There was a good and a bad side to everything. The better I was, the more agitated the supporters got about my wanting to leave the club, and before our match against Lazio on the 2nd of May 2009, the mood was explosive. The Ultra fans had written ‘Welcome Maximilian’ and that kind of thing. They could show love. But they could also hate – not just the opposing side but their own players as well, and I sensed as soon as I came in. San Siro was at boiling point.
All week there had been things in the papers about how I wanted to leave Italy and try something new. Nobody could have missed it. Early on in the match I worked my way into the penalty area. I struggled, but couldn’t get the ball, and in situations like that the supporters usually applaud. Like, good try. But now I was getting boos and jeers from the Ultra fans. I was like, what the hell, we’re working hard down here and we’re at the top of the league table, and this is what you bring. Who are you? I shushed them. Put my finger up to my mouth. But things didn’t get any better, and just before half-time the score was still 0–0 even though we’d kept up a lot of pressure, and then they started booing the whole team, and that made me go off on one, or more accurately, I got pumped up with adrenaline.
I’d show them, and like I said, I play better when I’m angry. Remember that – if you see me when I’m furious, don’t worry. All right, I might do something stupid and get a red card. But most of the time it’s a good sign. My entire career has been built on the desire to strike back, and in the second half I got the ball about 15 metres outside the penalty area. I turned. I rushed in. I feinted, and made a goal shot between two defenders. It was a shot of pure rage, a nice goal. But it wasn’t the goal people talked about.
It was my gesture, because I didn’t celebrate. I ran backwards into our half of the pitch with my face turned towards the Ultra fans, and all the time I was shushing them with my finger to my mouth again. It was like, shut your mouths. Here’s my reply to your shit. I score goals, and you boo. That became the big thing in that match, like, did you see it? Did you see it? It was something totally new.
It was a public battle between the fans and the team’s biggest star, and over on the sideline stood Mourinho – no victory gesture from him, of course. Who would’ve expected it? But he obviously agreed with me. Shit, booing your own team. He pointed at his head, like: you’re morons up there in the stands. Of course, you understand, if things were tense before, they were even worse now, there was a rumbling in the stadium. But I continued to play well. I was running on pure rage, and made a forward pass to make it 2–0. I dominated, and was happy when the referee blew the final whistle. But that wasn’t the end, not by a long chalk. As I left the pitch, I got word that the Ultras’ leaders were waiting for me down in the changing room. I have no idea how they got in there.
But there they were down in the passage, seven or eight blokes, and not the kind who say things like, excuse me, could we have a quick word? They were guys from the kind of streets I came from: guys brimming with aggression, and everybody around me got nervous, and my pulse went up to 150. I was really stressing out, honestly. But I told myself: you can’t chicken out now. Where I come from you don’t back down. So I went up to them and I saw right away, that made them uneasy, but they played it cocky, like, what the fuck? Ibra’s stepping up to us?
“Are there people who have some sort of beef up there?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, a lot of them are mad…” they began.
“Well, tell them to come down onto the pitch and we’ll sort it out right here, mano a mano!”
Then I walked away, and my heart was pounding. But it felt good. I’d coped with the stress. I’d stood up for myself, but the shit carried on. The supporters’ club demanded an official meeting. But come on. Why should I meet with them again? What was in it for me? I was a footballer. The fans might be loyal to their club. That’s nice. But a footballer’s career is short. He’s got to look after his own interests. He moves around to different clubs. The fans knew that. I knew that, and I told them: apologise on your website for your boos and your jeers, and I’ll be happy. We’ll forget about this. But nothing happened – or rather, the Ultra fans decided they’d neither boo nor cheer me. They’d pretend I didn’t exist. Good luck with that, I thought.