"I AM ZLATAN" By Zlatan Ibrahimovic as told to David Lagercrantz I The feet Ibra & Sanela on dad's blue Opel Kadett CHAPTER 2 My brother. Finally the old, the real Zlatan, and I were thinking to myself: Why am I doing this? I have money. I don't have to feel shit with idiot coaches. I can have fun instead. A8KkjdbGQ - Read and download Zlatan Ibrahimovic's book I Am Zlatan Ibrahimovic in PDF, EPub online. Free I Am Zlatan Ibrahimovic book by Zlatan.
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download book online I Am Zlatan Ibrahimovic downloadable books for the nook I Am ebooks free download pdf I Am Zlatan Ibrahimovic how to download free. Read I Am Zlatan PDF - My Story On and Off the Field by Zlatan Ibrahimovic Random House Trade Paperbacks | Daring, flashy, innovative, vola. Am zlatan ibrahimovic download free ebooks in pdf zlatan ibrahimovic. Weltfußball der englische spitzenverein fc liverpool hat am. Overall.
Full of wicked one-liners and amazing stories, Zlatan lifts the lid on some of the biggest names in football, including Guardiola, Messi and his new manager, Jose Mourinho.
Moving, funny and totally frank, I am Zlatan is unlike any autobiography you have ever read. Ibrahimovic is the definitive modern sporting icon' - Matthew Syed. He is candid, funny and yes, wonderfully nuts' - The Times. This is a snarling, fizzing, unrepentant firecracker of a book; if footballers' memoirs bore you, make an exception for this one' - Independent.
Zlatan Ibrahimovich is a professional footballer, one of the world's most prolific strikers. For the latest books, recommendations, offers and more. By signing up, I confirm that I'm over View all newsletter.
Paperback Audio Download Books Categories. Children's Children's 0 - 18 months 18 months - 3 years 3 - 5 years 5 - 7 years 7 - 9 years 9 - 12 years View all children's. Puffin Ladybird. Authors A-Z. She had had it rough and we had a terrible mood all. It was no ordinary Swedish snack at home right away, no, "Honey, please hand me the butter", but more: "Get the milk you idiot! She cried often. She has my love. She has been tear of life. She cleaned the type fourteen hours a day, and every now and then we followed with and emptied the bins and stuff and got some pocket money.
But sometimes broke it for my mom. She beat us with wooden spoons and it happened that those ladles broke down, and when I got my stool away and download another, as if it was my fault that she fought so hard. One day, I remember specifically. I had thrown a brick at the nursery, which bounced in any way and smashed a window, and when my mom heard about it, she was game.
All of which cost money made her mad, and she hit me with the ladle. Bang, Boom! The hurt, and maybe walked spoon down again. Sometimes there were no things like where the ladles at home, and once my mom came after me with a rolling pin.
But then I managed to escape, and I spoke with Sanela about it. Sanela is my only full sibling. She is two years older. She is a tough girl, and she felt we should run a little with my mom. Damn, bang us in head! Totally sick! So we went to Ica and bought things like where the ladles, type three for a dollar, and gave them to my mom for Christmas.
I do not think she grasped the irony. She had no margin for that. There must be food on the table. All her strength was spent on it. We were many at home, my half-sisters also subsequently disappeared from the family and broke with all of us, and so little brother Aleksandar, Keki called, and money was not enough. None lasted until the older siblings took care of us small. We could not have managed otherwise, and it was very instant macaroni with ketchup, and eat with mates or with my aunt Hanifa, who lived in the same house and was the first of us all come to Sweden.
I had not even reached the age of two when mom and dad divorced, and I remembered none of it. It was probably just as well. It was not a good marriage, I understand. It was messy and disorderly, and they had been married to my father would get a residence permit, and I guess it was only natural we all ended up at Mom.
But I longed for my dad. He'd be better off and it happened more fun stuff about him. I and Sanela met my father every other weekend and when he came often in his old blue Opel Kadett and we went to Pildammsparken or out on the island in Limhamn and bought hamburgers and ice cream.
Once he hit the big and gave us was his pair of Nike Air Max, the cool gympadojorna which cost thousand bucks, type. Mine were green, Sanela pink. No one in Rosengard had that kind and we felt how tough any time.
