he attention was insane, and I remember one thing Maxi said afterwards, or two things actually. The first one was just funny. He asked: "Why is everyone looking at you, daddy?" and I tried explaining to him: "Daddy plays football. People watch me on TV and they think I'm very good", and after that I felt proud: daddy isn't too bad. Then it took a new turn. It was our nanny who told me.

Maxi had asked why everyone was looking at HIM, because of course, that was something he'd felt those days, especially when he arrived with me to Milan, and worst of all, he had added: "I don't like that they're looking at me like that." I'm sensetive about those things. Is he also gonna start feeling he's different now? I hate it when kids feel pointed at or out of place, also because so much of my own childhood comes back: Zlatan doesn't belong here. He's like that. He's like this.

Those things were going through my head, and I tried being as much as possible with Maxi and Vincent during that time. They are wonderful, wild guys. But it wasn't easy. The chaos had erupted. After I had talked to the journalists outside the Camp Nou I went home to Helena.

She hadn't planned on moving again so quickly, she would probably have liked to stay. But she knew it better than anyone: if I'm not comfortable on the football field, I'm like a faded flower. And that affects the whole family and I told Galliani: I want to go to Milano with the whole gang, Helena, the boys, the dog and Mino. Galliani nodded, si, si. Come on, all of you! Apparently he had planned something special, and we jumped on one of the club's private jets and left Barcelona. I remember landing at Linate in Milan. It was like Obama was coming. There were eight black Audis lined up by the runway and a red carpet was rolled out, and I stepped out with Vincent in my arms.

I was interviewed by a few selected reporters for a few minutes, guys from the Milan Channel and Sky, and hundreds of fans were screaming from the other side of the fence. It was big. You could feel it in the air. The club had waited a long time for this. Five years ago, when Berlusconi had had reserved a table for us at the restaurant Giannino they had thought it was a done a deal and had made all sorts of preparations; one thing was something for their website, like a cool effect, first the page was black, and then came something like lightning in the middle, and boom, boom, like a sound effect, right before my name appeared, Ibrahimovic, like a flashing, booming banner, and the words "Finally ours".

It was cool and now they did that thing, and no one had expected the reactions. The site crashed. It went black, and I remember walking by that fence at the airport where all the fans screamed my name, "Ibra, Ibra".

Then I jumped into one of the Audi cars, and we went through the city. It was chaos. I'm telling you. Zlatan had landed. There were cars and motorbikes and TV-cameras following us, and of course, I got a kick out of that. The adrenaline was pumping, and I realized more and more what kind of black hole I had

been living in at Barca. It was like I had been locked up in prison and was greeted by a party outside the walls when I came out, and everywhere I felt the same thing: all of Milan had been waiting for me and everyone wanted me to take responsibility. I was expected to bring back the trophies, and I liked, to tell you the truth.

The street outside the Hotel Boscolo where we were going to stay had been closed by police. Outside people were screaming and waving, and inside the hotel, the entire hotel staff was lined, bowing. In Italy football players are like gods, and we got the big suite, and we noticed it immediately. Everything was so well organized. This club had power and tradition, and honestly, I was jumping inside of me. I wanted to play football. The same day Milan were playing Lecce in the first game of the season and I told Galliani I wanted to play. But that wasn't possible. My papers weren't ready. But still, I went to the stadium. I was to be presented at half time, and I'll never forget that feeling. I didn't want to go into the locker room. I didn't want to mess with the team's preparations. But nearby was a lounge and I sat there with Galliani and Berlusconi and some other hotshots.

"You remind me of a player I once had", Berlusconi said.

Of course I sensed who he was talking about, but I wanted to be polite.

"Who?" I said.

"A guy who could take care of things on his own."

It was Van Basten he was talking about and he welcomed me to the club: "It's a great honour", and all that stuff, and then we went up to the stands together. I was sitting two seats away from him because of some political reason. There's always a lot going on with that man. But still it was quite peaceful and calm, at least considering what would happen next. Two months later the big circus around Berlusconi with rumours about young girls and trials exploded. But then he was sitting there looking satisfied, and I started to feel the vibes. People were screaming my name again, and I walked down out on the field, and down there they rolled out a long red carpet and put up a little stage, and I was waiting by the sideline for a long time, at least it felt like that. The stadium was boiling. San Siro was sold out, although it was August and vacation time, and I stepped out. There was like thunder around me, and I became a little boy again. It hadn't been long since I stood at Camp Nou in a similar situation, and I walked out with all the screaming and applauding and along the carpet a lot of kids were standing. I hi-fived all of them and walked up on the stage.

