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THE

DUELLISTS

PEP, JOSE AND THE BIRTH OF
FOOTBALL’S GREATEST RIVALRY

First published in English by deCoubertin Books Ltd in 2017.

First Edition

deCoubertin Books, Studio I, Baltic Creative Campus, Liverpool, L1 OAH
www.decoubertin.co.uk

eISBN: 978-1-909245-48-8

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Translation by Anthony Wright.

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THE

DUELLISTS

PEP, JOSE AND THE BIRTH OF
FOOTBALL’S GREATEST RIVALRY

PAOLO CONDO

Translated from the Italian by Anthony Wright

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

STATISTICS

List of Illustrations

Jose Mourinho and Pep Guardiola shake hands before the first of four Clásico’s in eighteen days. Despite the hostilities that would follow, the pair would repeat this ritual in the next two games. (Getty)

Captains Carles Puyol and Iker Casillas, both of whom made their Spain debut in the year 2000, also share a handshake as they walk on to the pitch for the La Liga clash. Things would soon turn sour. (Getty)

Xavi, Pepe, Sergio Busquets and Andrés Iniesta surround referee Muñiz Fernández as tempers begin to flair. (Getty)

Raúl Albiol becomes the first man to see red over the course of the 18 days, after hauling down David Villa in the penalty area. Lionel Messi scored the ensuing penalty. (Getty)

Pepe, never one to shy away from confrontation, tries to get in the head of Messi by suggesting there is something wrong with him. (Getty)

It wasn’t just the Madrid players trying to put the Argentine star off his game – the Bernabéu crowd also gave it their best shot. (Getty)

Concentrated on the task at hand, Mourinho looks on from the dugout prior to the Copa del Rey final. (Getty)

His opposite number, meanwhile, looks a little dazed ahead of a tense evening. (Getty)

In amongst all the animosity, a brief moment of harmony as Dani Alves and Cristiano Ronaldo shake hands. (Getty)

Conflict was never far away, though. Here Barcelona winger Pedro wags his finger in the face of Ricardo Carvalho. (Getty)

After a trademark Ronaldo header secures victory for Real in extra time, Marcelo celebrates. (Getty)

One Madrid fan lets his Catalan counterparts know what he thinks of them at the Mestalla. (Getty)

Pedro lying poleaxed on the floor in the first leg of the Champions League semi-final at the Bernabéu. International teammate Xabi Alonso stands over him. (Getty)

Captain Casillas, who would later be dropped by Mourinho after attempting reconciliation with Xavi, holds the cup aloft. (Getty)

Sergio Ramos jabs his finger into Gerard Piqué’s chest. Despite success together at international level, the pair remain intense rivals. This mutual clash of personalities began when Pique made a hand gesture to Ramos after the latter was sent off at the Camp Nou during Barcelona’s 5-0 win earlier in the campaign. (Getty)

A half-time brawl breaks out between players and staff from both sides. Pinto, Barcelona’s substitute keeper on the night, saw red for his involvement. (Getty)

Mourinho – in typical Mourinho fashion – has a quiet word with Barcelona captain Puyol after Pepe’s red. (Getty)

Often the chief villain in the series, the Madrid boss receives a sending off on his own, and so takes up his position in the stands, still particularly close to the dugout. (Getty)

Scrapping aside, there was a game of football with an awful lot at stake to be played. Here Messi celebrates after giving Barcelona a crucial lead after wonderful work from substitute Ibrahim Afellay. He would soon make it 2-0 with a quite stunning solo effort. (Getty)

A steward stands in the pouring rain at a deserted Camp Nou before the second leg. Barcelona would go into the game with a 2-0 lead. Mourinho was banned from the ground. (Getty)

A pitch invader throws a traditional Catalan hat (‘barretina’) at Ronaldo. Marcelo folds his hands in weary antipathy behind. (Getty)

Pedro gives Barcelona the lead on the night ten minutes into the second half, effectively ending the tie as a contest, even though Marcelo would later equalise for the visitors. (Getty)

After three weeks of jibing with Mourinho and putting intense pressure on himself, Guardiola celebrates progression to another final with a relieved roar. (Getty)

A touching moment after a trying few weeks: Éric Abidal is lofted into the air by his teammates at full time. The French international had only just returned following an operation to remove a tumour on his liver. (Getty)

INTRODUCTION

LUIS FERNÁNDEZ HAS NEVER BEEN THE SORT OF person to pick a fight with.

