Category: Fenomeno: The Return

  • Chapter 3: Start

    Angry buzz. Brain throbbing. Nausea. Eyes opening. Burning daylight! Eyes snap shut. A groan. Two groans. Soft… A breast. Not alone. Heart about to burst out of chest. Who’s that drilling in the distance? What’s that smell. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Morning breath. Who’s morning breath? Just a peek. Adjust. Who is she? And… a fingernail on the other side. Not a nail, a talon! Who is she! Come on fatty. Up. Get up. Get up fatty. Fatty. FATTY!

    Ronaldo sat bolt upright in a bed that wasn’t his. Somebody had forgotten to shut the damn curtains. And the window! The smell of cooking oil in a vat on a stove from across the street. Kids shouting as bare feet met leather. Rainbow flicks and elasticos. Some folksy samba on crackling speakers… radio? Where the fuck am I?

    The one on the left reached across, her hand running over Ronaldo’s ample belly. “Morning, gordo.”

    Gordo. Fatty.

    “Don’t call me that.”

    “Why so sensitive? You were not like this last night at the bar.”

    Bar? What bar?

    “Aii, keep it down,” the one on the right yawned and stretched, kicking off the single sheet that had apparently covered all three of them. “It’s too early to talk.”

    “You keep it down, idiota. Who forgets to draw the curtains at night?”

    “I think you both should shut up,” Ronaldo climbed out of bed with some difficulty.

    “Aiii, you used to move a lot better on the pitch, eh?”

    Ronaldo yawned as he pulled on his clothes that were in a heap on the floor. “How much do I owe you?”

    “Owe… what do you think we are, whores?”

    “I mean-“

    “Just get the fuck out, balofo!” she reached over and threw a slipper at his head.

    Out on the street, it was chaos. Hawkers pushing carts with their provisions. Women hanging washing up on makeshift clotheslines. A passed-out drunk sleeping on newspaper. Those kids playing.

    The ball bounced right in front of Ronaldo. Instinct kicked in and he controlled it. Perfect first touch.

    The kids chasing after the ball stopped in their tracks and gasped, staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed at their greatest idol.

    “Bom Dia, friends,” Ronaldo said cheerfully, one foot resting on the ball.

    “F-f-“

    “Uhh-“

    “Fenomeno!” He forgot that he was admired among these younglings.

    “How did you ever recognise me?” Ronaldo said, laughing spiritedly. “Oh, here.” He flicked the ball up, did a few kickups, took aim and put his lace right through the ball, sending it up into the stratosphere.

    Ohhh take that one! Maaagnificent from Ronaldo!

    He timed it as it came back down and, once again, with his deft touch, killed it dead in one, bringing fresh cheers and jubilation from his fans.

    “Thank you, thank you. Here,” he flicked it back to one of the kids, who caught it.

    “Obrigado, Don Ronaldo! How I wish you were still playing for the Seleccion, we would have SMASHED those Germans!”

    Time. Frozen. Silhouette. Show yourself! Tall. Blonde. Hands like dustbin lids. Takes up the whole fucking goal. I know who you are. I finished you off in ’02. You’re not fooling me.

    Ronaldoooo! It’s two-nil! And Ronaldo is rampant now! Resplendent Ronaldo. Two for him. Two for Brazil.

    Yes. Yes. If I was there on Tuesday instead of Fred or Hulk or whoever the fuck. We both know what would have happened:

    Tony Kroos. Oh wait, stolen on the halfway line by Ronaldo. Ronaldo bearing down on goal. One V One against Manuel Neuer. Ronaldoooooo!

    Resplendent Ronaldo. Resplendent…

    Resplendent: shining brighter than the brightest fucking star. Dazzling. Magnificent.

    Resplendent: Ronaldo.

    The kids ran back down the street, a trail of dust rising behind them. And when it cleared, so too did the path ahead.

    Surely Ronaldo. It’s 5 – 3. He just can’t stop scoring

    Clinically, I wouldn’t say zero percent. But less than one percent.

    Ausgerechnet Ronaldo. Vor vier Jahren noch der tragische Held von Paris, heute der Triumphator von Yokohama!

    Helped you through all your injuries.

    That is World Class! Absolute genius from the young Brazilian

    You used to move a lot better on the pitch, eh?

