I LOOKED AT THE ELECTRIC CUBE hanging over the pitch. Eighty minutes, 3-0. I analysed the game and sensed the confidence, tranquillity, cohesion and joy of the team. I turned around to André and Rui Faria (members of Mourinho’s coaching staff) and said: “That’s it, we’re European champions!” Then I looked back at the bench and smiled at the other assistants, who were waving at me and giving me the thumbs up. It was done.
I started to think about a lot of things, something I had never done at a football match before: the road taken, a childhood full of dreams, obstacles, critics, criticism, family, beliefs, untiring fans, history, immortality, the threats I’d received the day before. I had been at a training session and, as always, the only link to the outside world was the private mobile phone that only my wife knows about.
I had also blocked all outside calls to the hotel. I thought about the game, prepared myself for it mentally, thought about the players and tried to tap into their psychological state of mind. I surrounded myself with my assistants and we developed our collective spirit and sense of worth.
At around 10.30pm, I went up to my room to enjoy my brand new Sony Vaio and unwind with The Punisher, starring John Travolta. Unexpectedly, someone knocked at the door. I opened it and there was one of the club’s directors, Reinaldo Teles. “Sorry, but I have eight urgent messages on my mobile phone for you.”
They were from someone who had identified himself and therefore deserved a return call, I thought. On the other end of the line, there quickly came a death threat linked to my arrival back in Oporto. “You think you’re the best . . . you bastard . . . we won’t do anything now because you have a final to play tomorrow, but as soon as it’s over, consider yourself a dead man, because we’ll get you, and as soon as you get back to Oporto your fate is sealed. You don’t have a chance . . .”
Incredulous, I replied: “You must be mad . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about or why you’re saying these things, but I think you must be mad . . .”
I immediately hung up. Reinaldo Teles, who’d understood the content of the conversation, was dumbstruck, but quickly told me not to worry. He assured me everything would be sorted out. We went down together to the hotel lobby and I told my assistants what was happening. I saw the look of astonishment on their faces, as well as some concern, as the “character”, who had made the call, was well known in Oporto’s underworld and had a criminal record — several convictions and suspended sentences. According to the police, who had by then been contacted, he had to be taken seriously and surveillance was to be stepped up, especially as he led an organised group, which made it more difficult for the police to control the situation. The fact that a crowd was expected at the airport and in the city of Oporto merely made matters worse.
The following day, Pinto da Costa (the president of FC Porto) came to me and assured me of my safety. He said not to worry about my family’s or my own security as this would be guaranteed. Curiously, this was the only match where Porto didn’t take its own private security along.
When the referee, Kim Nielsen, blew the final whistle, all I could think of were my wife and kids. They were in the stands and would be travelling on another plane. Security had been set up for them, but on their own initiative some of the club’s employees, aware of the threat and the protection they were under, brought them from the stands to the pitch. There was relief, joy and unforgettable emotions. The four of us shared a hug, kisses, smiles and tears, while Zé (Mourinho’s son) — bewildered by it all — asked why we were crying if we had won the final.
I wanted to leave immediately, but Matilde (Mourinho’s wife) said no way. She said the cup was mine, the medal was mine, and I had to make the most of it — I had to touch the star that had shone down on me once again. I went over to the pitch and proudly took in the happiness of a fantastic group that climbed up on to the podium of European football history.
Before going on to the pitch, I had told them: “We’ll never forget this day; the emotions, the sensations, the images will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Living with bad memories is a tragedy; living with good ones gives us the strength to carry on fighting. Be yourselves, don’t lose your identity as a team, play like hell, and win!” For the first time, I waited for them at the door to the changing-rooms and kissed them all. 26 May 2004, Gelsenkirchen: We were immortal.
My family was close by and I didn’t want to lose them again. I wanted them in my line of vision at the post-match interviews, next to me at the press conference and, with the precious help of the club’s employees, also on our plane. With me for ever. We arrived in Oporto. On the one side there were the celebrations, and on the other the security operation organised by me and some friends, in the silence of the previous night — the night when I should have been resting and relaxing in preparation for the game. Everything was perfect. There were two buses on the runway that took us home and let me see the celebrations on television — my party, the party I had contributed towards but could not join.
My work at FC Porto was complete. I didn’t leave as I had wished; I left in the way someone else wanted me to. A way which was easier for those who don’t like to lose.
My life had changed. Professionally, I went from Leiria to the top of the world in only three years; and socially, the change was no less significant: the end of privacy, invasion of privacy, disrespect for the principles my family and I defend, lies, slander, persecution, the need for private security 24 hours a day . . . I could now understand the behaviour of world famous figures that is sometimes criticised. As a great friend of mine said: “It ’s a tough life, a very tough life”.
Reflected glory
THE CUP WAS BEAUTIFUL. I had been courting it the day before, but hadn’t dared touch it. I saw my reflection in it, I breathed it in and stood at its side — but I didn’t touch it. Now I got up on stage and received the medal from Lennart Johansson (the Uefa president) who said, “See you in August at the Monaco gala”. I went up to the cup and kissed it.
After the party started, so did my escape to safety — or so I thought at the time, without knowing what was to come in the days that followed.
First I was subjected to a campaign of rumour and slander. Then I was hounded and had people waiting at the entrance to my home, threatening both my loved ones and me. For the first time in my life, I was forced to hire private security. They were dramatic and unforgettable weeks of terror.