"Now we're going to win everything", I said in italian and then things got worse.

The stadium was shaking and I was given a match jersey. It said Ibrahimovic, but didn't have a number. I didn't have one yet. I had been given a few to choose between, but none of them were good, and maybe I could have eleven, like Klaas-Jan Huntelaar now had. Huntelaar was on the transfer list but I had to wait since he hadn't been sold yet. In any case, now it would begin. I was supposed to make sure Milan won their first Scudetto in seven years.

A new golden era would begin, I had promised that.

Both me and Helena got bodyguards and maybe someone thinks: what kind of luxery is that? It's not a luxery. There's chaos around football players in Italy, there's a tremendous pressure, and honestly, some creepy things had happened, not just the fire outside our door in Turin. When I was in Inter and was playing a game at San Siro, we had Sanela here visiting. She and Helena drove out there in our new big Mercedes. There was chaos and traffic outside the stadium. Helena had to go very slowly and people around her had plenty of time looking in and seeing who she was. A guy on a vespa went by a bit too fast and a bit too close and smashed the rearview mirror.

At that point Helena didn't know if it was deliberately or not. It was more like: Oh no, what's he doing? She

pulled down the window to try and fix the mirror and saw something from the side: a new guy wearing a helmet came rushing towards her, and then she knew: something was fishy, it's a trap. She tried pulling up the window but the car was new and she didn't find the right button so she weren't able to close the window in time. The guy came up and hit her in the face.

There was a big fight and her car smashed into the car in front and they guy tried pulling her out of the window. But thank god Sanela was there. She grabbed on to Helena's body and held her back, it was

insane. A fight over life and death, that's what it felt like, and finally Sanela managed to pull Helena back into the car and Helena turned around somehow.

She delivered a kick in the middle of the guy's face from an impossible angle, and she had like eleven centimeter heels. That must have hurt pretty badly, and the guy ran away. By then people had gathered around the car. It was complete chaos, and Helena was bruised and beaten.

It could have ended badly. But there have been a few of those things. That's the reality. We needed protection, and anyway, my bodyguard, a nice good guy, drove me out to Milanello, the club's training facility, the first day.

I was going through all the regular medical tests. Milanello is almost an hour outside Milan, and the fans were waiting outside the gates, and we drove in. I felt the weight of the traditions in Milan and I greeted all the legends of the team, Zambrotta, Nesta, Ambrosini, Gattuso, Pirlo, Abbiati, Seedorf, Inzaghi, and the young Brazilian, Pato, and the coach Allegri, who just had arrived from Cagliari and didn't have much experience but seemed good. Sometimes when you're new in a team you're questioned. There's a fight about your status, like: Do you think you're the star here? But here, I felt it immediately. They all had respect for me, and maybe I shouldn't say that. But many players told me afterwards: We lifted twenty percent when you came. You pulled us out of the shadow. Milan hadn't only had a tough time in the league during several years. The club hadn't even been the best in town.

Inter had dominated. Inter had dominated ever since I came to the club in 2006 with that attitude Capello had given me, which somewhere said: Training is just as important as playing games. You can't train softly and play games aggressively. You have to be at war at every moment. Otherwise I'll be coming after you, and I walked around trying to pep the guys and made jokes, what had been natural for me everywhere, except in Barcelona. In a way it reminded me of my first time in Inter. The guys were like saying: lead us, lead us, and I was thinking: Now the balance of power will shift again. I went to every practice full of force, and just like before Barcelona I was yelling at people. I made a fuss and was screaming. I made fools out of those who lost and people were telling me: What's happening? We haven't seen the guys tagged like this for ages.

There was another new guy on the team. His name was Robson de Souza. He was called Robinho. I had been involved in his transfer. Galliani had asked me already back in Barcelona: "What do you think about Robinho? Can you play with him?"

"He's a wonderful player, just bring him. The rest will work out."

The club paid eighteen million euros for him, and that was considered cheap, and Galliani got a lot of praise for that too. He had managed to buy both me and Robinho at sale price. Not too long ago Manchester City had paid way more than twice that for Robinho. But still the buy was a bit of a gamble. Robinho had been a wonder kid who had gone a bit wrong. No one is a bigger god than Pelé in Brazil, and he was bossing Santos' youth academy in the 90's, Santos which was Pelé's original club and had had a rough ride for many years. People were dreaming of him finding a new super talent, not that many believed it seriously. A new Pelé! A new Ronaldo, the kind of player that isn't born many times during a century. But already at the first practice Pelé stood there flabbergasted. He even blew the whistle, people say, and walked up to a poor and skinny guy on the field. "I almost start crying", he said. "You remind me of myself."

