une third, Kaka went to Real Madrid for sixty five million Euros, and a sometime later Cristiano Ronaldo was sold for to the same club for hundred million. That said a lot about the level of it, and I went to Moratti. Morrati was kind of cool, you know. He’d been around. He knew the business.

“Listen”, I said. “It has been incredible years and I’d love to stay, and I don’t care if United or Arsenal or anyone comes. But if Barca would show up...”

“Yes”, he said.

“Then I want you to at least talk to them. Not that you’re going to sell me for this or that sum, absolutely

not. It’s up to you. But promise that you’ll talk to them”, I continued, and then he looked at me with his

glasses and tousled hair, and of course, he got it, there was some money to make, despite the fact that

he was reluctant to sell me.

“Alright”, he said. “I promise.”

We went to Los Angeles on a training camp not much later. It was at the beginning of the pre-season. I shared room with Maxwell, and that sounded promising, like old times. But we were jet lagged and tired, and the journalists were wild. They flocked outside the hotel and the big thing of the day was that Barca couldn’t afford me. They were going for David Villa instead, not that the newspapers knew shit, but still, I had doubts myself. It had been up and down the last weeks. I was in despair. I had hope at one point, and now it looked bad again and it didn’t get better because of that fucking Maxwell.

Maxwell is the kindest person in the world, like I’ve said. But then he was driving me mad. We had followed each other since the first day in Amsterdam and we were now in the same situation again. We were both linked to Barca. But he was one step ahead, or even worse, he was really on his way while the door was closing for me. In addition, he couldn’t sleep. He just talked on the phone: Is it done? Is it? It got on my nerves. He was talking all the time. Barca this and Barca that. He went on all the time, day and night, that’s how it felt at least. I was surrounded by that talk when at the same time I didn’t hear anything about my deal, not much anyway. I drove me crazy. I got mad at Mino, damn Mino, fix it for Maxwell but not for me, and I called him.

“So you can work for him but not for me?” I said.

“Go and fuck yourself”, Mino said, and not much later Maxwell was a done deal for Barca.

Unlike my situation where the whole process was followed by the media he had managed to keep the negotiations in secret. No one believed that he was going to Barcelona. But when we that day stepped into the dressing room where everyone sat in a ring and waited for us, he told it like it were: “I’m going to Barcelona!”

People flew up: Really? Is it true? They started talking. Stuff like this gets people going. Inter wasn’t Ajax. The guys were cooler, but still, Barca had won the CL. Barca was the best team in the world. Obviously some of the guys were jealous, and Maxwell started to almost embarrassed to pack his stuff and football shoes.

“Take my shoes also”, I said out loud. “I’m coming after you”, then everyone started laughing, like what a joke.

I was too expensive to be sold, the thought. Or that I had it too well in Inter. No, Ibra stays. No one can afford him. It was what they thought.

“Sit down! You’re not going anywhere”, people shouted, and I joked around a little bit more, but honestly, I wasn’t sure myself.

I just knew that Mino worked as much as he could for me, and that nothing or everything could happen. One of those days we met Chelsea in a training game, and I got a tackle from John Terry. My hand was in pain afterwards. But I ignored it then. The hand? I couldn’t care less about it. You play with your feet, and I had other things to think about. Barca was buzzing in my head and I called Mino over and over again. It was like I had a fever in my body. But instead of good news I got a new knock.

Joan Laporta was the president in Barcelona. He was really a big shot. It was under his time the club had started to dominate Europe again, and I heard that he that flown with a private jet to Milano to eat dinner with Moratti and Marco Branca, the sporting director. I have of course hopes for that meeting. But nothing came out of it. Laporta had barely gotten out of the door before Morrati said:

“If you’re here for Zlatan you can go home again! He’s not for sale.”