    And here’s Ronaldo… he’s going all the way… ohhhh goodness me! It’s a goal to win any football match.

    Neymar… no. Not him. Not yet.

    A hattrick for Ronaldo… What can you do to stop him?

    Silhouette. Clearing. So it’s not you, then, Kahn. You’re the other one. The new one. The man they call Neuer.

    Neuer: Newer in German.

    You stopped Brazil from scoring, but who were you even up against? Fred? Oscar? Hulk? You’re lucky you didn’t face me, punk. Well, don’t count yourself lucky yet. I’m coming for you buceta. I’m coming for you.

    Buceta: C***

    Suddenly he was alone on the road. The kids had gone. The drunk had gone. Everybody had gone.

    I played the lottery every week hoping to hit the jackpot, but I never knew the real winning ticket was the little boy breaking my vases in the living room with a ball.

    Mama…

    1994. August. PSV.

    Lançamento para Ronaldo atenção pode ser agora Ronaldo chut Goooooool!

    Breathe. Stillness. Wind. Turn down the wind. Total silence. Oblivion.

    Less than one percent chance…

    “Screw you, doctor.”

    First step.

    There was a point in his run here, when he breezed through two defenders, who’d made a wall to deny him

    Wall. Shameless fatty.

    No. Shake it off.

    Second step.

    Round the goalkeeper and scores… they just can’t keep him out.

    Third step.

    It’s not only his speed, it’s his body strength too that took him clear of the Valencia defence and once again an emphatic finish.

    Time. Unused quads. Unused calves. Unused hams. Dormant. Awake. Awake!

    I don’t remember properly but I went to sleep and then, like the doctor said, it seems I had a seizure for 30 or 40 seconds. I woke up and then my whole body was in pain.

    Less than one percent chance.

    Come on! Come on dammit! Awake! Awake!

    the speed of a sprinter, the strength of a bull, and the feet of a dancer.

    “Eh. Balofo.” What? Who, now? Another gaddamn imposter coming to make fun of me, is it? Wait…

    “Don Zico-” Ronaldo fell to his knees in front of his idol.

    “Get up, Balofo. Your time isn’t up yet.”

    Balofo: fatty.

    “But the doctor…”

    “What do doctors know? They’ve never been on the field of battle. Never felt the pain of losing. Never stepped up to take a penalty in a final. So again I ask, what the fuck do they know?” (Don Zico meant no disrespect to doctors on the front line day in day out. He’s merely trying to inspire his greatest Protege).

    “Don Zico, my legs, they won’t work.”

    “Goddamn you. Is this how you want to be remembered? As a fat has-been who’s name got stolen by some Portuguese Panaca? You ever tried looking up the name “Ronaldo” on the internet?”

    “Not in a while, no.”

    “Well I have. And it’s all him. That dull number 7 they worship. What about the one man who terrified defenders? The one even the likes of Cannavaro were scared shitless of?”

    Ronaldo shut his eyes tight. Shut out the pain. “Don Zico…”

    “What! What, dammit! Is that how you want to be remembered? You were supposed to be my heir. How can you call yourself my heir when you haven’t yet finished the job?”

    “I’ve had my time. Now it’s up to Ney and the others.”

    “Ney and the others. Look at you! Didn’t you see what happened on Tuesday?” both gazed into space for a second, then Zico shook his head and continued, “no, let’s face it. I’d rather have half of you than ten of all of them put together!”

    “But-“

    “No excuses!”

    Hypothyroidism: a common… excuse for giving up on dreams

    To me he’s the best Brazilian striker that I saw on the field. Because not only did he score, but also his preparation. He did important things as a striker.

    He was a player with a lot of technique, he was fast, he had a gift to dribble with ease

    – Zico on Ronaldo Nazario

    “Now you see it, don’t you Balofo. Go out now and shut them up. Shut me up. You are the greatest that I ever saw on the field…”

    Ronaldo blinked and Don Zico was gone. Apparitions. And he’s still living.

    Fourth step.

    Come on. Start. Just start.

    Crouch. Ready for the spring.

    There’s the run. Burst past Hamann.

    Steady. Breathe.

    Wörns couldn’t stay with him.

    Steady.

    And there’s no stopping Ronaldo in a flow like that

    NOW!

    Fifth step.