We had a good time with Dad, and we could get few dollars for pizza and Coca-Cola. He had a decent job and only one other son, SaPKo. He was our fun weekend dad. But the situation was tightened.
Sanela was a great run.
She was fastest in his age group of sixty feet in Skne and Dad was proud that a cock and drove her to exercise. But you can do better, "he said. That was his thing, "Better, better, do not settle," and this time I was in the car. Dad remembers it anyway, and he noticed right away. Something was not good. Sanela was quiet. She fought to not to cry. We need not go into details, it is Sanela story.
But my dad, he's like a lion. If something happens to his children, he is wild, especially if it involves Sanela, his only daughter, and it became a full circus with interviews and social studies and custody battles and shit. I did not understand much of it. I would fill nine.
It was the fall of and you made that from me. Yet did I know of course. It became restless at home. It was not the first time in itself. A of half-sister was on drugs, heavy things, and she had hidden the drugs at home. It was often fuss around her, and shady people rang and mass fear that something serious would happen.
Another time my mom had been in custody for receiving stolen goods. Some friends had told her: "Take care of these necklaces! She did not. But it turned out to be stolen and the police roared in with us and hing was tense and solemn and it began to creep into the body, and frankly, I did not understand much of it, only that it was all about mom and dad and was not nice, not at all.
But now I know. Now, much later, when I kept on with this book, the puzzle pieces fall into place. In November , the social worker made his investigation, and Dad had custody of me and Sanela.
The environment at my mom was inappropriate, not primarily because of her, I must say. There was other stuff, but it was the earth thing anyway, the world's disapproval, and Mom was completely devastated.
Would she lose us too? It was a disaster. She cried and cried and certainly, she had drmt us with wooden spoons and given lusingar us and not listening to us, and she had been unlucky with his men, and nothing went up and all that. But she loved her children. She was just grew up with tough, and I think Dad took it.
He went to her that afternoon: "I do not want you to lose them, Jurkat. It was certainly hard words. But Sanela lived with my father a few weeks, and I stayed with Mom, even though all. It was not a good solution. Sanela was not feeling well with Dad. She and I found him sleeping on the floor of the vevan, and the table was beer cans and bottles.
It was a strange thing, I thought. Why does he do so, type? We did not know what we would do. But we wanted to help. Maybe he froze? We covered him with towels and blankets so he would be hot. Otherwise I did not understand much of it. Probably took Sanela more. She had noticed how his mood swung and how he flashed, and screamed like a bear and I think it scared her.
In addition, missing her little brother. She wanted to mother again while for me was the opposite. I longed after dad, and one of those evenings, I called him safe and let me desperate.
It had been alone without Sanela. I want to stay with you. We parted, my sister and I, but has always been together, or rather, it has been up and down. But basically, we are incredibly close.
Sanela is the hairdresser today and sometimes people come up to Her salon and say, "God, you are like Zlatan! But neither she nor I have had it easy. My father, efik, had in moved from the hard road in Rosengard to Vrnhemstorget in Malmo, and it is your understood, he has a big heart, he is prepared to die for us.
But it was not quite as I expected. I knew him as a weekend dad who bought hamburgers and ice cream. Now we share everyday and I noticed right away: it was empty with Dad.
It was missing something, a woman might. There was a TV, a couch, a bookcase, two beds. But nothing extra, no comfort, and it was beer cans on the tables and low debris on the floor, and when he occasionally got a jolt and papered was just a wall made, type. But it was empty also in a different way. My dad was the caretaker of hardest-call and when he came home with his carpenter pants with all those pockets with screwdrivers and stuff, he sat by the phone or TV, and then he would not be disturbed.
He was inside her, and often he had headphones on and listened to the Yugoslavian folk music. He is crazy about juggemusik.
He has recorded a few cassettes. He is a showman as he is on the tempers. But he was in his own world most of the time and heard my friends off, he hissed at them: "Do not call us! The phone was not for me, and I had nobody to talk to at home really, and yes, it was something serious, Dad was there for me.
Then he would do anything, go out on the town with all its cocky style and try to make things right. He had a way of walking that got people to wake up: Who the hell is that like? But if all that usual, about what happened at school and at football field and with his friends, he was not interested, and I had to talk to myself or to stand out.
