Maestro Stoichkov Filled Us with Ambition and Gave Us
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Maestro Stoichkov Some stories seem too good to be true. But filled us with ambition I’ve decided to tell mine. Some people love and gave us strength. me, others hate me. I respect that. In any case it’s LIONEL MESSI better for people to hate you for what you are than to love you for what you’re not. An undoubted idol who I liked a lot. Football brought me into contact with hundreds SIR BOBBY ROBSON of superstars from all over the world. I was at the heart of the mighty Barcelona and an important part of Bulgaria’s star team. In 1994 I won my greatest accolade – the Ballon d’Or – and that same year I was top goalscorer at the World Cup in the USA. With Johan Cruyff’s Dream Team I was five-times champion of Spain and have received countless honours. Who is the real Stoichkov? Txiki Begiristain describes me briefly and precisely in these words: Hristo is someone who doesn’t stint on anything for his friends. If needs be, he’ll give you the keys to his house, his car, and he’ll help you with anything you need. He just requires two things – that you’re loyal and that you never betray him … In this book you’ll learn about my astonishing journey from socialist Bulgaria to Barcelona and the 100,000-strong crowds at Camp Nou. Also, you will find my first and probably my last words on some subjects. I believe you’ll appreciate that. I haven’t avoided or hidden anything. This is my truth, my story. Yours, Hristo Stoichkov Inspired, ambitious, hungry БългарскиятProudly sponsored IT лидер by for victory! This was precisely the kind of player I needed to build a Dream Team. www.soft-press.com JOHAN CRUYFF SoftwareЕла в for отбора Champions на шампионите! www.mobisystems.com/bgwww.mobisystems.com Price: 18.00 € CHAPTER ONE Barcelona, the 6th of December, 1994. A Tuesday. Fate chose precisely this day for my dream of dreams to come true. In the King Juan Carlos I Hotel, I passionately kissed the Ballon d’Or engraved with the name ‘Hristo Stoichkov’. And I cried for quite a while. Nothing could stop my tears. Strangely, they welled up from the same impulse as the time they first told me as a child that I would never be a footballer. Or when, at 19, I learned from the TV that ‘the face of Hristo Stoichkov will be excluded from the sporting world forever’ in what was then socialist Bulgaria. Never in my career have I put individual prizes over and above the success of the team. Never! But the Ballon d’Or is something very special, something without compare, something timeless. Dreams about it took root in my soul long before the start of my sporting career, before I’d even looked life in the eye. For me, the kid from the East, the urchin with scuffed trainers, grubby t-shirt and grazed knees, it was the brightest star in the night sky. Yes, every single little boy dreams – one to become a fire- fighter, another a doctor, another to be a policeman, another an astronaut … And I wanted to be a great footballer and hold the Ballon d’Or! I imagined how, one beautiful day, I would embrace my glorious idols in the world’s greatest game. Yes! But only with one hand, because in the other I would be cradling the Ballon d’Or. 7 HRISTO STOICHKOV: AUTOBIOGRAPHY Dreams, dreams … Looking back after all this time I reckon that, even for a dream, this was a very bold and crazy one! A sort of hallucination given that, even to this day, out of seven million Bulgarians, there have been two astronauts, but only one holder of the Ballon d’Or. And maybe that’s why the already grey-haired kid who’s telling you his story today remembers every minute of the 6th of December, 1994. The day on which the dream became reality. I was barely 28 years old, but life had already marked me with black and white spots – like the fur of a Dalmatian. And I’d learned the hard way that there are many paths to glory, but most of them are … in pretty bad shape. Or at least the ones I travelled on were. Sometimes I even get the feeling that OK, life goes on and works according to certain rules, but what happens in mine is almost always an exception. Even on that sweet, unforgettable 6th of December, 1994. Some accounts get it wrong, saying it was the 16th of December, but I deliberately haven’t corrected them. My little secret. Somehow it makes this 6th of December feel closer, more mysterious. They say that the morning shows what kind of day it’ll be, but this obviously doesn’t apply to me. I’ll prove it to you straighta- way: ordinarily in the morning I like to stretch out in bed, a habit from childhood which has stayed with me to this day. I count my blessings and my afflictions. I rub my eyes and rejoice that the day is ahead of me. For a long time I’ve drummed it into my thick head that you should live every day as if it’s your last, because … it’s true, it might turn out to be your last. The beginning of the 6th of December wasn’t completely to my taste. My wife Mariana, who had got out of bed earlier, burst back into the bedroom with the telephone receiver in her hand. ‘Arantxa Sánchez’s calling,’ she said, her voice strangely high- pitched. ‘It must be very important. Some French journalists want to see you urgently – today.’ Oh, really? Ever since they invented the telephone, you can never get far enough away. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! 8 Chapter one Being summoned from my bed by some cheeky French guys! And journalists too! Madness! The French are pestering me on my home number! And in a year when I hadn’t sworn at anyone apart from Joël Quiniou, the French referee, to boot. Only five months earlier, this unpardonable monsieur had stolen the World Cup final from Bulgaria in the USA by not giving our team an obvious penalty in the semi-final against Italy. The great Ales- sandro Costacurta acted like a blockbusting volleyball player in their penalty area, but Quiniou had turned into a blind man with a whistle. Thanks to this memory and The French Connection, that morn- ing it felt like I was having to go to the dentist. But Mariana’s smile and kiss, as well as the friendly voice of our family friend and tennis star Arantxa Sánchez Vicario, defused the bomb. She wanted me to help her get some pictures taken together for Christ- mas. Right now. The reporters had been profiled, checked, and had arrived from Paris specially for the occasion. And, yes, I ad- mit it – they were French and probably wouldn’t like me, but no- body’s perfect. Dear Arantxa fired off a ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’, just like her aces on court, along with other encouraging noises. She didn’t need to, of course. There was no way I was going to refuse her or her brothers. And even though I was still sleepy, I realised that the ‘guests’ were total media hyenas! No matter what else, hadn’t they reached me via the most direct route at the time? Through Arantxa I arranged to meet the journalists at Camp Nou. Let me see these brave men coming. I made one condition, though – it had to be after training so I wouldn’t get angry before- hand and row with Father Johan. In those days my relationship with Cruyff was like one between a father and an errant … well, extremely errant son. But more of that later, when the time comes … Who were these uninvited French sweethearts? The reporter who was leading the conversation introduced himself as Stéphane Saint-Raymond. The photographer seemed to be more concerned about the safety of his equipment. At the time I was completely unaware that Monsieur Stef would remain close to my heart for 9 HRISTO STOICHKOV: AUTOBIOGRAPHY life. Now he works for football’s international governing body, FIFA, and we haven’t forgotten our connection. The last time we saw each other was for an interview for the TV giant Univision at the start of 2019, when I was a guest at Paris Saint-Germain – my new team. Of course, every time we meet, I never fail to remind him of how, on that 6th of December, he and the photographer had stood like sentries in front of the stadium. ‘Pricks,’ I thought, as I walked up to greet them. I had already mastered the aforementioned trick with the mask. Do you know it? It’s not like it’s my secret, of course. I didn’t pat- ent it, but I play it like I’m up for an Oscar. I frown, deliberately thicken my voice, use short, sharp sentences. And to make it more convincing I let loose a few curses if the situation demands it. In- side, I might be feeling cheerful or in a buoyant mood, but I don’t show it. It works every time and when necessary it saves my ba- con even now. There are times when, without the mask, I’d simply be picked to the bone in a world where people are more interested in what’s going on in the pants of the stars than in their own souls.