had a little hang up on the Champions League. We had started the league and my knee was better and I was scoring great goals all the time, and we felt quite soon that we probably would win the scudetto that year too. But understand me correctly, it wasn't a big deal anymore. I had won the italian league four times already, and been named the best player of the league. Champions League felt like the important thing. I had never advanced far in that tournament and now we were facing Manchester United in the round of last 16.

United was one of the best teams in Europe and they had won Champions League the year before and had players like Cristiano Ronaldo, Wayne Rooney, Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs, Nemanja Vidic, but none of them carried their game, on the contrary: you really had the sense that United was a team. No players was bigger than the club. No coach had that philosophy more than Alex Ferguson, Sir Alex Ferguson maybe I should say. Everyone knows sir Alex. He's a god in England, and he never wore out his players. He rotated them.

From the beginning Ferguson is a working class kid from Scotland, and when he came as a coach to United in 1986 they didn't have much going for them. United seemed to have their glory days behind them. Not much worked, and the players were drinking at bars. It was considered cool. But Ferguson began a war against that. What the fuck, drinking beer! He got some discipline into the guys. He won 21 titles with the club and was knighted in 1999 when United won the league, the FA-cup and Champions League. So you get it, there was a rivalry between a guy like that and Mourinho. There was a lot talk.

It was Mourinho against sir Alex, and it was Cristiano Ronaldo against Zlatan. There was a lot of media about it. We were the two main names for Nike and we had done a commercial together, a duel where we made some tricks and shot at goal, a fun thing with Eric Cantona as host. But I didn't know him. We never met during filming. All was done in different places, and I didn't really care about that media stuff. But I felt triggered. We had a good chance and of course Mourinho had prepared us well. But the firsta game at San Siro was a disappointment. We only got 0-0, and I didn't really get into the game. Of course afterwards the english newspapers wrote a lot of crap. But that was their problem, not mine. They could write their garbage. I didn't care. But I really wanted to win the return game at Old Trafford and get further in the Champions League. It was a thing that grew in me, and I remember running out on the Stadium's pitch hearing all the applause and all the booing.

There was a lot of tension in the air, and Mourinho was wore a black suit and a black coat. He looked serious, and was as always standing up. He was close to the sideline watching the game, like a general at a battle field, and the crowd screamed: "Sit down Mourinho", and he was often waiving and screaming things like "Get up there and help Ibra!" I was too alone at the top and I was heavily marked. A lot depended on me. That's how it had been all season, and Mourinho played 4-5-1 with me on top, and I felt the pressure to score, and sure, I liked it. I wanted responsibility.

But United were better and I was way too isolated and constricted up there, and I was cursing. But worst of all, after only three minutes, Ryan Giggs took a corner and Vidic headed 1-0. It was like a cold shower. The entire Old Trafford stood up and screamed:

"You're not special anymore, José Mourinho."

It was Mourinho and me who got most of the booing. But the game worked more and more and the fact was: one goal would be enough in that situation and we would go through to the next round. If we only scored 1- 1 the victory would be ours, and I started playing well. It worked better and better and after thirty minutes I received a long pass in the box and headed it down on the goal line. The ball bounced up, hit the crossbar and went out. You don't get closer than that without scoring. And I felt it more, we can do this, and we had chance after chance. Adriano had a volley shot in the post. But no, it didn't work. Instead, Wayne Rooney dribbled outside our box, made a pass to Cristiano who headed 2-0, and it felt like shit. It was difficult, and minutes passed without us scoring. Towards the end of the game the whole stadium was singing:

"Bye, bye, Mourinho. It's over". And I wanted to kick and break something valuable, and I remember when we got back in the dressing room. Mourinho tried to cheer us up, like: now we go for the league. He's

tough as hell before and after the games, and sometimes when a day or two has passed and he's analyzed a loss he can come attacking us for us not to repeat our mistakes. But there's no reason to butcher us in a situation like that. It wouldn't do any good. We were down and depressed as it was.

It felt like everyone wanted to murder someone, and I think that's when that thought started growing in me. I wanted to move on. I'm the restless kind. I have always moved. I switched schools, homes, clubs already as a kid. It became like a poison in me and when I was sitting there looking down on my legs I started suspecting: I would never win the Champions League with Inter. I didn't think the team was good enough, and already in the first interviews after the game I started showing my doubts. Or, I was just answering honestly, and it wasn't the good old: Of course, we'll win next year.

"Can you win the Champions League if you stay with Inter?", the reporters asked.

"I don't know. We'll see", I replied, and the fans probably sensed something already then.