That was Robinho, a guy who grew up and became the big star everyone had expected, at least for starters. He was sold to Real Madrid and later to Manchester City. But lately he had received some negative publicity. There had been a lot of drama around him. We became close in Milan. We were both guys who at grown up under difficult conditions, and there were similarities between our lives. We had both been criticized for dribbling too much, and I loved his technique. He was a bit too unfocused on the pitch, and was doing too many tricks on his side.

I was on him a lot about that. I was on everyone in the team, and I was full of energy a head of my first game against Cesena, away, and you can imagine the hype around me. The papers were writing page after page: now I would prove what I meant to my new club.

It was me, Pato and Ronaldhino on top, and that sounded heavy. Robinho started on the bench. But it was hopeless. I was trying too hard, just like during my first time in Ajax. I wanted too much. That's why it didn't work, and it was 2-0 to Cesena after the first half. To Cesena and we were Milan! It was crazy, and I was angry and furious on the pitch. But fuck, nothing worked. But still I fought like an animal and at the end we got a penalty. Maybe, maybe we could turn it around? I was taking it, and I walked up and hit the ball - in the post. We lost and how do you think I felt? I was doing a drug test after the game, and came into that room, so pissed off I broke a table, and the medical guy in there was terrified: "Take it easy, take it easy."

"Listen", I said. "You don't tell me what to do. Otherwise you'll end up like that table."

That wasn't nice, and the guy was totally innocent. But I had gone into Milan with that attitude, and my eyes turned black when we lost. Then you should let me break things in peace. I was boiling with anger and I was just happy when the papers went after me the next day and gave me bad ratings. I deserved it and I clenched my fists. But still, it didn't loosen up in the next game either, and not in the next, although I scored my first goal away against Lazio, and it looked like we'd win. But in the final minute we let the equalizer in, and that time there were no drug tests.

I went straight into the locker room, and in there that big board where the coach writes his tactics, and I kicked it with full force. The board flew away like a rocket and touched a player.

"Don't play with fire. It's dangerous", I roared and then everyone became quiet and I think they all knew exactly what I meant: we should win, nothing else, and we shouldn't be fucking letting in goals during the last few minutes. We couldn't continue like this.

We only had five points after four games and Inter went to the top of the league, just like always, and I felt the pressure on my shoulders more and more. We were still staying at the Hotel Boscolo, and had started getting some routines. Helena who always had stayed out of the spotlight and public life did her first interview ever. It was for the magazine Elle, and it created quite a circus. Every little word about us would create headlines. I could say something pointless like: "I haven't been eating so much meatballs and macaroni since I met Helena." And the papers would write about Zlatan's big declaration of love for Helena, and I felt it more and more, I was changing. I had always gotten a kick from attention, but now I was becoming more private and drawn back.

I didn't like having too many people around me, and we lived more secluded. I stayed indoors, and after a couple of months we moved to an apartment in the middle of the city that the club had arranged for us. That was nice of course, but it didn't have our furniture and things, it was nice, but quite impersonal. In the mornings the bodyguard was waiting for me downstairs in the lobby and we drove out to Milanello, and I had breakfast before practice and lunch afterwards, and it was a lot of PR- stuff, photos to take and things like that, and as always in Italy I was away from my family a lot. We stayed at a hotel the nights before the away games and were locked up at Milanello before the home games, and that started to affect me.

I missed a lot at home, Vincent grew up, he was talking more and more. It was crazy really. Maxi and Vincent had moved around so much that they talked three languages fluently, Swedish, Italian and English.

Life came into a new phase, and I was often thinking: What will I do the day my career is over, and Helena begins her again? There were some thoughts like that. Sometimes I was looking forward to the time after football. Sometimes I wasn't.

But I wasn't less tagged because of that, and quite soon things started to work on the pitch. I decided seven, eight straight games, and the old hysteria woke up again. It was "Ibra, Ibra" everywhere. The papers made photo montages. It was me, and on top of me the whole team, like I was carrying Milan on my shoulders. It was that kind of talk. I was hotter than ever.

But I knew one thing better than most at this time: In football you can be a god one day, and not worth shit the next, and step by step we got closer to the most important game in the league that fall, the derby against Inter at San Siro, and there were no doubts about it, the Ultras would hate me. The pressure

would be even bigger. And I also got some problems with a guy in the team. His name was Oguchi Onyewu and he was American and as big as a house, and I told a friend in the team: "Something serious is about to happen. I can feel it."