While living SaPKo, my half brother, with us the first time, and certainly I talked to him sometimes, he must have been seventeen then. But I do not remember much of it, and not much later threw Dad out to him. They had terrible trouble. There is also a sad thing, of course, and it was just me and Dad left. We were alone at each corner, one can say, for it was strange, he also had no friends at home.
He sat for himself and drank. It was empty on the company.
But above all, it was empty in the fridge. I was out all the time and played football and hojade of stolen bikes, and often I came home hungry as a wolf and tore open the refrigerator door and thought: Please, please, let there be anything! But no, nothing, just the usual: milk, butter, a loaf and, at best, juice, multivitamin, gallon container, downloadd in the Arab shop because it was cheapest, and so of course beer, Pripps Blue and Carlsberg, with six-pack of those plastic around him.
Sometimes there are nothing but beer belly and screamed. There was a pain in it I'll never forget. Ask Helen! The refrigerator will be chock-full, I say all the time.
It never goes out of me. The other day my kid was crying, Vincent, that he did not pastes and then boiled macaroni on the stove. The guy yelled that the food was not done quickly enough and then I wanted to yell: If you only knew how good you have it!
I could search through every drawer, every corner, for a single macaroni or meatball. I ate my fill of toasted sandwiches. I could slap in me a whole loaf, or so I ran over to my mom.
It was not always open arms. There was more: What the hell, should Zlatan come too? Provides efik not feed him? And sometimes I got a scolding: Are we made of money, right? Are you going to eat us out of the house! But anyway, we helped each other, and with my dad, I started to keep a little wars against the beer. I poured some of them, not all, it would have been too obvious, but a few.
It was seldom he noticed something. There was beer everywhere, it stood on tables and shelves, and often I put empty cans in big black garbage bags and went out and pledged them.
I got fifty cents jar. Yet sometimes I scraped together fifty or a hundred bucks. There were a lot of cans and I was happy with the money. But of course, it was not a nice thing, and that all the kids in that situation, I learned to see exactly what mood he was on. I knew exactly when it was not worth talking to him. The day after he had drunk, it was pretty quiet. Other days, it was worse. In some situations, he could ignite in a flash.
Other times, he was incredibly generous. Gave me five hundred bucks just like that. At that time I collected football pictures. You had a gum and then three pictures in a small package. Oh, oh, what guys should I get? I wondered. Maradona, or? Usually, I was disappointed, especially when it was just boring Swedish stars I knew nothing about.
But one day he came home with a whole paperboard. It was pure celebration and I tore up everything and got all sorts of cool brass, and sometimes we watched on the TV together and talked. Then we had a really good time. But other days he was drunk. I have pure horror images in my head and when I was a little bigger, I took the conflict with him. I backed off not as her brother. I told him: "You drink too much dad," and we had crazy fights, completely meaningless fights sometimes, frankly.
I could argue even though I looked at him that he would only shout back: "I will throw you out", and stuff. But I wanted to show that I could speak for me, and every now and then it was a terrible life at home. But he never touched me physically, never ever. Well, once he lifted me up two feet in the air and let me in bed, though it was only because I was mean to Sanela, his eye.
Basically, he was the world's nicest person, and I understand now, he was not easy. But the war took him really hard. The war was at all a strange thing.
I never knew anything about it. I was protected. All tried hard indeed. I did not understand Even so mom and sister dressed in black. It was totally incomprehensible, as a sudden fashion thing. But it was my grandmother who died in a bomb attack in Croatia and all mourned, all except me who did not know and would never bother me if people were Serbs or Bosnians, or what any time. But the worst was for Dad. He came from Bijeljina in Bosnia.
He had been a bricklayer down there, and all his family and old friends all lived in the city and now suddenly Hell had come there.
Bijeljina was raped more or less, and it was no wonder he called himself a Muslim again, not at all. The Serbs took into the city and executed hundreds of Muslims. I think he knew many of them, and all his family were driven to flight. The entire population of Bijeljina was replaced, and everywhere in the empty houses of Serbs moved in, also in dad's old cottage. Somebody else just stepped in and took over the house, and I really believe he did not have time for me, especially as he had all evening was waiting on the TV news or call where the bottom.
