Ronaldo, the Real One
He didn’t just score goals.
He awakened a feeling we had left unfinished inside us.
The first time I watched him, I didn’t notice much.
He was running with the ball.
But not like the others.
It felt like the ball belonged to him, and he to the ball.
They knew each other.
They called him “Fenômeno.”
But I never liked that word.
It’s cold.
Ronaldo was warm.
There was always a child on his face.
He smiled not when he scored, but while he ran.
As if nothing bad could ever happen, as long as the game continued.
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In 1998, he fell.
Everyone talked.
What happened?
Why did it happen?
I don’t know.
What I do know is:
That day, his eyes were on the ground.
Four years later, he walked onto the pitch again.
No one said anything.
No one shouted, “he’s back.”
Because some returns come in silence.
And some silences rise like an anthem.
In the 2002 final, when he scored two goals,
it wasn’t just Brazil that rejoiced.
I rejoiced.
You did too.
Maybe you were late for work that day, but you didn’t complain.
Because that goal wasn’t just a goal.
It completed something inside us that had remained unfinished.
A lot has been written about him.
His speed, his dribbles, his strength, his trophies…
But I remember something else:
That smile.
In those moments when he was alone with the ball,
when the crowd quieted down,
a silent joy came out of him.
To me, Ronaldo was the best.
Because everything unforgettable lived inside him.
There was joy.
There was fragility.
And the desire to play.
He was a child on the field.
But he carried the world.
Now he’s gone.
He retired.
But I’m still looking for him.
When I watch a match,
when I see a clever dribble,
in the surprised face of a goalkeeper…
“Maybe this one is like Ronaldo,” I think.
But it never is.
Because he wasn’t just a player.
He was a time.
And that time is gone.
