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Editorial Reviews. Review. “Like its author, Andrea Pirlo, I Think Therefore I Play is short, subtle Due to its large file size, this book may take longer to download . Download with Facebook by Vivien Lavau Indexing by David Toner Ebook production by Laura Kincaid, A simple dedication for special people Andrea Pirlo For Niccolò – because every day is In this book Andrea says, and I quote: “After the World Cup in Brazil, I'm going to retire from international football. I' ll be. Read "I Think Therefore I Play" by Andrea Pirlo available from Rakuten Kobo. I Am Zlatan - My Story On and Off the Field ebook by Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Alex Ferguson My Autobiography . April 15, ; Imprint: BackPage Press; ISBN: ; Language: English; Download options: EPUB 2 (Adobe DRM).


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Read online or Download I Think Therefore I Play (Full PDF ebook with essay, The vibrancy, humor and vivid insight that carry Pirlo's autobiography along. Aug 14, You can easily download I think therefore I play Pdf, I think therefore I play autobiography, and more focused on important events from Pirlo's. Andrea Pirlo: I Think Therefore I Play - Ebook written by Andrea Pirlo. Read this book using Google Play Books app on your PC, android, iOS devices. Download for offline reading, highlight, bookmark or take notes while you read Andrea Pirlo: .

Andrea Pirlo has been one of the greatest midfielders of his compeers, for both club and country. He has won scudetti, a World Cup and the Champions League, and is still playing at the top level at the age of It begins with the player pensive over a beautiful Cartier pen, given to him on leaving AC Milan, and whether it is fair to use it to sign for Juventus. We meet Adriano Galliani in this scene, and go on to meet an array of other characters too: Berlusconi, who is a entertaining joker; Agnelli and Moratti, who see themselves as guardians of their respective clubs for the fans; Cassano, who claims to have slept with seven-hundred women, and Gattuso, who regardless of being portrayed as a bumpkin, was a lion on the pitch. But readers will find themselves in numerous, astounding situations.

He held up pretty well until a few days before the semi-final against Germany in Dortmund. At a certain point he raised his leg just a little, and was instantly struck by the terrible realisation that something had gone. He managed to hold it together in front of Lippi and the rest of the squad, but back in his room it was a different story. You take the punch and suffer the consequences. There were some awful things directed at his parents, two absolute diamonds.

Every day there was post for him. The postman always rings twice, but if we were expecting to see Maria De Filippi14 on the doorstep, it turned out to be Hannibal Lecter, standing there with poison pen letters in his hand. Daniele took it all really badly. A four-match ban is long enough under normal circumstances.

We knew we were losing one of our most important assets. Almost immediately, though, friendship got the upper hand. Mates are there to be cared for, not questioned. You love them regardless. De Rossi came back and scored a penalty in the final, a nice reply with return receipt to all those classless scribblers.

Judging by the spelling and grammar mistakes that cropped up in between the insults, they lacked intellect as well as dignity. Every time I see him, I tell him the same thing. And I want to play in the final again.

He got off at Ausfahrt. Ultras are the self-styled most passionate, vocal and committed supporters of a team. Died in , but his songs remain popular A Cristian Zaccardo own goal saw the States draw level, before De Rossi was sent off for crudely elbowing striker Brian McBride in the face and drawing blood as the pair jumped for a high ball. I, on the other hand, definitely am. Pirla and Pirlo, both the feminine and masculine forms, just to cover all the bases. My two Roman mates, Nesta and De Rossi, would call me a cazzaro.

But therein lies the beauty. With him not being a man of letters, a distinguished orator or a member of the Accademia della Crusca,17 whenever Rino opened his mouth the dressing room turned into the Rio Carnival. People would be blowing raspberries, making trumpet noises, doing the conga. Always the same reaction. This one time, Rino de Janeiro, like me, was waiting for his contract to be renewed. I did the negotiating on his behalf by means of a single message.

