driano Galliani was sitting there at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome with his eyes closed, praying: "We must win, we must win", and I really understand him. It was the seventh of May 2011. It was half past ten at night and the minutes were passing by. They passed too slowly, and Allegri and the guys on the bench were nervous. No matter if you believed in God or not it was a good time to pray. We played against Roma, and if we only got one point the scudetto would be ours, the first one in seven years.

I was back on the field. How good didn't that feel? I had been away quite some time because of my suspensions. But now I could take part in securing the league, not that I thought it would be easy. It was a war between Roma and Milan too, not just because those are the big cities. It was an important game for both teams.

We were fighting for the first place, and Roma for the fourth. Fourth place is a big thing because then you'll play the Champions League and that means a lot of money from TV-rights. But something had happened back in 1989, and you don't forget things that easily in italian football. Things are in the walls, like I said. Things stay in the air. Everyone remembers the penalty Ronaldo didn't get that time. But this was something more serious. Antonio De Falchi, a young Roma supporter, travelled to Milan to watch Roma's game against Milan. His mother was worried: "Don't wear any red or yellow. Don't show that your a Roma supporter." And the guy obeyed,

He dressed anonymously. He could be a kid from any club, but when one of Milan's hardcore supporters came up to him asking for a smoke, he was revealed immediately by his accent, and it was like "Are you a Roma supporter, you fuck?" and then he was surrounded. He was kicked and beaten to death. It was a terrible tragedy and before our game there was a tifo for him.

A tifo is a celebration from the stands, and Antonio De Falchi's name lit up the stadium in yellow and red colours, and that was a beautiful gesture of course, but it also affected the atmosphere in there. It was a big and nervy day. Totti is the big star in Roma. He's played for the club since he was thirteen years old. He's a god in Rome. He's won the World Cup, the top scorer award, the golden shoe, lots of things, and although he wasn't exactly young anymore, he had shown great form recently, so of course: there were Totti banners everywhere and Roma flags, but there were a lot of Milan- and Ibra banners as well. We had many fans who had travelled down there and hoping to celebrate the league victory, and bengal fires filled the place with smoke.

The game began at a quarter to nine, as always. Me and Robinho were on top. Cassano and Pato were on the bench and we started well. But in the fourteenth minute Vucinic came free. It felt like a goal, he'll score. But Abbiati, our goalie, made an incredible save. It was pure reflex, and things started to feel insecure. Roma had beaten us at the last game home at San Siro, and we faught even harder. I was chasing up there, and I had several chances and Robinho hit the post. Prince Boateng had an amazing chance but didn't score, and time passed. 0-0 would be enough, and the clock kept ticking and finally ninety minutes had passed. It should be over.

Then the fucking referee says: Five minutes extra time! Five minutes, and we kept playing and honestly, I think more people than Galliani were praying. Seven years without a scudetto is a long time for a club like Milan, and now we were close, and do you remember that? I had promised we would win again. It was the first thing I said when they presented me at San Siro, and of course, athletes say lots of different things. They promise gold and success, and still it turns out like shit. But some, like Muhammad Ali, they really kept their promises and I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to talk and deliver. I had come to Milan with my mentality and I had cursed and promised and worked and fought and now… the seconds were counted down, ten, nine, eight, seven… and there!

The ref blew his whistle and the victory was ours. Everyone stormed the pitch and smoke came from the stands. People were screaming and singing. It was beautiful and chaotic. It was absolutely wonderful, and Allegri, our coach, was thrown in the air and Gattuso ran around with a magnum champagne bottle spraying and pouring on everyone. Cassano was interviewed by television and everyone around me were totally crazy. It was a lot: "Thank you Ibra, you kept your promise", but also crazy things.

We were all high on adrenaline, and Cassano is a cool guy. He could use a kick. I walked past him and

the TV-crew and fired a foot in his head, not hard, of course not, but not light either and he flinched.

"What's he doing?" the reporter asked.

"He's crazy."

"Seems like that!"

"But a player who helps us win the league can do anything he wants to", Cassano said and laughed.

But he was in pain. He walked around with a bag of ice to his head afterwards. Maybe a bit of rough love, and then the party began. I didn't fall asleep in a bathtub that night. But it was quite wild, and honestly, when I thought about it, it was big. I had been six years in Italy and won the scudetto every year. Has anyone else done that? I doubt it, and we didn't just win the league. We also won the Supercoppa, the meeting between the winner of the league and the cup. We went to China. There was chaos around me there too, and I scored and was man of the match and got my eighteenth title trophy, my eighteenth, and I was happy, to tell you the truth.

But something had happened to me. Football wasn't everything anymore. I had my family, and I had said no to the national team. I liked Lars Lagerbäck. But still I hadn't forgotten about that thing in Gothenburg. I don't forget easily, and I wanted more time with Helena and the boys. That's why I didn't play with Sweden for a while, but still, it had been that last summer in Barca when many things were so difficult and I felt like the different and difficult guy from the suburbs again, he who didn't really fit in.

