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…
Just Me Lakhani 