    And go…

    <Odds

  • Chapter 2: Odds

    Cheese puffs: filo pastry stuffed to the tits with cheese. Delectable, but deadly.

    The following day, Ronaldo skipped breakfast and left early to beat the morning traffic.

    The roads were mostly clear, save one or two lorries bringing raw materials into Rio De Janeiro.

    Doctor Santos’ clinic was a stone’s throw away from the municipal theatre and next door to a well-known bakery. The driver parked along the curb behind an abandoned scooter with its headlight still on and Ronaldo got out. A couple of early birds digging into their cheese puffs outside the bakery recognised him and raised a hand in salutation. 

    As he approached the clinic’s front door, he could have sworn one turned to the other and whispered something in his ear.

    Shameless fatty.

    Doctor Santos had practised sports medicine for nearly four decades. He’d been the go-to clinician for the majority of the Seleccion, but had never upgraded to a bigger office. He was still using a desktop from the yesteryear; the fans whirring loudly as it struggled to keep up and the visitor’s leather couch had a classic patina shine to lend it some character.

    Patina: a bit of sheen that appears on leather, metal or wood over time. Vintage.

    Lucile, his personal assistant, was still an attractive lady–even in her mid fifties. The only sign of age on her was a single crease on her otherwise smooth forehead. “Give him a moment, he’s just setting up,” Lucile said once they’d greeted each other with a kiss on either cheek.

    The door at the far end of the hallway opened and a small man with wiry grey hair stuck his head out. “Ronnie?” he called out affectionately.

    “You said it was urgent, is everything ok?” Doctor Santos had his clipboard at the ready, staring over the top of a pince-nez at his patient.

    ​

    “Fine. All fine.”

    ​

    “Are you managing your ten thousand steps daily?”

    ​

    “Yes.”

    ​

    “Ronnie…”

    ​

    Ronaldo sighed. “Not lately. I’ve been… distracted.”

    ​

    “Saw the game yesterday?”

    ​

    “Hmm.”

    ​

    “I’m surprised you weren’t at the Stadium, you never miss an opportunity to grace the big stage with your presence.”

    ​

    “I couldn’t make it.”

    ​

    “Just as well. It was a massacre. A blood bath. The supporters will never forget it…” Doctor Santos looked away into the distance for a second and then shook his head clear. Back to the clipboard. “I’ll take your vitals in a moment, but what is it that brought you here first thing in the morning?”

    ​

    Ronaldo cleared his throat. “I want…” Shameless Fatty. He stood up suddenly, the chair legs scraping the floor. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

    He crossed over to the door, but Doctor Santos intercepted him. “Please.” He made a sweeping gesture for Ronaldo to take his seat. The Fenomeno obliged. “Now. Indulge me.”

    ​

    “I want. I wonder. What chance do I have of…” his head was pounding. Fatty. Fatty. Fatty. He cleared his throat and, leaning forward, whispered “Is it possible for me to…”

    ​

    “Go on,” Doctor Santos said, kindly.

    ​

    “Do you think… What will it take for me to… To play for the Seleccion again?”

    ​

    “The Seleccion? You mean the National Team?”

    ​

    “I told you it’s ridiculous, I’m just wasting your time,” Ronaldo got up again, but Doctor Santos leaned across his desk, taking his patient’s hand.

    “It’s not ridiculous. Please, sit.” Ronaldo sighed heavily again and dropped back into the seat. Doctor Santos continued. “Don Ronaldo, I’ve known you a long time. I’ve helped you through your injuries. I kept you fit.”

    ​

    “You did.”

    ​

    “Then you know that I’ve always been honest with you. Just as I’m going to be right now.”

    “Here we go…”

    “You’re thirty-seven going on thirty-eight. The last time you trained was, what, three, three-and-a-half years ago? With Corinthians?”

    “Don’t remind me. That was embarrassing.”

    “Either way, that’s the last time you trained. Now, had you done your ten thousand steps religiously, watched your diet, taken better care of yourself… I’d have given you, maybe, a three per cent chance of being called up.”

    “So I have no chance. Zero.”

    ​

    “Clinically? I won’t say zero. But it’s less than one per cent. It would take a mammoth effort and even then, there’s no certainty.”

    ​

    “I should have just stayed at home.”