Gattuso would come in, brush his teeth, stick on his leopard-print pyjamas, get into bed, take out a book and look at the pictures. Rino took it really well, despite risking a massive heart attack. Just to prove he was even handed. Another time we gave him a soaking with a fire extinguisher. A draw away to the Republic of Ireland had been enough to secure our qualification for the World Cup in South Africa and so the last group game, against Cyprus in Parma four days later, had become almost like a friendly.

Lippi gave us a night off in Florence, and almost all of us went out for dinner. When we got back, we were quite drunk, actually very drunk, and we ended up chatting in the lounge. Everyone had the same idea: We knocked on the door and out Rino came, screwing his eyes up as he advanced. He left me at the mercy of that monster in its underpants, absolutely dripping with foam and shouting total gibberish. Listening to him, though, I knew he was beginning to wake up and regain his senses.

I tried to escape, but I was already done for. You could be a gazelle or a lion — it makes absolutely no difference. With the door safely locked, De Rossi came over all bold. He said goodnight and returned to his room. At the World Cup, because things were going well, he kept the same tracksuit on for more than a month. It was something like 40 degrees in Germany and he was going about dressed like a deep-sea diver. From round about the quarter-finals, he began to stink.

Never mind a fire extinguisher — what he really needed was an industrial supply of lavender. We got beat yesterday. I was better if we won. Can you repeat it? Gattuso would grab a fork and try to stick it in us. On more than one occasion, he struck his intended target and the fork sank into our skin. We were as soft as tuna; the kind you can cut with a breadstick. But even when he was angry, he was one of the good guys.

I picture him with that No. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. He really does belong in a film. You need pillars like him in the dressing room.

You run less, but you count for more, in terms of personality. Just having that knowledge drastically reduced the chances of people fucking up. Once upon a time, teams had players who were the very symbol of that club.

Standard bearers. And clubs would make a point of holding onto every piece of the flag: Nowadays, the only thing that counts is saving money.

We normal folk go hungry and they want to hang on to their millions. What a bunch of tight gits they are: Are you telling me that the big cheeses, after organising all kinds of clandestine dinners and secret meetings to get a player to their club and then showering him with gold, can suddenly ask for it all back? How can an employer change at will the terms of a contract that he himself set out? And at least from that point of view, nobody can call us pirlas.

Can be used quasi-affectionately An organisation that seeks to preserve the purity of the Italian language I know Antonio Conte. One little speech, a few simple words, was all it took for him to win me over.

Me and the whole of Juventus, a planet we disembarked on pretty much at the same time. On the first day of our training camp up in the mountains at Bardonecchia, he got everyone together in the gym to introduce himself.

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Crazy stuff; absolutely appalling. One thing in particular was very obvious: We need to do whatever it takes to pull ourselves up and start being Juve again. When Conte speaks, his words assault you. They crash through the doors of your mind, often quite violently, and settle deep within you.

Get it into your heads that we must return to the levels where we belong, the ones that are written into the history of this club. It would be criminal for us not to finish in the top three this year. Conte was like a man possessed, the very essence of Juventus burned deep into his soul. Full stop. He runs on Conte-time and so do we. He obsesses over every last detail, exploiting it to his advantage.

If Arrigo Sacchi was a genius, then what does that make Conte? I was expecting him to be good, but not this good. Fizzy water. Very fizzy water. He can see in advance what might happen in the 45 minutes still to come. He was the exact same when he did play. He struggles to sleep and goes over and over everything, then hits the rewind button in his head and does it all again.

He still managed to have that effect even during the long ban linked to the strange Calcioscommesse affair, dating back to his time at Siena. Conte supplied the ideas and words, and they put their faces to them. I never once saw him cry or get upset during that whole period.

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Just before the sentence was delivered, we were out at a training camp in China and the tension was writ large on his face. He was spending whole days on the phone to his lawyers. He never went into specifics with us players; he was good at keeping us separate from his problems and making out that nothing had changed.

Only on one occasion, just before the bomb went off, did he ask the leaders for help. You need to give me a hand, even more so than normal. He looked after the defensive side of our game and when he left, we really felt his absence.

