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let’s just say that my priorities were different back then. I made up for it later on, with catch-up courses undertaken in person: travelling the world with Italy (geography), winning (history), running (PE), getting to know Guardiola (philosophy, art history, and languages: not Spanish but definitely Catalan).
    I’m a lucky boy. The shirt I wear has a rare prestige and it’s the team I’ve always supported. I’m what you’d call an Italy ultra . 11 I can only just recall Mexico 1986, but I remember every last detail of Italia 90. One thing sticks with me in particular: the theme tune, An Italian Summer , sung by Edoardo Bennato and Gianna Nannini (“Maybe a song won’t change the rules of the game/but I want to live the adventure just like this/without boundaries and with my heart in my mouth.”)
    For footballers of my generation, it’s both a hymn to joy and a battle cry. In Germany in 2006, we all had it on our iPods. Some guys were still listening to it at Euro 2012: it’s a song that’s always current, even after 22 years, just like the ones penned by Lucio Battisti. 12 He’s immortal, and so are the emotions he brings out in you.
    Some of the bonds you forge in camp also have that timeless quality. They’re true, pure friendship. Room 205 at Coverciano, spartan as it is with its two single beds, a little bathroom and tiny terrace, has been a chamber of secrets for me. First I shared it with Alessandro Nesta, and then with Daniele De Rossi, the two extremes of Roman football. Sandrino is a heartfelt Laziale and Daniele a committed Romanista , but in Germany they were united in internal torment that proved difficult to deal with.
    We tried together; just us three. Nesta got injured straight away, against the Czech Republic in the group stage. Lots of tears and tension followed – he was worn out and refused to speak to anyone apart from Daniele and I. Lippi occasionally gave us the night off and we’d take him out for dinner, trying everything we could to distract him and lift his spirits, but he kept repeating the same phrase: “I don’t feel part of this team; I’m always getting injured.”
    On one occasion, we were coming back by car from Dusseldorf, the closest city to our base in Duisburg. Sandrino was driving, with me, Daniele and Andrea Barzagli also in the vehicle. We were on the motorway when, out of the blue, first me and then Daniele shouted out the same thing: “You’re going the wrong way; you’ve got to come off here at Ausfahrt.”
    “What?”
    “Seriously, Sandrino, take the exit!”
    “You sure?”
    “Of course we are. You’ve got to come off right here, otherwise we’ll end up getting back late and have to pay a fine.”
    To follow our instructions, Sandrino pulled off a quite audacious manoeuvre. A hundred miles an hour to zero in the space of five seconds, a stamp on the brakes followed by a huge swerve towards a hairpin bend. Naturally enough, we ended up in a ghostly spot with no lights, surrounded by fields that looked like they’d been taken straight out of Children of the Corn , the worst film I’ve ever seen. We were lost. Daniele and I were killing ourselves laughing, but Nesta was all worried. “What the fuck are you laughing about? How are we going to get back now?”
    “Sandrino…”
    “Fuck me; it’s bad enough that I have to read in the papers every day that I’m losing it. Now they’re going to write that I’m the first Italy player to go missing in action during a World Cup.”
    “Sandrino…”
    “Where the fuck are we?”
    “Sandrino…”
    “Will you stop laughing? What do you want?”
    “Sandrino, ausfahrt means exit in German.”
    The only reason he didn’t beat us to within an inch of our lives was because he’d have ended up with an injured arm as well. He certainly wanted to. I didn’t think it was humanly possible for someone to swear as much as he did that night, but we’d achieved our goal: for a few hours he’d thought about