I got furious when I heard about it. What the hell, they had promised, so I called Branca: What is Moratti doing? Branca didn’t want to take any blame. The meeting wasn’t about you, he said. It was a lie. I knew that trough Mino and I felt betrayed. But alright, I understood, it was a game. At least it could be. Not for sale could be another way to say expensive. But I had no clue what was really going on, and those damn journalists were like crazy. They asked all the time: What’s happening? Are a Barca player? Will you stay at Inter? I had no answers to give. I was in no man’s land, and even Mino who was working like crazy started to sound pessimistic:

“Barca is on, but they can’t get them to let go!” he said.

I walked on needles, and it was hot and messy in L.A. Also some stuff happened that indicated that I was going to stay. For the next season in Inter I was going to get the number ten shirt, the same number Ronaldo had. It was a lot of that, PR-stunts and other I got engaged for. Everything was insecure. The air was tense.

I heard that Joan Laporta and Txiki Begiristain, Barca’s sporting director, was in a private jet again. The trip had nothing to do with me. They guys were on their way to Ukraine to buy Dmytro Tjyhrynskyj, one of the key players in FK Sjachtar Donetsk who very unexpectedly had won the UEFA-cup that year. But the

trip got a meaning for us after all. Mini is slick, a fox. He knows the tricks. At that time he have had another meeting with Moratti, and felt an opening, after all. That’s why he called Txiki Begiristain who sat in the plane with Laporta. They were on their way back to Barcelona.

“You should land in Milano instead”, Mino said.

“Why?”

“Because I know that Moratti is at his house right now, and if you knock on the door, I think you can fix a deal with Ibrahimovic.”

“Alright, wait five minutes. I have to discuss this with Laporta.”

It was some long minutes and a high stake gambling. Moratti hadn’t promised anything, and he had no clue that he was going to get visitors. But now it all happened at once. Txiki Begiristain called back. “Alright”, he said. “We’ll turn back. We’ll land in Milano instead”, and of course, I got to know about it right away.

Mino called. There was calls and text’s here and there. The phones were on fire. Moratti was informed: “The Barca management is on their way to your house!” Maybe he thought that it was sudden, I don’t know, or that the guys could have booked a meeting in advance. But obviously, he received them.

He had style. He didn’t want to show lack of respect, and in that moment I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to do what I could.

I sent a text to Marco Branca. I wrote: “I know that Barca’s management is on their way to Moratti. You have promised me to talk to them, and you know that I want to move to that club. Don’t mess this up, and I won’t mess things up for you”, and I waited a long time for an answer. I didn’t get one. They had probably their reasons. Like I said, it’s all a game. But now I could feel it, it’s serious now. It’s happening now! Or the door is getting shut. It either or, and the minutes went on. What were they talking about in there? I had no clue.

I knew when they were going to meet and I looked at my clock and I expected it to take several hours. But after twenty five minutes Mino called, and I jumped up of course. What was it now? Had Moratti kicked them out at once again? My pulse rocketed. I got a dry mouth. “Yes”, I said.

“It’s done”, he answered.

“What’s done?”

“You’re going to Barcelona. Pack your bag.”

“Don’t be fucking kidding about stuff like this.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“How in hell did it happen so fast?”

“I don’t have time to talk now.”

He hung up and I got and at the same time didn’t get it. It was buzzing in my head. I was at the hotel. What was I supposed to do? I went out in the hall. I needed someone to talk to, and there was Patrick Vieira and you can trust that guy.

“I’m going to Barca”, I said.

He looked at me.

“Impossible”, he answered.

“Yeah, I promise”

“For how much?”

I didn’t know. I had no idea and I noticed it on him, he was doubtful. He thought I was too expensive, and I got doubts myself. Could it really be true? But soon Mino called again, and then it all made sense. Morrati had made a surprise.

He had only one demand, and it was a big one. He wanted to get one over Milan and sell me for more than what Real bought kaka for, and that wasn’t a small sum; it would mean the second biggest transfer ever, and Joan Laporta had apparently no problems with that.

He and Moratti had made a deal pretty quickly, and it took a while to digest the sums when I heard them. My eighty five million in the Ajax deal, what was that? Pennies in comparison. We were talking about close to seven hundred million in Swedish Kronor now.