It was 3am. The real problem lies in official, authorised betting. For me, the authorities should take a drastic decision with regards to Serie B and Serie C: So they make an agreement amongst themselves to manipulate the result, place a bet at the bookies and manage to get by until the end of the month. Then until the end of the year. Then until who knows when.

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Not taking that first step makes the second one impossible. Personally, I think that any player caught with their hand in the till should be struck off there and then. No second chances for those who steal and play hide and seek all at the same time. Nobody has ever tried to involve me in anything, and in that respect it was a blessing to spend so many years at Milan.

You go out with a single thought in your head: If anyone had ever tried to get me involved in shit like that, I would have kicked them into the middle of next week.

And, yes, we can all appear blind and deaf. In Serie B all sorts of crazy stuff goes on, especially towards the end of the season.

There are some really surreal games and nobody ever says a word. No player has ever stuck their head above the parapet.

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There are whispers that even in Serie A, certain teams will allow themselves to be led by the hand, so to speak. The really difficult step for a player to take is reporting a fellow pro who tries to involve him in a fix. What do you do? But how on earth do you then go and tell the authorities that he was about to commit the mother of all mistakes? You could end up paying the price for an attempted fraud despite having absolutely no guilt.

In addition to getting rid of betting, there should be incentives for winning. If Team B lose, Team A currently top of the table go on to win the league. So Team A approach Team C and say: There are too many worries and the lifestyle is far too close to that of a player. It was a real team effort that made us world champions in Germany but, at one point, Lippi had this to say about the group: His face was contorted with rage, and the veins in his neck were about to explode. His brakes had evidently been tampered with.

Bunch of bastards. Bastards and spies. Lippi was the catalyst for a very special experience and emotion that nobody can ever take away from us. A less moustachioed Beppe Bergomi.

My career would certainly have gone in a very definite direction. He was the No. The time I met him on holiday in Viareggio and got his autograph was for a long while the best and most important day of my life. I was still an Inter fan when I was playing for Brescia, but then I spent some time at the club and my outlook changed somewhat.

All you need to do is sign the contract. My mobile went again — more insistently than usual. They agreed everything between them in less than 10 minutes. Now go and get ready; we need to take you to Appiano Gentile for your medical. I wanted to stick myself up on that wall. I was going to be a team-mate of Ronaldo, Baggio, Djorkaeff — me, the guy who now and again still went to games with a black-and- blue scarf round his neck and who, at 16 years of age, had been invited to play a trial match in Eindhoven by the top men at the club, people like Sandro Mazzola.

Pre-season went really well, and Gigi Simoni gave me plenty of game time, both as a starter and from the bench. Mircea Lucescu tended to favour the older guys, Luciano Castellini thought I was okay, while Roy Hodgson mispronounced my name.

He called me Pirla dickhead , perhaps understanding my true nature more than the other managers. Moratti went through four of them that season. Confused, but grinning. The following year, they brought in Lippi.

I did the full pre-season under him, but he then pulled me aside to give me a heartfelt message. Get some experience under your belt. In particular, how to take on more responsibility, and how to get stuck in and fight in the mud. I missed that trip to Reggio Calabria through injury, but his post-match press conference has gone down in history.

Our buttocks remained blissfully untouched. It was a shame he left, because he and I were very much on the same wavelength.

All it took was one look for me to trust him blindly. It was a real pleasure to work with him. In his place arrived Marco Tardelli, the former manager of the Italy unders. Whatever the explanation, he never picked me and it really got me down. I no longer had any desire to be near him or that club. He killed it for me, wiping out what could have been a love without limits. I had to escape and, as ever, I got on the phone to Tinti. Never, ever again. Find me another club.

Any club. Who do you reckon got the better of that deal? Back when he was coaching the unders, he said that youngsters were the future. The same one brought out every so often by the guy under the next parasol along from me on the beach each summer.