The war for him, and he became obsessed with monitoring of the situation. He sat alone and drank and took care and listened to his juggemusik, and I made sure to keep me out of doors or stick over to my mom. It was a different world.
With dad, it was just me and him. In mother was a full circus. There were people who came and went, and loud voices and banging. I, Keki and Sanela was really close. We formed a pact. But even with my mom, it was some shit. Half Sis fell deeper into drugs and my mother pulled for every time the phone rang or there was a knock on the door: No, no, as well.
Have not we had enough of accidents? What is it now? She grew old in early, and quite rabid against all types of drugs. Not long ago at all, I mean today, she called hysterical: "It's dope in the fridge. Not again as well, and I called Keki, right aggressively: "What the hell, is the drugs in Mum's fridge! It was the snuff she talked about. She was really marked by those years, and we should certainly have been nicer then.
But we had not learned that. We could just tough. Half Sis with drug problems moved out early and went in and out of treatment centers, but always came back to shit, and eventually broke Mom with her, or it broke my sister with her. I can not quite master.
It was pretty hard anyway, but we have that feature in our family. We are taking a long and dramatic, and says, "Will never see you again!
Anyway, I remember once when I was up at my sister with drugs in her own little apartment. It may have been on my birthday. I think so. She had bought gifts.
She was nice in the middle of everything. But I would go to the bathroom and when she stopped the panic me. I realized that something was wrong. That it was like a secret. There was a lot like that stuff. But as I said, you made that from me, and I had my own stuff, my bike and my football, and so my dreams of Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali. I wanted to be like them. My father had a brother named Sabahudin in the old Yugoslavia. He was called SaPKo, big brother was named after him.
Sabahudin was a boxer, a real talent. He competed for BK Radniki in the city of Kragujevac and was Yugoslav champion with his club and national team. But , when the guy was married, and only twenty-three he swam out into the Neretva river and there was some streams and stuff and I think he had something wrong with your heart or lungs.
He was drawn into the water and drowned, and you can imagine. It was a hard blow for the family, and after Dad was a bit of a fanatic. He had all the big games are recorded on the old videos and it was not just Sabahudin without Ali, Foreman and Tyson, and so all of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan films on those tapes.
It was the ones we looked at when we hung together in front of the television. Swedish television was not worth having. It was not on the map. We lived in a completely different the world. I was twenty when I saw my first Swedish film, and I had no idea about some Swedish heroes or sports guys, like Ingemar Stenmark, or like that. But Ali, I could! What a legend!
He drove his style no matter what people said. He did not apologize and I forgot Never. The guy was cool. He did his thing. So would you be, and I took after some stuff, I am the greatest, type. They needed a tough attitude in Rosengard, and you had to hear any crap, worst was being called a pussy, which was to not back down. Though usually fought not with each other.
You do not poop in his own bed, as we said. It was more we Rosengard against all others. I was by and watched and yelled at those racists who demonstrates November 30, and once in the Malm Festival, I saw a lot bunch of guys from Rosengard, type two hundred, who chased a lonely guy.
It did not look quite nice out, frankly. But since it was the guys from my neighborhood, I started running with them, and I do not think that kid felt so good afterwards. We were cocky and wild all of them. But sometimes it was not so easy to be tough. When I and my dad lived in Stenkula school, I was often late, stay with mom, and then I had to walk home through a dark concrete tunnel crossing Admiral Way and is located diagonally across from Annelund Bridge.
Once, several years earlier had Dad been robbed and severely beaten there and ended up in hospital with a punctured lung. I thought about it often, though I did not want to be understood. The more I pushed it away, the more showed up, and in this neighborhood is a tgbana and a car.
There is a disgusting alley too, and some bushes and two light fixtures, a just in front of the tunnel and another after. Otherwise, it was dark, and creepy vibes. That's why the posts my benchmarks. Between them I ran like a madman with the worst pounding heart, and all the time, I felt: Sure is some scary types in there, the kind of fell Dad and I thought quite manic: If I run fast enough, it is good, and I came home completely out of breath, and was not nearly as Muhammad Ali.
