One part of my job I'll never learn to love is the pre-match warm-up. I hate it with every fibre of my being. It actually disgusts me.
If I look in the mirror when I get up or before going to bed at night, I see a man of average ugliness with stubble, an unruly mane of hair, a squint nose, slightly protruding ears, and bags under my eyes. But I also see a man who's completely happy with the figure staring back at him.
I've always been used to playing 60 games - one every three days - and I've played on artificial turf. There is artificial turf in Europe as well in some places. There is heat as well. And if it's hot for me at 110 degrees Fahrenheit, it's hot for the others as well.
The secret for someone in my position is to keep it simple. Keep possession and keep the ball moving quickly so that you tire out your opponents; that's my method.
Swearing's my release. It's the one weapon I have to defend myself against destiny when it elects to strike without pity.
When there is a solid base of Italian players, those who come in take their example, and then everyone is working in the same direction.
