didn't go out much anymore. I stayed at home most of the time and I had just become the dad of two. Vincent was also there. Vincent! He was so fine and his name came from the Italian word for winner, and I liked that. He had also been born during a complete chaos of course. But still, he was number two and the media took an easier route.

But seriously, two kids! It wasn't a game. I started getting how mom had it in my childhood with all the kids and her cleaning job, no parallels except that of course. We were well set, me and Helena, incredibly well set of course. But I got a sense of how difficult it must have been for mom, and after the drama with Maxi I'd become quite cautious: What kind of rash is that? Why is Vincent breathing so heavily? Why is the belly so hard? Stuff like that.

We also had a new nanny. Our old nanny had met a guy when was living with us in Malmö that summer and quit, and we were panicking a bit. We needed help and we needed a Swedish girl for the kid's sake and Helena called the job center's foreign department to talk about it. What could we do? We couldn't exactly place an ad: Zlatan and Helena are looking for a nanny. That would probably not attract the right kind of people.

Helena pretended that we were diplomats, ambassadors or something. A Swedish diplomat family seeks nanny, she wrote in an ad, and we got over three hundred replies. Helena read everything. She was very careful, as always, and I guess she thought it would be very difficult. But she stuck at one. A girl from Dalarna [ed not: northern Sweden], and only that was a point apparently. Helena wanted someone from the countryside. She herself comes from a small town, and this girl was an educated preschool teacher and knew languages and like training, just like Helena, and seemed all over nice and capable.

I didn't interfere in that. But Helena called the girl without telling her who she was. She was still the ambassador's wife, kind of, and the girl seemed interested and was easy talking to, so Helena e-mailed her:

"Come and test work for us one week!"

They decided to take Helena's rental car to Arlanda [ed note: Stockholm airport] and fly down to Milan with the boys, so the girl had to travel herself to Lindesberg where Helena was. Her dad drove her. But before they left, Helena mailed her the travel documents, and then the girl started wondering. According to the tickets, the kids of this ambassador were named Maximillian and Vincent Ibrahimovic, and that was very strange. But sure, a diplomat family could have names like that, right? Maybe there were a lot of Ibrahimovics in the country, what did she know? But she asked her dad about it.

"Please check this out, dad", she said.

"It looks like you will be the nanny for Zlatan's kids", he replied, and then she wanted to quit. Like: help! She was scared. But it sounded cool. On the other hand it was a bit too late to pull out. Tickets had been bought and everything, so they left, she and her dad, and she was very nervous, she has told. But Helena… what can I say about Helena? She is the Evilsuperbitchdeluxe when she dresses up. It takes courage to approach a woman like that. But seriously, she is so relaxed. She's an expert at making people feel comfortable and during this trip they had a lot of time getting to know each other, way too much time.

The problems began at Arlanda. They were flying Easy Jet. Only Easy Jet had flights to Milan that day. But something was wrong with the plane. The flight was delayed one hour, then two, three, six hours, eighteen hours. It was insane. It was a fucking scandal and everyone became tired and irritated, and eventually I lost it. I couldn't handle it. I called a pilot I know, he who flies the private jet I have access to. "Pick them up", I told him, and so he did.

Helena and the girl pulled out their luggage and were taken to the private jet, and I had made sure there was catering on board, with chocolate dipped strawberries, and that whole thing, and I hoped they had a good time. They deserved it after that chaos, and finally I got to meet the girl. She was quite nervous then, from what I understand. But we got along well and since then she's been helping us and been living with us. She's part of the family now you can say, and we wouldn't make a single day without her. The

kids are crazy about her, and she and Helena are like sisters, and work out and study together. Every morning at nine o'clock they go to the gym together. Over all we got some new routines and habits.

One year we went to St Moritz. Do you think I felt at home there? Not really! I had never stood on skis

before. Going to the Alps with mom and dad when I was young would have been like going to the moon.

S:t Moritz was for the rich crowd. You had champagne for breakfast. Champagne? I was sitting in boxers

and wanted cereals. Olof Mellberg was with us and he tried teaching me how to ski. I didn't work too well.

I flew down the hill like crazy, when the others danced down. I looked ridiculous. So to be sure I wore a

balaclava that covered my face and a pair of huge sunglasses. No one would know who I was. But one

day I went up a ski lift and had a young italian boy with his father next to me, and the kid started staring at

me. Don't worry, I thought, no one recognizes me in this outfit. No chance. But after a while the guy said,

it must have been my fucking nose:

"Ibra?"