Another time my dad took me and Sanela for swimming in Arlv and afterwards I was at a friend. When I was away it started to rain. It poured down and I rode like an idiot and staggered home completely soaked. We stayed at the Zenith Street where, away from Rosengard, and I was completely exhausted.
I shaking and had a stomach ache. I got totally sick evil. I could not move. I lay curled up in bed. I vomited. I seizures. I Act out. Dad came in and yes, he is who he is, and his refrigerator was empty and he drank too much. But when it really counts, then there is no that he, and he called a taxi and picked me up in the only position I could be, kind of a small shrimp, and so he carried me to the car down there.
I was light as a feather then. Dad was big and strong and quite mad, he was a lion again, and he yelled at the driver, there was a woman apparently: "He's my boy, he is my everything, shit in every single traffic law, I pay the fine, I'll take care of police", and the woman, she did as he said. She burned two red lights and we entered the children's department at Malmo General Hospital. The whole situation had become acute, as I understand.
I would get a shot in the back, and Dad had heard shit about people who become paralyzed by the stuff, and he said some aggressive stuff, guess I. He would turn upside down the whole town if something went wrong. But he calmed down and I lay on my stomach and sobbed and had that syringe in the spinal cord. It turned out that I had meningitis, and the nurse pulled down the blinds and turned off every light. It would be totally dark around me, and I received medication and Dad watched beside me.
But at five o'clock the next morning I opened my eyes and the crisis was over, and still I do not know; what caused that? Maybe I looked after me no further.
I did not run with food group exactly. I was small and the poor in those days. Still, I must have been strong anywhere. I forgot and moved on and instead of sitting at home and brood, I applied kicks. I was running all the time. It burned in me, and just as Dad lit my light: Who the hell are you, type? It was a tough year, I understand now.
Dad was up and down, often entirely absent or flash furious: "You should be home now and then. There was never a soft style exactly, no "I have pain in stomach today. I am a little sad. I learned to bite off and move on, but also, it must not be forgotten, I learned a lot of self-sacrifice stuff. When we bought a new bed for me at Ikea had dad can not afford transportation. Shipping costs is well five hundred extra or something.
So what should we do? It was simple. Dad wore the bed on my back all the way from Ikea, insane, mile after mile, and I came after the headboards. They weighed no. Still, I hung not with: "Take it easy, Dad, stop. He had that macho style, and sometimes he appeared with all his cowboy style at parent meetings at school. All wondered: Who is that? People noticed him. He was respected with him, and the teachers dared certainly not whine at me as much as they supposed to.
The old man, we must be careful, as well! You have asked me: What would I have if I did not become soccer players? I have no idea. But perhaps I had become a criminal. It was much crime at the time. Not that we went out to steal.
But there was still some stuff, not just bikes. It was in and out of stores also, and often I got a kick out of the actual execution. I was triggered by the theft, and I will be glad that my dad never found out. Dad drank; yes, but it was much rules as well. One would do the right thing and that! Definitely not steal, do not stand a chance. Then he would pull down the sky, type. The time when we were arrested for Wessels department store with our down jackets, I was lucky.
We had thrown one thousand four hundred dollars. It was not just the usual candy thing. But the friend's dad had to fetch us, and when the letter came to my house, Zlatan Ibrahimovic has been arrested for theft, blah blah blah, then I managed to tear it before my father saw. I was floating and I continued to steal, so okay, it could have gone bad. But one thing I can say for sure, it had not been any drug.
I was totally against it, of course. I put not only the father's beer. I Throw Momma cigarettes. I hated all the drugs and poisons, and I was seventeen or eighteen when I drank my full first time and threw up in staircase like any teenager at any time, and after that there has been a lot of fill, just a collapse in the bathtub after the first Scudetto with Juventus.
It was Trezeguet, the serpent, who incited me to drink shots. Me and Sanela also ran hard with Keki in Rosengard. He did not smoke or drink because then we would come after him. Il est bon, incroyablement bon. Yo soy Zlatan Ibrahimovic es la historia del futbolista conocido en el mundo entero como Ibra. Barcelona 5. Un viaggio dai sobborghi verso un sogno". Edizione digitale con tavola fotografica.
Born to Balkan immigrants who divorced when he was a toddler, Zlatan learned self-reliance from his rough-and-tumble neighborhood.