    ​

    “No, I’m glad you came. Look,” he clasped his hands on his desk and looked Ronaldo directly in the eye, “you’ve won two World Cups. You’ve cemented your place as a legend of the game. Maybe it’s time to let this go. Focus on getting better for yourself, hmm? What, what is it?”

    Ronaldo had looked away, jaw clenched. “Legend. What legend. When they talk about Ronaldo, there is only one. That Portuguese Merda who stole my name.”

    “Bah, what does it matter? The fact is, you had your time and there are those who will remember it. For now, my recommendation would be to keep to your ten thousand steps, lay off the beer and make sure you’re swapping rice for salad once in a while. You’re due a visit next month, so I’ll do your checkups then, too.”

    After the visit, Ronaldo decided to make a pit stop at the bakery. What’s the point, I’ve got less than one percent chance. A bubbly waitress brought him a menu and stood sentry at his side. “Two cheese puffs, a slice of cake, scrambled eggs with two buttered toasts and a pot of coffee.”

    “Is someone joining you?” the waitress asked in earnest.

    “Sure,” Ronaldo said.

    “Thank you, may I take the menu, shameless fatty?”

    “S-sorry?”

    “May I take the menu, sir?”

    “Oh, uh, sure. Yes, of course.”

    Ronaldo stared at the cheese puffs on his plate, but didn’t pick one up. He felt his mouth watering and his stomach grumbled with longing. Less than one per cent chance. What a fool he had been to think he’d ever make it into that squad. And even if he did, why would they select him over that new guy, Gabriel Jesus? Or Bobby Firmino? He’d be the laughing stock of the footballing community. Again.

    He picked up a cheese puff, but just as he made to sink his teeth into it, he saw a pair of eyes. And then a fold in the breading opened like a mouth and the cheese puff spoke in a surprisingly deep voice.

    “Yes, that’s right. Eat me. Gobble me up, you fat fuck. Hypothyroidism my ass. Look at you, breakfast for four all to yourself. No wonder it’s a less than one per cent chance. You have a less than one per cent chance of ever seeing your own dick again the way you’re going. Fenomeno. What Fenomeno. It’s Fatty. Fatty with a half decent right foot. Fatty, carried by ‘Dinho and Rivaldo. Fatty. Fatty. FATTY!”

    “ARGHHHHHH!” He was on his feet, the eggs joining the cheese puffs, cake and toast on the floor amid broken china. He was breathing heavily, struggling for air as–for the second time in two days–the tears burned in his eyes. The three or four people dining in the bakery stared at him.

    “Sir…?” the waitress clutched her silver tray like her life depended on it. 

    Ronaldo pulled out a wad of cash from an inside pocket and slapped it on the table. “Keep the change.”

    “Sir, you actually owe twenty-five Real-”

    “Don’t have it, I’ll stop by later.”

    “But sir-” Too late. Ronaldo had left.

    “Let it go, menina,” the head baker had just stepped out from the kitchen.

    “But-”

    “It’s not his day. He hasn’t been the same since he bowed out of the game.”

    “Game? What game?”

    “That man,” the baker said, pointing out of the window, “is a legend. Now clean up this mess and get back to work.” The baker took a moment to watch Ronaldo climb back into his car, struggling to get his heaving belly through the door. He shook his head, murmured an apology to the other guests and returned to his ovens.

    <Chapter 1: Anguish

    Start>

  • Chapter 1: Anguish

    Ronaldo Nazario sank into his favourite armchair with a beer to watch the Selección play out their semi final grudge match against the industrious Manschaft.

    He was cautiously optimistic. They were entering this one on the back of a 4 -1 demolition of a bold Cameroon side.

    The ever-present Thomas Muller, not the fastest or the cleverest, but certainly one of the most resourceful, gave his side the lead on the eleventh minute. Still plenty of time to pull one back. No harm done.

    But it went from bad to worse. Miroslav Klose–playing in his last World Cup before a well-earned retirement–used his striker’s instinct to slot it home past Julio Cesar. 2 – 0. A minute later, Toni Kroos had an effort from the edge of the box. 3 – 0. Kroos again. 4 – 0. 

    ​

    They were 5-0 up before the half hour mark. Brazil barely had a sniff. Wake up Bernard! Wake up Fred! They were rattled. Scolari looked bamboozled on the touch line. What could he possibly do to turn this around?