When he was nine years old, his mother loaded him and his five siblings into their clapped-out car and took the family from Tarifa, a town on the southernmost tip of Spain, from where it is possible to see Tangier across the Strait of Gibraltar, to Lyon in search of fortune. They grew up in a classic banlieue. He went to school in one of the districts populated by the first waves of migrants, and football became like an escape route for him. Luis had endless energy and was physically powerful, although on one occasion after he had been called an espingouin – a derogatory name for Spanish emigrants – once too often, he beat up the person that had called him it and earned himself a six month exclusion.

However, it was this sort of upbringing that made him into the linchpin of that great France side of Michel Platini, Jean Tigana and Alain Giresse. If anyone went in too hard on one of his more technically gifted team-mates, Luis was the first to arrive on the scene, his face menacing, and ready to do anything to defend them.

People like that don’t lose their edge when they become a manager. I remember one night in the spring of 1996 when Paris Saint-Germain were celebrating their Cup Winners’ Cup victory in a beautiful hotel in Brussels. The club’s owner had called upon the legendary Yannick Noah to motivate the team, and, under the disdainful eye of Luis, the former tennis player (and rock star, restaurateur, playboy and all-round guru of French sport) spoke to the team on several occasions in the days leading up to the game against Rapid Vienna. That night a group of journalists, a group which I was able to sneak into, smiled at Fernández’s entirely unsympathetic impressions of Yannick, who was busy in the next room entertaining the Parisian VIPs and charming their wives and girlfriends. Many journalists give Noah a lot of the credit for the cup victory, which remains the club’s only European trophy even after so many years backed by the sheikhs. Luis – who had smelt a rat for some time – chose the height of the celebrations to announce he was leaving for Athletic Bilbao, and received a warm send-off. The backdrop to this story occurs at San Mamés a few months later, when Bobby Robson’s Barcelona arrived to face Fernández’s side for a difficult La Liga match.

It was a stellar Barça side, although they were only able to enjoy the talents of Ronaldo for that single season, as the following summer Massimo Moratti made him the biggest signing of his Inter presidency at that point. Alongside O Fenomeno was the unstoppable Luís Figo, the wily Gheorghe Popescu, the killer Fernando Couto, the centre back Miguel Ángel Nadal (who would occasionally bring his nephew Rafael to games, even though he was already a Real Madrid supporter), the tireless Luis Enrique, the precise Iván De La Peña and, of course, their captain Pep Guardiola. On the bench alongside the experienced Bobby Robson was a stylish, good-looking young man who had a perpetually sullen demeanour. Officially, his role was the English coach’s translator, but he had actually already been promoted to the first team’s coaching staff. He seemed to be full of youthful exuberance, flicking frantically through the notes piled next to the head coach, who, in comparison, sometimes looked a bit lethargic. Over time we’ve learned that José Mourinho’s body language is an integral, indivisible part of his personality: he doesn’t use it to convey a message, but it is instead part of the message itself. At the time, of course, this was all completely unknown to Luis Fernández, who grew increasingly angry from his position on the bench at La Catedral, where the first commandment is ‘don’t let anyone bully you in your own house’, as he watched the young Portuguese celebrate wildly following Abelardo’s opener. When José Mari made it 1-1 midway through the second half Luis sprang into life, urging the Basque fans – who aren’t the quietest anyway – to roar the Leones on even more vociferously, and when Julen Guerrero fired a superb free kick into the far corner 15 minutes from the end, inevitably he ran to celebrate in front of the opposition bench. There was nothing much in that. But what the future Special One couldn’t stomach was his lecturing, the finger pointing, and the insults. Mourinho got up from his position on the bench, his finger menacingly jabbing at Fernández’s face, and his provocation certainly got to Luis – who up until then had been very heated but not violent – as it then took a couple of people to restrain him.

Generally words drift away on the breeze in stadiums, but in some they can fester, particularly those that have narrow players’ tunnels, which can become a powder keg waiting to explode. It certainly did on this occasion; at full time Mourinho found himself surrounded by Basques – among whom was a certain Aitor Karanka, who we will meet again soon – and only Figo was there to stand up for him. Elsewhere, simultaneously, Guardiola suddenly appeared alongside Fernández.