I denied it. What Ibra? Who is that? But what did I gain from that? Helena started laughing. It was like the funniest shit she'd ever seen, and the kid continued with his Ibra, Ibra, so finally I said: Si, that's me, and then the most awkward silence came. The kid was super impressed. There was only one problem. He wouldn't be impressed anymore when he saw me on skis, so I thought, how do I solve this? I'm the star athlete. I can't be revealed as a loser here. And it got even worse than I thought. People started talking. A whole crowd gathered, all standing there waiting to see me skiing. I had problems with my gloves, I was very careful with how they sat around the fingers.

I was careful about my jacket too, with my pants, the bindings, especially with those, because I've noticed that. People were messing around with their bindings all the time, opened them and closed them and so on, and who knew, maybe I was an amazing skier who had to make sure everything was perfectly set before I flew down the hills like Ingemar Stenmark. But it wasn't easy. The more I was fibbling around with my equipment, the higher everyone's expectations became. Like, is he gonna do tricks? Shoot down the mountain like a cannon ball with those football legs?

I had to adjust my scarf too. And my cap and my hair, and eventually the crowd got bored. They left. Sure, I was Ibra, but you don't stand around forever waiting just because of that, and I could calmly go down the slopes like the amateur I was, and Olof Mellberg and everyone were wondering: "Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

"I just had to take care of some things."

But of course mostly it was hard work. That summer after the game against Parma and the second league victory I was going to play the Euros in Switzerland and Austria, and I was still worrying about my knee. There was a lot of media about my injury and I talked to Lagerbäck about it, and neither me nor anyone else knew if I would be able totally fit for the tournament. We had Russia, Spain and Greece in our group, and it didn't look very easy. I have a contract with Nike. Mino was against that whole deal, but I insisted, and absolutely, it's been mostly fun. We've made some fun films together, like when I'm kicking a chewing gum up into my mouth and dad is there pretending he's worried it get stuck in my throat, and especially: Nike was with me building Zlatan Court at Cronmans road in Rosengård, where I played as a kid.

It was big. The pitch was built from old rubber shoe soles. It was a great pitch and electrical lighting and stuff like that. The kids wouldn't be forced stop playing just because it got dark, and we made an inscription there: "Here is my heart. Here is my history. Here is my game. Take it further. / Zlatan." It felt fantastic being able to give something back, and when I was there for the opening you can imagine. "Zlatan, Zlatan", the kids screamed. It was chaos, and to tell you the truth I was much moved. And I played with the kids in the dark, and felt, wow, you didn't expect this from that little kid from Cronmans road.

But at the Euros I flipped at Nike. Nike had gone out hard asking everyone with a contract to play with the same color on the shoes, and I thought: Okay, let's do it, I don't care, But then I found out: another guy would be allowed to have his own color anyway. I talked to Nike about it: Why are you bullshitting like this? Everyone was supposed to have the same. We have decided it like this, they said, and I told them

what I thought about that, and then they changed their mind. Then all of a sudden everyone could have any color, me too. But then it wasn't fun anymore. You shouldn't have to argue about such things, and I kept my old shoes. It might sound childish. But people need to talk clearly.

The first game was against Greece. I had Sotirios Kyrgiakos after me. Kyrgiakos is a good defender. He had long hair and a ponytail. Every time I jumped or made a run I had his hair all over my face. And in my mouth. He marked me extremely hard. He did a good job, no questions about that. He locked me up. But he relaxed for two, three seconds, and I didn't need more than that. I received a throw-in and started dribbling and all of a sudden Kyrgiakos was far away, and I got space. I shot it straight up under the crossbar.

It was a perfect start of the Euros. We won 2-0, and my family was there, taking care of themselves this time. We had learned the lesson from the World Cup in Germany. I played football. I couldn't be a travel guide as well. Everyone minded their own, and that felt good. But my knee hurt and was swollen and we had Spain in the next game. Spain was one of the favourites to win the Euros. They had beaten Russia with 4- 1 in the first game, and it would be tough, we knew that, and there was a lot of talk about my injury. Would I play or not? I wasn't sure. It hurt, and sure, I didn't mind ignoring the pain.