    ​

    Germany were not letting up. It should have been 9, 10. 11 even. But they were merciful. They kept it at 7. Oscar gave the Selección a consolation goal. But it was nothing more.

    Ronaldo turned the television off. He’d seen enough. The media would never let this slide. For Christ’s sake when they got knocked out in 2006, it was a total shit storm. 

    A desecration on our nation’s finest sport

    Sheer humiliation 

    They owe the public an apology

    Fenomeno? What Fenomeno?

    Fat Ronaldo couldn’t get on the score sheet

    Fat Ronaldo squandered his side’s best chance to take the lead in the early stages

    Fat Ronaldo goes missing in quarter final show down

    Fat Ronaldo? He’ll never be considered among the best in the world

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat 

    Fat 

    F…

    He buried his face in his hands and stared into the abyss. Numb. A ringing in his ears drowned out the voices in his head.

    And then there was melody. A sweet sound from a different realm. A white light crept in, but didn’t startle him. It shone down on a solitary figure in the familiar Nerrazzurri 9. He remembered the year. 1999. Right after that horrific injury against Lazio.

    It’s Ronaldo on the ball. Attempts a step over and UFF that looked painful! He’s gone down… and it looks like his game is over just six minutes after coming on.

    Radio static.

    Then:

    Unbelievable scenes here at the Nissan Stadium. Ronaldo Nazario comes back from the brink to put Germany to the sword with a crisp double in a remarkable show of resilience. A magnanimous turnaround for the Phenomenon.

    Silence. 

    The white light went out and Ronaldo stared into darkness again. Slowly, he brought his sweaty palms away from his face, returning to his surroundings.

    ​

    His private space was minimally furnished. Armchair, a small refrigerator stocked with beers and cold cuts. A giant seventy-five inch television screen sitting above a decorative console. Enlarged pictures, commemorating his best days, sat embedded in brass-edged frames along the walls.

    ​

    His first World Cup goal against Iceland in 1994.

    Wheeling away in celebration, while Oliver Kahn is on his knees

    Lifting the World Cup trophy in 2002

    Pointing to the crowd in the Corinthians shirt during his final appearance

    ​

    He was starting to tear up. He needed another beer.

    ​

    As he reached for a can, an angry buzz filled his ears. And then there were the jeers–a livid mob hurling insults at him and Roberto Carlos after their disappointing Copa Libertadores campaign. 

    ​

    He could still see the graffitied wall outside the training ground; the words “Shameless Fatty” sprawled across the off-white canvas in large, child-like letters. Words that had left an imprint on his heart.

    ​

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat 

    Fat 

    F…

    ​

    He summoned all the willpower he could muster to relinquish his grip on the beer can. He slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Four years ago in Milan I found out that I was suffering from a problem that is called hypothyroidism…”

    Hypothyroidism: A condition that slows down the metabolism-

    Excuses.

    For the first time since he hung up his boots, Ronaldo wept. The tears came thick and fast, but he simply allowed them to flow down his cheeks. He had devoted 16 years of his life to football. A game that was at once beautiful and ugly. The game that lifted his spirit. And then broke it. 

    The people who had once cheered him on emphatically, were the same people that turned their backs on him when things went sour.

    ​

    Hypothyroidism: A condition that slows down the metabolism-

    ​

    Excuses.

    His favourite was Oliver Kahn on his knees. Begging for mercy as the great Phenomenon bore down on him and mercilessly put away the rebound following Rivaldo’s effort from range.

    ​

    “Shameless Fatty.”

    ​

    That damned wall again. It made his blood boil. He glanced down and saw his fists were clenched; the nails digging into his palms. His jaw had tightened as well.

    ​

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat Ronaldo

    Fat 

    Fat 

    F…

    He let out a scream of anguish, lashing out with his right foot, hitting the bundle of leather right on the sweet spot, sending it flying into that wall of sacrilege.

    Explosion. Bricks everywhere. The dust settled, revealing a silhouette of football’s worst nightmare. Taut muscles clinging onto his lean, yet ample frame. Bulging quads accentuated by intense musculature. A goalscoring machine with a killer instinct. The Fenomeno lived within him. The Fenomeno forever.

    Chapter 2: Odds>