My next door neighbour on the sand is none other than president Moratti. If only all presidents were like him. He does everything in his power to make his club great. It belonged to his father Angelo before him, and theirs is a dynasty of poets, of romantics, of people who still have a heart when they win.

Just as importantly, they also have a heart when they lose. I still care about him a lot and always will. I know for certain that the feeling is mutual. Every time I see him, he pays me a thousand compliments. During those long periods when it seemed my world was spinning in the wrong direction, my friends gave me some excellent advice. I was crushing grapes, dancing right on top of them.

Pulling down the vines and turning fruit into wine. It was me against the grape skins, fighting to save the juice. These were barefoot family reunions, with loads of relatives helping alongside me.

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Perhaps it was during those flights of fancy, those daydreams that allowed me to still feel alive, that I learned to appreciate certain alcoholic drinks. The ingredients are simple: I started drinking it during my time at Inter.

A stalwart of the Inter and Italy defence in the s and s, one-club man Bergomi was known as lo zio the uncle because of the prodigious facial hair he sported from an early age Always has a shaven head As it was, he left for Milan in having been contracted to Inter for three years Key figure in the Grande Inter team that enjoyed sustained success under the charismatic Helenio Herrera in the s The type of seriously heavy session that almost makes you want to dig out that Inter scarf or Milan pen , look at yourself in the mirror and see a tall, beautiful blond guy with blue eyes staring back.

The perfect moment to let your hair down is usually after a triumph, because defeats deserve a different kind of reaction. Something less pleasant than a drink among team-mates; something far removed from a group toast.

When you win, burping takes priority. They always give it to someone else and I just shrug my shoulders.

In , hot on the heels of reaching the final of the European Championship and winning the scudetto, I came seventh with 2. Practically nothing.

Messi won, with There are, of course, some rare exceptions, like King Cannavaro in It seems the most important thing is to find yourself in the right place at the right time with the ball at your feet. The assist is a mere footnote. Prandelli and Buffon voted for me, but even I would have gone with the majority and chosen Messi. The same guy whose self-evident dislike for Italy had led him to delegate what he considered the horrible task of presenting us with the World Cup in It could have been the fourth secret of Fatima or the first of Blatter.

Needless to say we lost And Pirlo, Pirlo! Very much in keeping with how the wider world ranks the importance of different positions. The defence is the most important part of a team: Put more simply, the team that concedes fewest goals wins the match.

He was an absolute machine. But overall, Paolo Maldini is the best. A defender. A peerless defender. The best defender going. Both physically and mentally, he had everything, and the enjoyment he got from playing was as obvious at 40 years of age as it had been the day I first walked through the door at Milan.

No cardinal points; just points in the league table. He taught me how to conduct myself. Taught me how to win, lose, sniff out a goal, come up with an assist, sit on the bench, suffer, celebrate, play, behave, get angry, forgive, turn the other cheek, land the first blow, be myself and sometimes someone else. Showed me how to stay quiet, speak, decide, trust, turn a blind eye, have both eyes wide open, take stock of a situation, act on instinct, stand on my own, welcome others in, be the captain, steer the ship, change course, lead the way.

Everything and the opposite of everything. And not seeing him at Milan after he retired, even as a director, really got to me. How can you possibly decide not to hang onto a piece of your heritage?

What makes you stick him on the market and risk losing him like that? It was Tyson against Holyfield and, as usual, it was the bald guy who won.

Billy Costacurta is another man I have a great relationship with. He and Paolo were a dual reference point for everyone at Milan, whatever the situation.

It could be something stupid: Which tie goes better? How should one behave at the dinner table? It was just like Christmas, when all you need to feel involved is to hear Jingle Bells and see some old guy dressed as Santa Claus.

Suddenly Christmas belongs to you as well. Truly outstanding players; human shields to protect against the errors of others. If a forward makes a mistake, he can try again. In percentage terms, the people who play at the back make fewer mistakes than those further forward.

