Carrera

He gave Spartak his will be lost from long failures and troubles

Carrera. There are words that contain everything, words that do not require explanation and additions. You will say such a word - and passes in front of the inner gaze of the life of life a length of one season, with its ups and pits, with its hope and pain. And there is no need to explain anything. Carrera is the name of what happened to Spartak.

I love him. I call him "our Italian." The whole beautiful Italy in him, a native of a small Lombard town, stubbornly advancing through all the steps of big football. In his black suit, a white shirt, a red tie and a black vest, Milan’s style, the verified elegance of Italian fashion, the exact nobility of flowers and lines are felt. In his gaze with a squint, when he stands on the edge - so much knowledge of the game and life.

Was he happy until yesterday, when Spartak became a champion? I think he was calm, balanced, satisfied with life, money and fate, but happy? Happiness is something else. Happiness is a complete realization of yourself, a complete merging with life, a feeling of lightness, when there are no walls, no barriers, no gravity, and you entered at the time of time and did everything that you could, and it suddenly worked, happened.

Carrera, who began to play football as a boy and played up to 44 years old, who rose to Juventus and went down again in a provincial team playing in a small stadium - gave football all his life. But he was never the hero of the first row. He played only once for the Italian team. As a coach, he was always behind the back of Antonio Conte, has always been his assistant, always only one of the people of the headquarters. This is not a few, and this is enough to adequately live in sports, but how is it enough compared to the happiness of the head coach, who stands on the edge, creates the universe and is responsible for everything and for all.

When Conte left for Chelsea, his faithful squire Carrera remained out of work, because only three hired only three of the seven assistants of Conte. And Carrera was not among them. Such a dismissal when you are shown that they will go away without you, humiliatingly. Of course, it's okay, sport is sport, the market is the market, the coaches are hired and fired ... But you have fifty and you have always been the second and you suddenly find yourself without work and you have to start all over again, it is difficult. And perhaps it hurts.

Carrera came to Spartak the third coach. After the Juventus and the Italian national team, the team in the distant Moscow, about which he knew nothing.

The Italian in Russia - what pain in this, what a hidden longing, what a tension in the soul!

I saw Massimo Carrera on a cold day on the edge with his head uncovered and in his stylish short Milan coat, as if insisting on his right to be an Italian and not give up ice, wind, cold, snow and winter. And the coach of the Urals Tarkhanov was in a warm thick jacket and in a woolen cap. So they stood nearby on the edge - insulated, full of warm clothes, well known that how much in Russian football Tarhanov and a slender Carrera in a snow -white shirt and without a hat in an icy wind.

All this is very difficult. It is difficult to come to someone else's country, which may seem barbaric after beautiful Italy, with its lemons in foliage and ideal football fields, and try the knights of potholes and pit on our lawns, and do not know neither people nor language, and live alone on the club’s base, and to feel all, all nerves and soul, that there is another air and another life around. But in his interview, Carrera never complained about anything. An elegant Italian with light eyebrows, gray eyes and a strong -willed chin of the defender never complained about the cold, the weather, the fields, judges, players and everything else that our coaches always complained and complained of.

All this was a fairy tale, the fairy tale of Carrera in which we lived. When Alenichev was fired, Carrera received a team for two games until they find a new coach. Well, yes, he had to understand his place in his life, he had to know that for such a noble team as Spartak he, by the age of fifty, had never been the main one, always carrying someone else's suitcase, which had no short or long list of his personal coaching achievements - not a candidate. But he did something that the team began to win, and he remained the main one. What did he do? How did he do it? I do not believe that the whole thing is in the notebooks, in which the diligent Italian wrote out thoughts, rules and tactical ideas of his cartridge Conte. The point is himself, in his character, experience and soul. The point in Carrera, in the fact that sitting the third coach on the bench, he consciously or subconsciously was ready and knew about the team and was able to enter his fairy tale.

When he built the players, he asked them what, in their opinion, did not have enough Spartak. They were silent. How to explain to them without knowing the language? Long speeches through the translator do not hurt people.

He grabbed the translator by the throat: "That's what is missing!"

He gave Spartak his will lost from long failures and troubles. He aroused the players from a sluggish sleep, he took them by the scruff of the scruff and shook them, and sixteen years of ordeal flew like a cork, and the red became red, and the white became white, and the ball flew, and colored, blue, blue, pink boots ran. The Italian understood the very essence of Spartak, his very core. This team cannot live without passion, without passion it is nothing.

How to rally in one team of such different people? They cannot even really talk to each other. The gloomy German Turk Taski and a smiling Promes spraying with light, always smiling Glushakov and never smiling zobnin, who cried at night from cold and longing for the heavenly islands of the Cabo-Verde of Ze Luis and the Little Georgian Jeano, who needs to be warm ... how to rally all of them and make them a solid team, not knowing fear, and not knowing fear, and not knowing fear, and not knowing fear and not knowing fear. Tired?

It is impossible to forget the eyes of Keeper Ribrov and how he was baptized, kissed the bar and said something to them. It is impossible to forget the crazy in his pressure and speed, the desperate raids of the right defender Yshchenko, a small gladiator with a hand painted with combat tattoos.

This team fought, fought and clung to victory with teeth if there were not enough arms and legs. This team knew that if there is another minute, it means that it is necessary to tear forward, tear with all its strength, it is necessary to turn on full speed and tear so that shreds fly in the penalty area. And the balls pierced the net in the last minutes after the blushing of Glushakov, in which he put his whole soul, and then flew with a laugh, his hands spread out like wings, and after the blows of Promes, who was all Antokha and Antoshka and a distant relative of that unforgettable Maxima Robson, who once walked around Moscow and drank beer with Titov.

The plot for cinema: a fifty -year -old coach comes to work as an assistant in a foreign country, suddenly receives a team, awakens it and goes up through victories and defeats, becomes a champion and cries on Victory Day - too far -up even for the movie. They will not accept such a plot at the Dream Factory in Hollywood. But everything was so. And Carrera really cried.