That summer many of my teammates in Barcelona played and won the World Cup, and I felt it more and more: I miss that, but not that I was going back to the national team. It took too much time. I was almost never at home with the kids. I missed so many things. But around that time Lasse Lagerbäck quit. Erik Hamrén became the new coach of the national team. He called me: "Hi there. I'm the new coach."

"I have to tell you right away", I said. "I have no plans coming back."

"What?"

"I don't know what you've been told. Maybe you've been given some false promises, but I'm not playing."

"Damn, Zlatan. That surprises me. I had no idea."

But he was a stubborn bastard. I like stubborn bastards. He kept going: It's gonna be awesome. It's gonna be good, all that stuff, and I invited him to our house in Malmö, and I immediately felt, this guy is cool. We synced. He wasn't a normal Swedish coach. He dared crossing some lines and those guys are always the best. I don't believe in too many rules, you know that. Sometimes you have to break some rules. That's when you progress. I mean: what happened with the guys in MFF's youth team who always behaved? Are there books written about them?

I finally said yes and we agreed, I would become the captain and be a leader also in our national team. I liked it. I even liked the fact that I would be the one taking the crap from media if we lost. It got me going, and when I met the guys in the team I could see that they were thinking: What the fuck is this? Normally a few fans come and watch us practice. Over six thousand came to this little gathering in Malmö, and I calmly said:

"Welcome to my world!"

Coming to Malmö is always special. Sure, I'm often there. Malmö is our home. But then we usually stay at home in our house. It's something else playing there. That's when the memories come back to me. The summer after the scudetto and the Supercoppa win Malmö FF and us in Milan were going to play a friendly. The negotiations had been going on for a long time between the clubs and the sponsors, but when tickets went on sale people were lining up. It was raining, I've heard. People were standing in long lines with their umbrellas and the tickets sold out in twenty minutes. The pressure was incredible and there were lines back and forth in Pildamms Park.

I've said some shit about Malmö FF through the years. I didn't forget what Hasse Borg and Bengt Madsen did, but I love the club too, and won't forget when we came to Malmö that day. The whole city took me in its arms. It felt like a carnival. There was chaos everywhere and roadblocks and hysteria and crowds. People were jumping and screaming when they saw me. Many had been there for hours just to get a glimpse of me. Malmö had a party. Everyone was waiting for Zlatan, and I had ran into many stadiums with crowds screaming and cheering. But that was special; it was both then and now.

I was my life which came back and the entire stadium was singing and screaming my name. In that old documentary, "Blådårar", I'm sitting on a train just talking freely:

"I've decided one thing", I say. "I'm getting a purple Diablo, a car, Diablo, it's a Lamborghini. And the plate will say: Toys… in English."

It's kind of childish. I was young. I was eighteen, and an awesome car was the coolest thing for a kid like me and world was waiting for me. But those words went all around: Did you hear what that guy Zlatan said, that little jerk. A purple Diablo! It was a long time ago. It was far away, but still close somehow, and that night at the stadium in Malmö, the fans folded out a huge cloth that coverd the whole section and I was looking at it, and it took a second. Then I got it. It was a drawing of me next to car with the plate "Toys".

"Zlatan, come home. We'll get you the dream car" it said.

That felt in my heart, or like one of my friends said once: It's all a fairy tale. It's a journey from those hoods to a dream.

Not too long ago someone sent me a photograph, a picture of the Annelunds bridge. That bridge is on the border of Rosengård, and on that bridge someone had put up a sign: "You can take a guy away from Rosengård, but you can't take Rosengård out of a guy" it said, signed Zlatan.

I hadn't heard about that. It was news to me and during this time I got injured. I sprained a foot and went home to Malmö for a few days to do rehab. I had a fitness coach from Milan with me, and one afternoon we went out to the bridge to take a look at that quote. It was a special feeling. It was summer and it was warm and I got out of the car and looked at that sign and felt that something was happening to me. That place was special.

It was under that bridge that my dad was robbed and got his lung punctured. Not far away is the tunnel where I ran home scared in the dark to my mom on Cronmans street and had the lampposts as beacons. It was my childhood neighbourhood. The streets where everything began, and I felt, how can I put it? Big and small at the same time.

I was the hero returning home. I was the football star, but also the scared kid inside that tunnel again, he who thought he'd make it if only he ran fast enough. I was everything at once, and I promise, a hundred memories came back to me.

I remembered my dad with his headphones, the empty fridge and the beer cans, but also how he carried my bed on his back, mile after mile, and how he watched over me at the hospital. I remembered my mom's face when she got back from her cleaning jobs, and her hug when I left for the World Cup in Japan. I remembered my first football shoes; the ones I bought at Ekohallen for fifty-nine ninety next to the tomatoes and vegetables, and I remembered my dreams about becoming the most complete football player I possibly could, and I thought: That dream came true and it wouldn't have been possible without all the great players and coaches I had played with and I felt, I was grateful. There was Rosengård. There was the tunnel. Far away I could hear a train pass over the bridge. Someone pointed at me.

A woman wearing a veil came up to me and wanted to take a picture of the two of us and I smiled at her.

People were starting to gather around me. It was a fairy tale, and I was Zlatan Ibrahimovic.