If not, games would end up 5—4, 6—5 or along those lines. While Milan had defenders like those guys, they could do as they wished. They could stick anyone up front. One collector card was the same as the next one. It was a page crammed full of statistics along with a photo of a blond bloke: The Pen Guy was sitting beside him, staring intently at me in the hope of spying a positive reaction.

Klass-Jan Huntelaar is an excellent player. He knows how to score goals, loads of goals and, at that point in time, he was playing for Real Madrid.

Persuading me to reopen a suitcase that was already on the check-in belt, ready to be weighed and then sent on its way.

Carlo was like a father and a teacher for me, a kind, friendly man who knew how to make things fun. Carlo Ancelotti was my motivation for agreeing to head to London.

But, in the meantime, Berlusconi had pulled out a second piece of paper. This time there were loads of names with ticks next to them, and one that had been circled. There was no need to get up at the crack of dawn to hear this particular serenade. He wanted to bring me to London at all costs, and cost was indeed the last hurdle still to be overcome. Insurmountable, as it transpired. Milan wanted too much cash, and they were also pushing for Branislav Ivanovic to be included in the deal.

But my contract here is about to run out, and those guys are offering me four years. Take it as read. We were like abandoned dogs furiously wagging our tails at the return of our master.

They had a lot to talk about. I, on the other hand, have never taken a call from Berlusconi. Minus one: He and everyone else. We need to own the pitch and boss the game. In Italy, in Europe, throughout the world.

A big guy with a big personality. He was a remarkable person, a really strange fellow who seemed allergic to rules. The environment was different at Milan. He had this mad translator, practically his shadow, who at one point advised him to cut off relations with the media. At Milan. The club where communication is always par excellence. The coach would be gesticulating and talking away in Turkish: Lots of people are criticising us, but I believe in you. There are moments in life when a man has to lift his head.

I believe that moment has arrived for us. Go on, boys. Go on. We need to win. Weigh up the situation and give the ball to the team-mate who has the fewest opponents around him. Calm and cool are the watchwords here. First think, then pass: Right, now, everyone out on the pitch. Terim would stand in front of the tactics board, take out a piece of chalk and draw 11 circles.

Total chaos: Four forwards on the pitch and only two defenders: But even Terim was aware that without the president, that type of president, Milan would have been nothing, both in terms of money and power. Berlusconi would go mad, quite literally, when we won in Europe or on the global stage.

Berlusconi, by extension, is the most decorated president. And he signed Huntelaar. The Peruvian striker who has scored prolifically for Bayern Munich and Werder Bremen either side of an unsuccessful spell with Chelsea During a training session at Milanello, I saw them laying into one another like two bully boys from the roughest estate.

They looked like they were trying to kill each other: It was like something out of Highlander — there can be only one. If anything, they were too busy trying to bump off one another.

I thought about quitting because, after Istanbul, nothing made sense any more. The Champions League final simply suffocated me. But in time the truly painful sentence was realising that we were entirely to blame. A mass suicide where we all joined hands and jumped off the Bosphorus Bridge. The famous strait proved narrow in the extreme. So narrow, in fact, that if the whole Istanbul experience was a suppository, it could find no escape once inside us.

The damage was already evident even in those early moments, and it only got more stark and serious as the hours went on. Insomnia, rage, depression, a sense of nothingness. Istanbul syndrome. I no longer felt like a player, and that was devastating enough. But even worse, I no longer felt like a man. All of a sudden, football had become the least important thing, precisely because it was the most important: The only possible solution I could think of was to retire.

And what a dishonourable retirement it would have been. The story was finished and so was I. I walked with my head bowed even in the places I hold most dear.

People talk about performance anxiety. The match in Istanbul was on May 25 and the Italian championship had yet to finish. We had to go back to Milanello to carry our cross for four more days, right up until Sunday, May 29, when we played our last Serie A match against Udinese. That parade of shame was the toughest punishment. A cavalcade of disgrace with us placed front and centre. It was a brief, intense, shitty period.