It was the Euros and I could have gone on with a knife stuck in a leg. But in football, there's both the short and the long perspective. There's the game today, and then the games tomorrow and the next day. You can sacrifice yourself in a game and make a huge impact, but then be knocked out. We had Spain now and then Russia after that, and then the quarter final if we would advance, and there was talk about me playing on painkillers. I had done that many times in Italy. But national team doctor was against it. Pain is a warning signal from your body. You can remove the pain but then you risk a serious injury. It's a bit of a gamble. A game with injury. How important is the game? How much will we bet to make the guy fit today? Is it worth the risk of then having him away for weeks or months afterwards? Those kind of questions, and traditionally the doctors in Sweden are being more careful than the ones on the continent. They look at the guy more as a patient than as football machine. But it's never easy, and as a player you're often pushing it yourself. There are games that feel so important that you want to say: Fuck the future! I don't care about the consequences. It's just that you can't avoid the future, and playing in the national team, there's always your club in the background.

They are the ones paying the big money, and I was a big investment. I couldn't break. I couldn't sacrifice myself for a national team game that had nothing to do with Inter, and the national team doctor received calls from the club doctor. Those talks can often be heated. Two interests are against each other. The club wants their player for the league and the national team needs the same player for the Euros.

It was also only a month before the pre-season training would begin, and I was Inter's most important player. But still, both doctors were reasonable persons. It was a calm discussion I think, despite everything, and they agreed. I wouldn't play on painkillers and I was treated for hours by a naprapath, and it was decided that I would play against Spain.

It was me and Henke on top and it felt fine. But Spain were very good. They got an early corner. Xavi hit it short to David Villa who played it backwards to Silva, who was alone, and he made a high pass to Fernando Torres. Torres fought with Petter Hansson over the ball but got one step ahead, and scored 1-0 almost with his hip. That was heavy. It's no game equalizing against Spain. But they backed down and try to secure the victory and their place in the quarter finals and we were given chance after chance and I forgot all about my knee. I pushed it. I worked hard and in the 34th minute I got a long nice pass from Fredrik Stoor in defence, and I came clear with their goalie Casillas, and I tried shooting straight in the goal. It was the kind of situation that Van Basten had talked to me about and Capello and Galbiati had trained me for, the kind of situations you have to use. But I missed, I didn't hit the ball well, and half a second later I had Ramos in front of me, the young defender from Real Madrid.

But I thought, fuck it, I wouldn't give up. I blocked, I kept him at distance and shot again in a small opening between him and another defender, and the ball went in. It was 1-1 and the game was on again and I was clearly in form. I had started the tournament great, but still, it didn't help. When the first half was over and the adrenaline disappeared, I could feel it, I was in pain. The knee was far from good. What

should I do? It wasn't an easy decision. I was being decisive for the team, and I couldn't break. There was at least one game ahead, and it looked good for us. We had three points from the game against Greece, and even if we lost today we could advance by winning the last group stage game against Russia. So I walked up to Lars Lagerbäck in half time.

"I have a lot of pain", I said.

"Oh, shit."

"I think we have to make a decision."

"Okay."

"What's most important to you: the second half now, or the game against Russia?"

"Russia", he said. “We have a better chance against them."

So I sat on the bench in the second half. Lagerbäck took in Markus Rosenberg instead, and it seemed promising. Spain had a lot of chances in the second half. But we stood up, and sure, it was obvious I didn't play. There was a quality to our game that was gone, the moment of unpredictability. I had been in great form and I was cursing my knee. Fuck. But the guys stood up well and after 90 minutes it was still 1-

1.It looked like we would make it and we were cheering on the bench. Would we make this after all? But two minutes into extra time Markus Rosenberg lost the ball in an ugly way deep down on our side of the pitch. Lagerbäck jumped up and was like crazy. Fucking idiot referee!

It was a clear foul he said. But the referee let the game go on, and many were upset. Most guys on the bench said the referee had been against us all the time, and people were screaming and making fuzz, but not for long. Disaster came. Joan Capdevila who had taken the ball from Rosenberg hit a long cross and Fredrik Stoor tried to block it. But he was so tired. Everyone had fought like crazy. David Villa ran past him and Petter Hansson too, and shot 2- 1, and the referee whistled for full time almost immediately after that. You can easily say that was a tough loss for us.

In the next game against Russia we were crushed. I had a lot of pain and it felt like Russia were better than us in all aspects, and we were kicked out of the Euros and we were so fucking disappointed. What had begun so great became nothing. It was cruel. But as always, when something disappears something else turns up and just before the Euros had begun I found out that Roberto Mancini had been fired from Inter.

He would be replaced by a guy named José Mourinho. I hadn't met him yet. But he had already surprised me. He tied me close to him already before we would meet. He would become a guy I could more or less die for.