That was the beginning of the tensions, and I talked to Mino. "I want to move on", I said. "I wanna go to Spain." He knew exactly. Spain meant Real Madrid or Barcelona, the two top clubs, and sure, Real felt tempting. Real had an amazing tradition and had had players like Ronaldo, Zidane, Figo, Roberto Carlos, Raul. But I was more and more leaning towards Barca who played amazing football that year and had guys like Lionel Messi, Xavi and Iniesta.

But how could we act? It wasn't easy. I couldn't just say: I wanna go to Barca. Not only because it would

ruin my reputation in Inter. It would be like offering yourself for free: I'll play for nothing. You can't expose yourself like that. Then the managers understand they can get you cheap. No, the club had to approach you. The management had to feel that they wanted you at any price. But the real problem wasn't there.

The problems were my status and my conditions in Italy. I was viewed as too expensive. I was the player who couldn't leave. I often heard that. It was me in Inter, Kaka in Milan, Messi in Barca and Cristiano in United. No one was expected being able to match our contracts. Our price tags would be too high. Even Mourinho talked about it. "Ibra is staying", he said. "No club can pay the kind of money it would take. No one can pay a hundred million euros", and it felt absurd.

Was I too expensive for the market? A fucking unsellable Mona Lisa? I didn't know. The situation was uncertain, and maybe it was stupid being so open in the media, despite everything. I should probably have done the same bullshit many other stars did: I will always stay in my club, bla bla bla.

But I can't do it like that. I couldn't lie. I wasn't sure about the future, and I said so and that irritated a lot of people, especially the fans. It was looked on as treason, or at least something like that, and many became worried. Would I lose my motivation in the team? Especially when I said stuff like "I'd like to test something new. I've been in Italy for five years now. I like technical football and they play that in Spain." There was a lot of talk and a lot of speculation.

But it wasn't like a tactic of mine, not a trick to get away from the club. It was just being honest, but nothing was simple, not for a player at my level. I was the most important guy in Inter and no one wanted me to leave. There was commission after every word I said, and maybe the whole thing was pointless. We didn't have an offer, and I didn't exactly become cheaper. Sure, I wanted something new. But it didn't affect my game, on the contrary, I was out of injuries and better than ever, and I continued doing everything to make Mourinho react.

Like against Reggina, I made a nice run, a dribbling almost from the middle of the pitch. I passed three defenders, and only that was a performance, and the crowd probably thought I'd finish with a hard shot. But I saw that the goalie was a bit too far from his goal, and I had an image, a thought, and I chipped the ball high over the guy, and it couldn't have been more perfect. The ball sailed in a nice path in under the crossbar and the whole stadium went wild, everyone except Mourinho of course who just stood there in his gray suit, chewing his gum. It was business as usual in other words. But still, it was more beautiful than many things I'd done, and with that goal I came up in tied first place of the top scorer chart with Bologna's Marco Di Vaio. Becoming top scorer in Italy is big, and I was focusing more and more on that. It was a challenge I needed. I became more aggressive than ever in front of the goal, and no one loves a

goal scorer more than the Italian fans. No one hates a goal scorer who wants to leave his club more either, on the other hand. And things didn't become easier when I after the game said: "I'm totally focused at winning the league this season, but we'll see about next season."

You can easily say that the tensions increased: What's up with Ibra? What's happening? It was still long before Silly season, and we didn't have anything concrete. But the papers were already speculating. It was me and Cristiano Ronaldo in Manchester United. Would Real buy one of us? And could they afford it? There were new rumours all the time. For example there were speculations about a swap deal, their star Gonzalo Higuain against me.

That way the club wouldn't have to pay so much money. Higuain would be part of the price. But like I said, it was just talk, or more correctly, niothing in the media is just talk. It affects no matter how false it is, and many wanted to put me in my place. It was a lot like: No one is bigger than the club and stuff like that, Ibra is ungrateful and a traitor, that whole thing. But I didn't care.

I kept going and against Fiorentina I shot an amazing free kick on overtime which was clocked at 109 km/hr and just smashed into goal from far away and it looked like we were securing the league victory, and like said, everything was connected. Everything had two sides. The better I was, the more upset the fans became because I wanted to leave the club, and the atmosphere was explosive before the game against Lazio in May 2009. The Ultras had written "Welcome Maximillian" and stuff like that. They could show love. But they could hate as well, and not only the other teams, but their own players, and I felt it instantly when I came in, San Siro was boiling.

All that week the papers had written about me wanting to leave Italy and try something new. No one could have missed that and already in the beginning of the game I got stuck in the box. I was fighting, but just couldn't shoot, and in situations like that the fans usually cheer. Like, good try. But now I heard booing and whistling from the Ultras. Like what the fuck, we're fighting hard down here, we're on top of the league and you come with shit like that. Who are you? I hushed them. Put my finger to the mouth. But that didn't help, not at all, and at the end of the first half it was still 0-0 despite us having pressure, and then they started booing the whole team, and I flipped, or more correctly, I was pumped even more by adrenaline.

