up with us", she said, and that made me happy.

I played some ball with the kids and tried to make sure everyone was feeling alright, and of course I spent time with my video games. It's like a disease for me. They eat me up. But since the time in Inter when I could play until four, five in the morning and go to practice after just a couple of hours sleep, I've set some rules for myself: no Xbox or Playstation after 10 at night.

I can't let time run away from me, and during these weeks in Spain I really tried to spend time with my family and just chill in our garden. I even had a Corona now and then. That was the good side of it. But at nights when I would be lying awake, or at practice when I saw Guardiola, the dark side of me woke up. The anger was pounding inside my head and I planned my next move and my revenge.

No, I realized it more and more, there was no turning back. It was time to stand up for myself and become the real me again.

Because don't forget: You can take the kid away from the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto away from the kid.