‘Don’t laugh at other people’s defeats,’ the Barcelona captain shouted in the Athletic coach’s face, and while the physical contact between the two was brief it was intense. Had it been anyone else, Luis would have raised his hands to shove them away, or more likely punch them. But Pep Guardiola was not just anyone else, and the Barcelona captain’s personality was such that the temperamental coach remained civil in his reply. As he spoke to him, he made it clear that it was the Portuguese who had prompted all the anger. He quickly justified himself: in his own stadium, with the adrenalin of victory pumping through his veins, and in a situation where others had already started scuffles, Luis Fernández explained the reasons for his anger to the hieratic Guardiola, who even then was something of a warrior monk. Their encounter lasted just a few seconds: as he was being spoken to, Pep looked ahead of him, staring daggers at the Athletic players surrounding Mourinho and Figo, but he then forced the two Portuguese ahead of him as they walked towards the dressing room to avoid any further confrontations, like naughty children slinking away from a fight to avoid further punishment. His intervention was successful and was achieved with pure charisma: he didn’t raise a hand, he didn’t make any threats, just using the weight of his own leadership.

•

IN THE 1977 FILM THE DUELLISTS, RIDLEY SCOTT’S masterful directorial debut, the meeting between Armand d’Hubert (Keith Carradine) and Gabriel Feraud (Harvey Keitel) came about because the former, sent by a leader of the Napoleonic army, needed to place the latter under house arrest for taking part in an illegal duel. However, Feraud took offence at how he was given the news and d’Hubert was eventually challenged to a duel, accused of cowardice if he didn’t accept. As the story progresses, it’s quite clear that d’Hubert is on the side of reason and Feraud on the side of (depraved) wrongdoing, but it’s not this that forms the parallel between the story of the two officers and the rivalry between Pep Guardiola and José Mourinho. It’s the clash of personalities. D’Hubert is cold, magnanimous, superior and detached like Guardiola. Feraud is proud, stubborn, hot-tempered and over the top like Mourinho. When they face each other, their vices and virtues are driven to extremes as they each assume their role in the story. Pep is considered to be a figure of perfect sportsmanship, the flawless and fearless knight who offers his hand to his opponent before and after the battle. Mou, meanwhile, subscribes to the football equivalent of Italian minister Rino Formica’s definition of politics as ‘blood and shit’; that is what the fans hunger for, and it’s no coincidence he’s loved by them.

It’s possible that the help Guardiola gave him in Bilbao, opportune yet also seen in some obscure way as humiliating, is the starting point of their rivalry. Mourinho denies this suggestion, but given that he also denies that their patently obvious rivalry exists at all, you can’t give that too much credence. Conversely, it’s nearly impossible to talk about Mou with Guardiola. He was left broken by his mental battle with the Portuguese during the two seasons they faced each other in Spain, which even forced him to take that famous sabbatical in New York – a break from the game that was unprecedented in the career of a top coach. Anything to avoid hearing people talk about Mourinho. However, there was a moment of sincerity in an answer he gave to a question on the eve of the Clásico in 2012, when I surprised him by asking him whether in 20 years’ time (citing Alexandre Dumas) he would go out for dinner with Mourinho and talk about their past duels. Both Pep and José are given coaching before major press conferences: one of their colleagues bombards them with the most uncomfortable, nasty questions that might come up so that they are in a position to give an adequate response. My question, which was neither uncomfortable nor nasty, just humane, visibly put the Catalan coach on the back foot. At first he mumbled, ‘Right now it would be unthinkable, of course, but in 20 years’ time…’ and then, touched by a moment of inspiration, he said more certainly, ‘Yes, I would like to, I think we’d both like some answers to a lot of things that we’re curious about.’ Most of which occurred in those turbulent 18 days between 16 April and 3 May, 2011.