I would show them, and like I said, I play better when I'm angry. Think about that when you see me furious, don't worry. Okey, I can do something stupid and get a red card. But most of the time it's a good sign. All my carreer is built on getting back, getting even, and in the second half I received the ball 15 meters outside the box. I turned around. I rushed forward. I made a move and shot the ball in the net between two defenders. It was a shot of pure anger, a nice goal. But it wasn't the goal people talked about.

It was my gesture, because I wasn't cheering. I ran backwards away from the Ultras, all the time hushing them with my finger. It was like: Shut up. This is my reply to your shit. I score you boo, and that immediately became the big thing from that game: Did you see? Did you? It was something completely new.

It was an open conflict between the fans the the club's biggest player, and over by the sideline was Mourinho, and of course, no cheering from him. Who had expected that? But of course he agreed with me. Fuck, booing at your own team, and he pointed at his head, like: "You're fucking stupid, you up there in the stands", and you get it, if things were tense before they got worse now, the stadium was rumbling. But I continued playing well. I played on pure anger and assisted 2-0. I dominated and was pleased when the final whistle blew. But this wasn't over, not at all. When I left the pitch I was told that the bosses of the Ultras were waiting for me down in the locker room. I had no idea how they had managed to get there.

But down there in the corridors they stood, seven, eight guys, and not the kind of guys who say: Excuse me, can we have a word? They were the type of guys from my kind of streets: guys full of aggression and everyone around me became nervous, and my pulse went up to 150. Honestly, I was stressed. But I told myself: You can't chicken out now. Where I come from you don't back off. So I walked up to them, and I

immediately saw that they became nervous, but at the same time toughened up. What the fuck, Ibra is coming up to us.

"Are people having problems up there in the stands?" I said.

"Yeah, well, many are pissed off…", they started.

"Then tell them to come down on the field, and we work it out there, one on one!"

And then I left, and my heart was pounding. Still it felt good. I had handled the stress. I had stood up for myself, but the shit continued. The supporter club demanded an official meeting. But come on? Why would I meet them again? What could I gain from that? I was a football player. Maybe the fans were faithful to their team, and that's nice. But a football player has a short career. He must look after his own interests. He switches clubs. The fans knew that. I knew that, and I told them: apologize for your booing and whistling on your website, and I'm satisfied. Then we can forget about this. But nothing happened. Or well, the Ultras decided they would neither boo nor cheer me. They would pretend I didn't exist. Well good luck, I thought.

It wasn't easy ignoring me, not then, and not later. I was in form and the talking continued. Will he leave? Will he stay? Can anyone afford him? It was a tug of war and I was afraid of ending up in a dead end. Become a player who stays in his club with his tail down between his legs. It was a nervous game, and I called Mino: Are there any offers? Is something happening? Nothing happened, and it became more clear, it would take record amounts to get me away, if even that would be enough, and I tried to close my eyes and ears and not listen to the circus in the media. But it wasn't easy. Not when you were in that situation. I had constant contact with Mino and I was hoping more and more for Barca. Barca won the Champions League around that time. They beat Manchester United with 2-0 after goals by Eto'o and Messi, and I thought, wow, that's the club, and I continued calling Mino: "Fuck, what are you doing? Are you sleeping?"

"Go fuck yourself", Mino said. "You're shit. No one wants you. You'll have to return to Malmö FF."

"Fuck you!"

But of course he was working his ass off to make something happen, not only because he always fought for me. This was the deal we both had been dreaming about. Sure, it could screw up and end with us not winning anything except pissing off the Ultras and the management. But it could also be the biggest thing ever, and we were prepared to put a lot at stake.

At the same time I continued playing. We had secured the Scudetto already. But I really wanted to become the top scorer. Being the Capocannoniere is putting you in the history books, and no Swede had done that since Gunnar Nordahl back in 1955. But now I had the chance, nothing was for sure, not at all. It was a tight race in the top. Marco Di Vaio in Bologna and Diego Milito in Genoa were side by side, and of course, it wasn't Mourinho's business. He was coaching the team. But he stepped forward in the locker room and said:

"Now we are going to make sure Ibra becomes the top scorer too” and it became a thing. Everyone would help me. Everyone said it.