Inter would get forty six million Euro in cash, and at the same time get Samuel Eto’o as part of the payment, and Samuel Eto’o wasn’t nobody. He had score thirty goals last season. He was one of the best goal scorers in the history of Barcelona and he was worth twenty million Euros. Together it became sixty six million Euros, one million Euros more than what Milan sold kaka, and you know. It was an uproar when it came out. I had never been through such a thing.

It was forty four degrees. It was like the air was boiling. Everyone was on me, and I felt it... I don’t know, honestly. I couldn’t think properly. We were going to have a training game against a Mexican team, and for the first time I had that number ten shirt in Inter, and for the last time for that matter. The years in the club were over. I started to get it. I had come to Inter when they hadn’t won the league in seventeen years. Now we had won it three years in a row, and I had become the top goal scorer. It was insane, and glanced at Mourinho, the Mourinho who I had at last gotten a reaction from when I score and I noticed, he was angry, and sad.

He didn’t want to lose me, and he put me on the bench in that game, and I felt it too: I was happy to go to Barca, but it wasn’t fun to leave Mourinho. That man is special. The year after he went to Real and in that turn he said goodbye to Materazzi. Materazzi is like the toughest defender in the world. But when he hugged Mourinho he started to cry, and I understand him in some way. Mourinho gets your feelings going, and I remember the day after when we met outside the hotel. He came up to me: “You can’t leave.”

“Sorry, I have to take this chance.”

“But if you leave then I’ll leave too.”

Oh my god, how do you answer to such a thing? It was something that got to me. If you leave then I’ll leave too.

“Thank you”, I said. “You’ve taught me a lot.”

“Thank you too”, he said.

We talked for a while, it was nice. But that man, he’s like me. He has pride and wanted to win at any cost, and of course, he couldn’t resist. He taunted me a bit as well: “Hey, Ibra!”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to Barca to win the CL, right?”

“Yes, maybe a little.”

“But you know, we’re the ones who’re going to win it. Don’t forget that. We’ll win!” Then we said goodbye.

I flew to Copenhagen and we got to our house at Limhamnsvägen and met up with Helena and the children. I was so anxious to tell about everything and come down to earth a little bit. But our home was like under siege. Journalists and fans slept outside our house. They rang our door. People shouted and sang out there. They were waving Barca flags. It was pure madness and my whole family got stressed out, my mom, dad, Sanela, Keki, no one dared to go out. People were after them as well, and I ran around and of course, I felt that my hand was in pain, but I didn’t think about it that much.

Things were happening all the time, details in my contract where put in. Eto’o was screwing around and wanted more money, Helena and I were discussing where to live, all that. There was no chance to come down to earth and thing everything through, and after only two days I went to Barcelona. At that time I was already used to private planes. It may sound snobby. But it’s not easy for me on those ordinary flights. Everyone’s on me. Chaos is created on the plane and airport.

But now I took an ordinary flight. I had talked to the Barca gang on the phone, and as you know, Barca and Real are at war. They’re big rivals, and there’s a lot of politics in it, Catalonia against the central power, all that, but the clubs also have different philosophies.

“In Barcelona we keep our feet on the ground. We’re not like Real. We take ordinary flights”, they told me, and sure, that sounded sympathetic. I flew with Spanair and landed around five at the afternoon in Barcelona, and if I hadn’t understood the level of it yet, I got it now.

It was chaos. Hundreds of fans and journalists were waiting for me and the newspapers were writing about it all the time. They talked about Ibramania. It was insane. I wasn’t just the most expensive transfer in Barca history. No other new player had ever brought the kind of attention before. I was going to be presented at the arena, Camp Nou, that day. It’s a tradition for the club. When Ronaldinho came in 2003 thirty thousand people where there. The same amount was at the arena when Therry Henry came. But now... at least the double were waiting for me, and I shuddered, honestly.