ONE

YOU ALWAYS FEEL STRONG EMOTIONS WHEN you see him again. Especially when he’s in a foul mood, because then it’s like a typical case of Stockholm syndrome: you can’t help but feel both attraction and fear at the same time. You’ve got to love José Mourinho. He’s a Grand Theft Auto character who’s been transported into the real world. He’s so over the top that he’s a caricature of himself, but there’s nothing like being there to listen to him insult and mock Spanish journalists as he tells you how lucky you are. If you want to go to a Lady Gaga gig, you have to pay. If you want to go and see the latest show on Broadway, you have to pay. If you want to eat at San Lorenzo, sat on the next table to Victoria Beckham, you have to pay. But it’s free to watch Mourinho’s performances, and with a journalist’s pass you can even see him live. And when he wants to put on a show, he never fails to perform.

On the eve of the first of the series of four Clásicos, the journalists who report on Real Madrid were given the news that assistant manager Aitor Karanka – yes, that Karanka – would be holding what promised to be a dull press conference, and they controversially left the room without asking any questions. Mourinho couldn’t let this sort of insubordination happen again: seeking retribution is one of his core principles. He made himself available for the post-game press conference for the same game, giving Alvaro Larrosa of AS an opportunity to ask him what he had thought of the referee’s performance that night. He glowered at him, giving him an effortless look of disdain. ‘Are you the editor of AS?’ No José, he’s certainly not the editor, he’s a lamb that they’ve sent to the slaughter. You have to be patient when Mourinho is tearing into you – if you survive the experience, then maybe you’ll become a real journalist. ‘I’ll ask you again: are you the editor?’ Once the unfortunate guy – imagine being in his situation – confessed, dejectedly, that he wasn’t the editor of the second biggest sports paper in Madrid, José dismissed him with a well-rehearsed speech. ‘I don’t have to answer you. If you won’t talk to my assistant then according to your philosophy I can only talk to the man in charge as well.’ As if the whole scene was following a pre-prepared script, the next person to speak, a journalist from Punto Pelota, was one of the few who hadn’t left the press conference at Valdebebas the day before. He also asked Mourinho about the referee, as if nothing had happened, and while his colleagues looked at him contemptibly, Mourinho completed his check-mate. ‘I’ll answer you, even if you aren’t the editor, because I respect you, just like you showed respect yesterday to a professional who deserved it, a man called Aitor Karanka, who is fully employed by Real Madrid.’ Then, in response to a journalist from Marca who was deluded in thinking that he would now be given the benefit of the doubt, he said just one word: ‘Inda.’ Send me Eduardo Inda, your editor.

Mourinho is the only top coach who allows his coaching staff to speak frequently to the media, and the regularity of Karanka’s appearances in the Valdebebas press room wasn’t a surprise to those of us who were used to seeing the genial Beppe Baresi holding court at Internazionale’s training ground at Appiano Gentile instead of the cutting Portuguese. José has often said that, if he could, he would only speak to the press once a month at most, but given the way he carries himself, that is unlikely to be true: eight of the first 10 things that one might remember about him will have been said in front of a microphone. Just like his body language, the way he constructs what he says isn’t a way of expressing his message, but is the message itself. To keep everyone highly strung, which is a crucial aspect of his management style, every press conference has to contain a strong message which people will talk about for days, which will unite those on his side and will wind up the opposition. And seeing as how it isn’t humanly possible to come up with such a controversial message in every press conference, when Mourinho doesn’t feel like he has one up his sleeve then he delegates the task of talking about the squad’s mindset on the eve of a game to his assistant, aware that no one will say anything significant and thereby disappointing the gathered journalists, for whom the mere fact of covering Mourinho normally gives their paper a good headline. It’s the quickest way to make a career for themselves: José knows this, and expects them to be amenable to his outbursts in return. When there’s a note of discord in the air – which happens a lot in Madrid, where even the humblest of reporters feel like they are austere descendants of the grand traditions of Real Madrid – then Karanka appears in the press room. On their first day together, he and Mou very probably brought up the subject of that night in San Mames, when the no-nonsense Aitor cornered José and was ready to smack him. His new boss certainly gave the Basque his forgiveness, but only in exchange for absolute obedience and unwavering loyalty. Stories from deep within the Madrid dressing room recount that, in those days, Karanka used to pace up and down repeating, ‘We’re the much stronger side, Barcelona are a media invention.’ There’s no problem with the first part, any motivator would approve of that, but the second part is cause for concern as not even the most blinkered observer could convincingly argue that sort of nonsense.