We always ended up talking about it. We asked each other questions, but nobody had any answers. We were a group of Gigi Marzullos33 called to a collective psychoanalysis session with one fairly sizeable flaw: A gathering of impostors, too many to get away with it.

I could hardly sleep and even when I did drop off, I awoke to a grim thought: I went to bed with Dudek and all his Liverpool team-mates. The game against Udinese ended , goals a perfect stranger. We Milan players still had Italy commitments to dis honour, and it took Lippi only a few seconds to see precisely how things stood.

A blind man would have noticed — our devastation was legible even in braille. None of us could think straight. In my head, that was the last time.

Going off and doing something else with my life had to be better than feeling like this. The first day, I wanted to throw myself into a swimming pool with no water. I was getting better, but pretty much imperceptibly. The feeling will cling to my feet forever, trying to pull me down.

Even now if I mess up a pass, that malign force could be to blame. Praying for a different ending, like with those films you watch a second time hoping that you misunderstood the final scene.

We rose again two years later, , when we beat the self-same Liverpool in another Champions League final. We won in Athens thanks to an Inzaghi double — one of the goals was a free-kick from me that hit off him and went in. I This is a slightly unusual biography that doesn't take a linear approach to Pirlo's career. I never felt that it was only Pirlo himself telling his story - especially where the style was more poetic or playful. But that may be because of the translation, of course.

I especially liked two specific fragments, the first one being: But I struggle to explain that to people who are used to making superficial judgments about me. I have reached one conclusion, though. I think I've understood that there is a secret: I perceive the game in a different way.

It's a question of viewpoints, of having a wide field of vision. Being able to see the bigger picture. Your classic midfielder looks downfield and sees the forwards. I'll focus instead on the space between them where I can work the ball through. It's more a question of geometry than tactics.

The space seems bigger to me. Not only in football, but in any area that one can excel in. Excellence entails having perfected one's craft to such a level that one is really able to see differently; to see space where the untrained eye sees none, to sense opportunities when others don't.

It has nothing to do with frivolous play, doing tricks, or making spectacular tackles. And it does not come with a feeling of superiority, as Pirlo demonstrates in this short fragment. To the excelling person, it only feels natural.

The second one is about the process of mastering the art of the free kick - learning from Lyon's Juninho Pernambucano. And eventually I understood. From the start, I could tell he struck the ball in an unusual way. And so I went out onto the training pitch and tried to copy him, initially without much success.

It was at the point of maximum exertion that the dam burst, in every sense of the term. The magic formula was all about how the ball was struck, not where: Jun 25, Maitrey rated it liked it Shelves: Since the Football World Cup was cutting into so much of my reading time, I decided I'd read something on football. What better than the autobiography of one of my favourite players: And boy does Pirlo open us to his thoughts.

It doesn't stick to any chronological pattern, and the style i Since the Football World Cup was cutting into so much of my reading time, I decided I'd read something on football. It doesn't stick to any chronological pattern, and the style is somewhat like a fireplace conversation with Pirlo on a cold, windy day with a hot beverage in hand where Pirlo recounts some of his most recent and famous exploits.

That doesn't take away anything from the excitement of reading about Pirlo though. This is the man who did win the World Cup in and single-handedly led Italy to the Euro '12 finals when he was 33 years old!

The WC finals feature quite regularly, as do some of Pirlo's other famous appearances in the Azurri blue. Most of the book is Pirlo telling us what goes through his head on these momentous occasions and it was pleasing to read that Pirlo is at his heart, a simple and down to earth, yet at the same time a highly intelligent and resourceful player.

Interesting asides about how he almost joined a host of clubs such as Real Madrid, Barca, Chelsea abound; and it was a shock when he confessed that he was a boyhood Inter Milan fan yet he spent most of his career at arch rivals AC Milan and almost joined Inter many times, yet it was never meant to be.