But Balotelli, the fucker; in one of the last games he got the ball in the box and I came running. I was alone, clear in front of goal. I had the perfect chance. But Balotelli kept on dribbling and I looked at him: What the fuck are you doing? Weren't you going to help me? I was pissed off, but sure, the guy was young. And he scored. I couldn't start yelling at him then. But I was pissed, our whole bench was pissed off: Fuck running around there scoring when Zlatan has the perfect opportunity, and I thought, if that's the way it is, fuck the Capocannoniere. Thanks, Balotelli. But I got over it.

I scored in the next game, and before the last round the standings were like a thriller. Me and Marco Di Vaio both had scored 23 goals, and right behind us was Diego Milito in Genoa with 22. It was on May 31st. All the media talked about the fight. Who will win? It was a hot day. The league was done. We had secured the scudetto a long time ago. Still there were a lot of nerves in the air. With a bit of luck this would be my goodbye to the Italian league. I hoped so. I didn't know. But no matter if this would be my thanks -and-bye-show or not I wanted to play a great game and become the top scorer. Fuck no, I wasn't gonna finish with a bad game.

But of course, it wasn't up to just me. It was also up to Di Vaio and Milito as well, and they played at the same time. Di Vaio's Bologna played against Catania and Milito's Genoa faced Lecce, and I didn't doubt for a second that those fuckers would score. I was forced to respond. I had to score, and that's not easy doing on request like that. If you try to hard your game locks up. All goal scorers know that. You can't think too much. It's about instinct. You have to just strike, and I noticed early that it would be a difficult game against Atalanta. It was 1-1 after only a few minutes.

In the 12th minute, Esteban Cambiasso shot a long ball, from just outside our box, and I was standing up there on line with the defenders. But then I ran, almost offside and the defense couldn't keep up. I ran like crazy and came alone with their goalie. But the ball bounced weird, and I pushed it forward with my knee and was almost colliding with the goalie. But right before that I shot to the right of him, and it went in, 2-1, and by then I was the top scorer. People were yelling that at me, and I started to hope, maybe this would work out. But things happened, and I never really got it. Sure, from the sideline they yelled "Milito and DiVaio have scored", something like that. But I wouldn't believe it. It sounded like something they just yelled. There is a lot of that in football, bullshit just to trigger people or annoy, so I just kept playing. I shut everything else out, and I thought that one goal would be enough. But the other games were really dramatic.

Diego Milito was in third place. He's an Argentine. He had an incredible scoring record. Only a week before, he had signed for Inter. So if I didn't leave the club we would play together. But now against Lecce he had an amazing game. He scored two goals in just ten minutes and now had 24, just like me, and you could feel it in the air, a third goal could come at any minute. But it wasn't just Milito. Also Marco Di Vaio scored. I didn't know that. But now three guys were sharing the top spot, and that's no way of winning. You don't share. You win it alone, and even though I didn't know for sure, I more and more realized that I would have to score one more goal. I felt it from the atmosphere. You could see it in the faces of the guys on the bench, the pressure from the audience. But minutes passed. Nothing happened. It seemed like a draw. It was 3-3 and only ten minutes to go. Mourinho brought on Hernan Crespo. He needed new blood.

He was going for attack, and was waving his arms, like: move up and keep pushing! Was I losing the grip of the Capocannoniere? I was afraid so and I fought hard. I yelled for the ball. But many were tired. It had been a tight, even game. But sure, Crespo still had energy. He was dribbling on the right side and I ran towards goal. I got a long pass and there was a fight over the ball. But I pushed a guy away and I came with my back towards the goal while the ball was bouncing around and I saw an opportunity. But, like I said, I was facing the wrong direction, so what do you do? You heel it. I heeled backwards in an angle and sure, I had scored many heel goals in my career, like the one against Italy in the Euros of course and the karate thing against Bologna. But this, in this situation, was just too much.

It couldn't go in. It was a show like in mom's yard, and you don't win the top scoring league on a thing like that in the final game. It just doesn't happen. But the ball rolled in the net. It was 4-4 and I tore my shirt off, though I knew it would give me a yellow card. But oh my god, this was huge, and I stopped at the corner flag and they all were on me of course, Crespo and everyone. They pushed me down. It almost looked aggressive, and they were screaming, all of them: You're the top scorer!

And slowly it sank into me, this was historical, and I thought, this is my way of responding. When I came to Italy, people were saying: Zlatan doesn't score enough goals. Now I was the top scorer. Capocannoniere. No one could have any doubts now. But I stayed quite cool. I walked back out on the pitch and what really made me jump was something completely different.

It was Mourinho that old stone face. He who never changed his face had finally woken up. He went crazy. He was screaming and cheering like a little school kid, jumping up and down, and I smiled: I could get you going after all. But it took quite an effort.

I had to become the Capocannoniere with a heel kick.