But what brought Mourinho to the point where he entered into an argument about editors? It was the evening of 16 April, 2011, and the first of four Clásicos to be played in 18 days had just finished 1-1 at the Bernabéu. Barcelona were essentially La Liga champions, as they sat eight points clear with six games to go, but it was the first time since Pep Guardiola had taken over as the Blaugrana coach that he hadn’t beaten Real Madrid. After five consecutive wins – among which were the humiliating 2-6 win at the Bernabéu in his first season and the manita, the 5-0 victory earlier in the season – the draw was a small signal that the tide might be turning. It was a fair result, because while on the one hand Mou had gift-wrapped the match by starting the intimidating Pepe instead of the creative Ozil in midfield, on the other hand Barça had created very little, thereby justifying this tactical change. As they passed the ball around, Real set themselves up with two lines of defence, each made up of five players, with Ángel Di María even filling in at full back. The Argentine, who had been signed earlier that season from Benfica, was making his El Clásico debut, and as we’ll soon see he made sure his presence would be felt.

Like Messi, Di María was born in Rosario, and is so slight that he has been nicknamed ‘Fideo’ (the noodle). He follows a tradition of thin players started by César Luis Menotti: ‘el Flaco’ was proof in South America that physique was no boundary to ability. Di María was the knight on Mourinho’s chessboard: an unpredictable and dangerous piece, gifted with a different way of moving to everyone else that made him (almost) unstoppable. That night, for example, midway through the first half of a game that was drifting aimlessly, it was he who tried to take the initiative when he received a crossfield ball played more in hope than expectation by Sami Khedira. The two teams were retreating back to the midfield after an unsuccessful Madrid corner when the German intercepted the ball and played it out to the left hand side. The intention was to give his side more time to get back, but Di María transformed it into an opportunity thanks to his two pincer-like legs. As the ball flew out towards the far touchline he brought it down smartly before taking it under control and accelerating towards goal. As Ángel got into the penalty area, chased by a crowd of opponents, he should have gone towards the byline to then try and pull the ball back towards the penalty spot to pick out one of the world class finishers in the team. Instead, he was too tempted by the idea of going it alone and his curling left-food shot ended up in the crowd. It came to nothing, but symbolically the chance, which had come out of nothing, showed that there was a difference about this Madrid, impetuous and fully recovered from the previous malaise that they had suffered from ever since Guardiola had taken charge. This time, faced with the Catalans’ hypnotic passing once again, Real appeared to have the answers. Marcelo ran down the left hand side with his head always up, looking around to see what was ahead of him and trying to pick out a pass for Ronaldo. This is a crucial aspect of football: players’ movements are not always particularly synchronised – when it’s not perfect, a gap will suddenly open up before closing again just as quickly. If you don’t see that gap straight away, then a moment later you wouldn’t even know it had been there. At one point Marcelo played a sensational pass to Ronaldo, and his fiercely hit ball was so unexpected and so inspired that Cristiano, amazingly, miscontrolled it, allowing Adriano to step in and clear the ball away from danger. A small detail. But was it not Mourinho himself who defined the Champions League as ‘the tournament of details’, meaning that there is often very little between the top sides? There was another example of this, from the same player, in the last minute of the first half: Sergio Ramos leaped high above the Catalan defence to meet a deep corner, and the ball looped towards the far post for Ronaldo to get a good header on it. It was probably too good. As Cristiano got into the perfect position to meet it, it gave Adriano the precious fractions of a second he needed to get back onto his own goal line and head the ball clear. Half time came and, while the score suggested Barça were still in control, it also suggested Real Madrid had shaken off their inferiority complex.

This new self-belief was soon required in the second half; after Raúl Albiol was sent off for fouling Villa, Messi converted from the penalty spot to put Barcelona in front. In the past this would have been fatal, but this Real side were stronger psychologically. Their attitude while playing with 10 men against 11 led them to within a whisker of a goal when Seydou Keita’s intervention caused Pepe to miss the target before they were awarded a penalty themselves, as clear as the first, when Dani Alves brought down Marcelo late on. Ronaldo placed it into the corner, a much more convincing finish than Lionel Messi’s – whose penalty Iker Casillas had nearly reached – and even this had a small mental impact on the contest. Real Madrid’s first draw after so many defeats was, psychologically, a victory, if you also take into account that they came from behind with 10 men, and it allowed Mourinho to leave the Bernabéu in a good mood. This game was the least important of the four, considering that the league was as good as over, and consequently it was psychologically at the heart of the Portuguese’s strategy: he needed to stop a seemingly endless run of defeats before the momentum could really be turned in the opposite direction.