He does talk about why he finally left Milan to join rivals Juventus, where he still plies his trade. Another interesting bit was the Champions League Final against Liverpool which I confess, as a Liverpool fan, I'd always read from that point of view. Pirlo reveals that their shock defeat in that final was so great to him personally, he almost retired from football! Yet he doesn't gloat even though they did beat Liverpool in another final 2 years later. He also reveals his disgust at the prevalent match-fixing at the lower levels of Italian leagues, and even the rampant racism prevalent in Italian football.

All in all, it was excellent reading during the World Cup, and I finished it with the feeling that I'd have loved to read more, especially Pirlo's youth and more of his exploits with Milan. I don't normally go for footballer memoirs, because footballers are predominantly uninteresting bores except for Pirlo and Zlatan. I read a snippet of Theo Walcott's book once, where he regales how he chatted up his girlfriend in a shopping centre, and another bit where he used to make fun of Robin van Persie's clobber.

But this is Andrea Pirlo though. You can make an exception for Pirlo, and qu I don't normally go for footballer memoirs, because footballers are predominantly uninteresting bores except for Pirlo and Zlatan. You can make an exception for Pirlo, and quite rightly. It doesn't read like your standard footy bio. There's not a trace of "So we smashed the blue shite on their own patch and it was proper mint. Get it up ya! Pirlo's prose reads as if written by a tortured artist, by candlelight, atop of a castle tower, with a massive quill.

It probably wasn't, but he was probably tanked on red wine from his own vinyard, which he mentions in the book the whole time. Particular passages are like somewhat backwards riddles where you don't really get a grasp of what he's talking about until several sentences in. That'll probably be the red wine. But the most striking part of it is that he views football like art, and not a physical contest. He doesn't particularly like running, or tackling or getting hurt. He likes to stroke the ball around whilst make it look free of effort.

He wants to compose the game like an orchestra. To evade that, he'd have to run to find space, and match Park's physical presence.

hamhillfort.info: I Think Therefore I Play eBook: Andrea Pirlo, Alessandro Alciato: Kindle Store

He didn't like that. He rips in to the South Korean, and also Alex Ferguson's man marking tactic with some choice words. How dare one make Pirlo's job more difficult?

Free of chronology, Pirlo fleets between anecdotes and experiences with sneering wit and fluidity. A light read that you can probably flick through in an afternoon. A good book to read. No structure to it. Various scenes in the life of Andrea Pirlo and his reflection on all those events.

This is not an autobiography at all, rather this is a collection of some events in Pirlo's life which he thought was very important in making him what he is. In between, he also talks about some personalities who has have an impact on his career or life. This is a collection of Andrea Pirlo's musings.

What I get from the book was that Pirlo, apart from being an awesome football A good book to read. What I get from the book was that Pirlo, apart from being an awesome footballer, is also a man of some intellect with a very good sense of humor. I read this book straight after "I am Zlatan" and I saw in the reviews that there were many others who have done the same. Zlatan book had a structure in the book and there was an interesting start with the barcelona episode.

While linguistically this was a better book, Zlatan has done a better job in keeping the reader engaged. A good read if you are a Pirlo fan. Sep 29, Venky rated it liked it Shelves: With a clever take on Rene Descartes's "Cogito Ergo Sum" for the title, one of the most sublime midfielders to have ever graced the game, deftly crafts a crisp and candid quasi-autobiography.

Confined largely to the time when Pirlo was with AC Milan, the book provides revealing insights about happenings both on and off the field. Pirlo's obsession for the Playstation and Barcelona; Inzaghi's singularly unique superstition and penchant for evacuating his bowels and gorging on baby biscuits are ma With a clever take on Rene Descartes's "Cogito Ergo Sum" for the title, one of the most sublime midfielders to have ever graced the game, deftly crafts a crisp and candid quasi-autobiography.

Pirlo's obsession for the Playstation and Barcelona; Inzaghi's singularly unique superstition and penchant for evacuating his bowels and gorging on baby biscuits are make for some fascinating reading. For the Chapter alone dealing with the practical jokes played on and the torment experienced by Rino Gattuso, this is a book worth possessing. Michael Calvin. Louis van Gaal. Maarten Meijer.

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