We were going to hold a press conference first. Several hundred journalists were there in the room. There

were worries: Why isn’t he coming? But we could still not go in. Eto’o was messing with Inter to the end

and Barcelona was waiting for a final confirmation on the deal and the time went and the voices in there

became more and more heated and nervous: there was an outbreak in the air. We heard it as if we were

in the middle of it. Me, Mino and Laporta and the other big shots sat behind the scene and waited: What’s

happening? Are we going to sit here forever?

“It’s enough now”, Mino said.

“We must have the confirmation...”

“Screw it”, he said and got the others with him and we went in eventually.

I had never seen that many reporters and I answered the questions, but all the time I heard how it roared out there at the arena. Everything was crazy, I promise, and afterwards I went and changed into the Barca clothes. They gave me number nine, the same number that Ronald had in the club, and no it really started to get emotional. The arena was boiling. It was sixty or seventy thousand people there and I tried to catch my breath, and then I went out. I will never be able to describe it.

I had a ball in my hand and I went to the rack they had put up and around me the crowd was shouting. They were shouting my name. The whole arena roared and the press guy ran around and told me stuff all the time: “Say Visca barca”, Go Barca, and I did as he said, and I did some tricks, back heels and stuff like that, and the crowd just shouted more and more and then I kissed the badge on the shirt, and I have to tell you this.

I got a lot of shit for that thing: how could he kiss the badge when he had just left Inter? Didn’t he care about his former fans? Everyone was moaning about that shit. But the press guys had told me to do it. They were really wild: “Kiss the badge, kiss the badge”, and I was like a little boy. I obeyed. My whole body was vibrating, and I remember that I wanted to go inside the locker room to calm down.

It was too much adrenalin. I was shaky, and when it was over I looked at Mino. Mino had never been more than ten meters away from me. In moments like that he’s everything to me, and together we went into the locker room and looked at all the names on the wall, Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, Henry and Maxwell, all of them, and then mine, Ibrahimovic. It was there already, and then I looked at Mino again. He was quite taken. It was like he had a child. None of us could get it. It felt bigger than we had expected, and in that moment I got a text in my phone. Who was it? It was Patrick Vieira. “Enjoy”, he wrote. “These things doesn’t happen to a lot of players”, and honestly, you can hear everything from everyone possible. But when guys like Vieira sends you a message like that, then you know, you have been through something incredible, and I sat down and took a breath.

Afterwards I told the journalists: “I’m the happiest man in the world!” ”This is the biggest thing that has happened to me since the birth of my boys”, stuff like that, other athletes may have said it before in similar situations. But I really meant it. This was big, and I went to hotel Princesa Sofia that also was under siege by fans who thought it was awesome to see me drinking coffee in the lobby.

At night I had trouble sleeping, not so strange obviously. My body was on fire and sure, I felt it, my hand wasn’t in such a good condition. But I didn’t think about it so much then either. There were so many other things to think about, and I didn’t think there was going to be any problems at the medical the next day.

When you’re new at a club it’s routine that you get examined up and down: How much to you weigh? How tall are you? How many per cent body fat do you have? Do you feel healthy? “My hand hurt”, I sad at the examination, and the doctors gave an x-ray.

I had a fissure in my hand, a fissure! It couldn’t be true. One of the most important things when you’re new in a club is that you get to train during the pre-season and get to learn the players and the game. But it looked bad now, and we had to make a quick decision. I spoke with the coach, Guardiola. He sounded nice and said that he was sorry that he couldn’t be there to welcome me. He had been in London with the team, and just like everyone else he explained: you have to get healthy as soon as possible. We weren’t going to take any risks and that’s why it was decided that I was going to be operated on right away.

A hand surgeon put in two steel nails in my hand so that the fracture could heal quicker. The same day I went back to Los Angeles to training camp. Somehow it was absurd. I had just been there with Inter. No I arrived with a new club and a big plaster around my hand. It would take at least three weeks for me to get healthy.