As a result, when the final whistle sounded, both groups of players had something positive to take from the game: Real had stopped the rot and Barça were closer to winning the title. But the run of four Clásicos, which was made possible once the Champions League draw had been made more than a month before and had been confirmed when they had brushed aside the opposition in their path (Tottenham Hotspur and Shakhtar Donetsk respectively), had caused tensions between Madrid and Barcelona to boil over, with the result that even the players’ relationships were breaking down almost irreparably, despite the fact that many of them were international team-mates.

To get off the pitch at the Bernabéu, both teams have to descend down a few steps before climbing up the stairs towards the dressing rooms: the stairway is also divided by a metal grill, which adds a gladiatorial tone to the atmosphere. Just before the stairs there is a small open area, and it’s there where the excitement and the emotions of the game can spill over. When you’re delighted at getting the draw because you feel like the moral victors, nothing enrages you more than finding out your rivals feel the same way. Winning and losing are defined by their very nature, and the points gained clearly indicate who can enjoy the result and who is demoralised by it. The draw, however, is a grey area – especially, almost uniquely, in football, where its complexities are increased – as anyone can convince themselves that they have the upper hand. But when you think you’ve won on points, seeing the same, smug expressions on the opposition’s faces is like a gust of wind destroying a house of cards.

There are many different versions of what happened in the couple of minutes after the final whistle. Some say that the brawl started when Gerard Piqué, an ardent supporter of Catalan independence, shouted in his opponents’ faces: ‘Spagnoletti [little Spaniards], on Wednesday we’re going to Valencia to take the cup away from your king.’ Others say that Pepe tried to punch Messi, sparking a furious melee. Still others say that Rui Faria, Mourinho’s other assistant, was like a man possessed, insulting Barça’s players for their theatrics on the pitch and enraging them so much in that stairway that they tried to take matters into their own hands. Whatever may have happened, the 18 days of war – the preparation for which, as we’ve seen, will have started a long time before – were inaugurated by a bar room brawl. Guardiola tried to calm things down in the Catalans’ dressing room. Some players’ knuckles were bleeding after trying to throw punches through the grate, Puyol was breathing heavily after trying to separate his Spanish team-mates from coming to blows with each other, some – as they had already done during the game – were lamenting the fact that the grass on the Bernabéu pitch was long and dry, claiming it was unsportsmanlike from Real. It was certainly not unintentional: Mourinho had been telling the groundsmen all week not to cut the grass and to water it as little as possible, keeping the sprinklers tightly sealed, particularly on the day of the game. The idea had come following that 5-0 defeat in November that had left Mourinho mentally wounded: the first goal, which immediately set the pattern for the game, came from yet another moment of brilliance from Andrés Iniesta, who sliced open an almost perfectly arranged defence with a miraculously precise pass to pick out Xavi. What did he need to find the only possible route through four Blancos defenders? Essentially, three things: a surgeon’s dexterity, and Iniesta could operate with his feet; a pass that was weighted more like a shot, and in fact Xavi did extremely well to control the ball before beating Casillas; and a surface on which the ball could run perfectly, and the Camp Nou has a surface like a billiard table. Of these three things, Mourinho only had the ability to influence the last, and intervene he did. He definitely intervened. On the night of 16 April, the grass at the Bernabéu was more than 100mm long, while the average length – which is used for the national team’s matches – is 25mm. Four times less. Barça’s players were furious because their passing game relied on having a pitch where the ball could run easily, and after explaining this to their coaching staff they told everyone who had a microphone in the mixed zone, triggering the war on grass: the next day it was impossible not to notice the shocked tones of the Catalan newspapers and the mocking tones of the Madrid press. There were even cartoons devoted to it, with Pepe drawn chasing Messi through grass that was taller than both of them, like two kids running through fields of wheat.

TWO

IN PREPARATION FOR THE COPA DEL REY FINAL