By Christopher Weir for These Football Times
Eric Cantona leans into the camera, all Gallic purring and bushy eyebrows. “My advice to you is never give up, my friends.” So concludes the famous Joga Bonito advert, commissioned by Nike in advance of the 2006 World Cup. The Frenchman, looking decidedly chubby in a branded blue tracksuit, has spent the past 30 seconds swooning over grainy videos of a futsal court. Weaving and spinning, this subject of the video scores goal after goal, a mop of curly hair deploying trick after trick. Like any good World Cup ad, it is both terrible and brilliant. Terrible, because of the blatant commercialisation and woeful acting. Brilliant, because, well, it’s Ronaldinho.
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Ronaldo de Assis Moreira was born in Porto Alegre in 1980, the son of a dock worker and a saleswoman. Vila Nova, the neighbourhood where he grew up, was as dreary as every other slum in the city. Gangs, drugs and violence were the norm in an area where an underclass of blacks and mulattos were left to fend for themselves.
If little Ronaldo was aware of his family’s struggles, he didn’t show it. Pictures of him as a child reveal wide eyes and a grinning mouth, a youthful exuberance that belies the deprivation of his surroundings. An outgoing boy, he divided his time between two great friends. One was Bombom, the faithful family dog who followed his every move. The other was a football. Ronaldo didn’t really have a choice. His father, João, a talented amateur himself, had grown up watching the best Brazilian sides make history. He spent every spare moment extolling the virtues of the beautiful game to his two sons. The brainwashing had already borne fruit, with eldest boy Roberto being snapped up by local giants Grêmio. In the Moreira household, football was a religion.
For João’s youngest son, however, futsal was king. Ronaldo blossomed in its confined spaces, revelled in its rapid movements and forced improvisations. In the sports hall or on the beach, against opponents younger and older, he approached games with the same simple aims: to enjoy himself and to play like his idols. One of them was obvious. Ronaldo was captivated by Diego Maradona, of course, but his main idol was his brother. Roberto was an elegant midfielder combining natural athleticism with a vision and pass that delighted even his opponents.
Watching his elder sibling conduct affairs with such ease, Ronaldo decided that he wanted to be just like him. Before long, however, tragedy would shake the family’s very foundations. João had organised a celebration in honour of Roberto signing his first professional contract. Friends and family were invited to the new house, a swanky property in a decent neighbourhood which had been one of the terms of the deal. Churrasco by the pool, beers under the sun, and the start of a brighter future. Except the party didn’t happen. João hit his head against the swimming pool and drowned. Ronaldo was eight.
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Fourteen years later, Joan Laporta was making his case. Lithe and good looking, the young Catalan lawyer had made his name as part of the Elefant Blau movement, which a few years earlier had tried to unseat FC Barcelona president, Josep Lluís Núñez. After a disastrous reign that had seen the club fail to win a trophy in four seasons, Núñez’s successor, Joan Gaspart, was finally being ousted. Laporta was widely perceived as a distant second favourite for a role that had seemingly been pre-ordained for the noted publicist, Lluis Bassat.
Laporta, however, had a secret weapon. Mindful of the depressed mood amongst the club’s socios, he and his attaché of sleek executives promised the arrival of a global star. A player who would bring instant quality to a tired team, whilst being the harbinger of the city’s renewed commercial muscle. David Beckham, Laporta argued, would make the Senyera sexy again. What’s more, he had already sought and acquired the endorsement of Johan Cruyff. The Dutchman had been won over by Laporta’s pitch, bought by the promise of reinvestment in Barcelona’s traditional values. After years of drift, Laporta and his crack team of administrators were promising a virile future.
It worked, with Laporta winning a narrow majority in the club elections in 2003. He immediately set about securing Beckham’s signature, but the Englishman’s annoyance at being used as a political pawn — coupled with sustained interest from Real Madrid — meant Barcelona missed their man. Laporta, facing the prospect of an angry backlash, needed a Plan B. By this point, little Ronaldo had morphed into one of the hottest football talents in the world. After following his older brother into the Grêmio ranks aged 11, his glittering talents had sparked widespread interest two years later when he scored all 23 goals in a stunning victory for the Gremata youth side. The legend of Ronaldinho was born.
A professional debut arrived in 1998. The following season, he scored 23 goals before helping Brazil secure the Copa América. With the likes of Arsenal and Manchester United circling, he had the pick of Europe’s top clubs to choose from. Instead, Ronaldinho took his brother’s advice by signing for Paris Saint-Germain. In a team and league that was far from the elite, he would have time to adapt and grow. It was a move that hinted at the competitive nature of a man that we continue to paint in one dimension. Ronaldinho might have been a joyful footballer, but he was a hardened competitor too. His vast array of tricks and dribbles had been forged in a gauntlet of kicks and shoulders. Both as a child and in the Brasileirão, he’d side-stepped his away around older men who had every reason to despise him. With the shuffle of a foot and drop of a shoulder, he’d left them all behind.
Yet the PSG move illustrated unique self-awareness. Ronaldinho could have chased the money in the Premier League or LaLiga, but he knew he wasn’t ready. He knew the focus would be less intense in Paris, that minutes on the pitch would be more forthcoming. He could hone his craft at the Parc des Princes, away from the spotlight in a city where football wasn’t the power it is today.
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After a difficult first year in Paris, Ronaldinho’s form the following season had earned him a surprise call-up to Luiz Felipe Scolari’s 2002 World Cup squad. Flanked by Ronaldo and Rivaldo, the PSG man had been the team’s undoubted star, the best defences in world football succumbing to this two-footed dazzler. In Korea and Japan, with their modern stadia and sharp resolutions, the world caught its first true glimpse of his burning talent. Here, everyone agreed, was the future.
It was no wonder, then, that Sir Alex Ferguson had been pulling out all the stops to bring him to Old Trafford the following summer. It seemed for all the world like they would get him too, but for a last-minute intervention by Barcelona director Sandro Rosell. The Brazilian, who had worked with Ronaldinho during his time as a Nike executive, convinced the forward that the Camp Nou would be the most fitting theatre for his talents. The deal, much to Ferguson’s chagrin, was done. The expectations of an entire region rested on Ronaldinho’s shoulders. Thousands greeted his arrival at Barcelona airport, with hundreds more lining his route through the city. This club, choked by debts and starved of success, could not afford for him to be a flop.
Sevilla would be the visitors for his debut, the game kicking off at midnight due to internal politicking within the Spanish football federation. At 1.24am, he received the ball in his own half, collecting a throw from Victor Valdés. Cutting in from the left wing, he galloped past the first challenge from Martí. Javi Casquero was next, done in by a drop of the same shoulder in the same direction. Any other player would have squared the ball off at this point, content to take a smattering of applause from the crowd. Instead, Ronaldinho unleashed a piledriver from 30 yards that flew straight past Antonio Notario and in off the bar. The crowd erupted, reaching volumes that had scarcely been felt in the last decade. They were celebrating not just a crucial goal but the arrival of an otherworldly talent that had for so long been absent from the Catalan stage.
It was a false start, however. By the turn of the year, Ronaldinho’s brilliance had been blunted by his labouring teammates. Barcelona were struggling in mid-table by January, and it was only an upturn in their form come the spring that helped them finish behind eventual champions Valencia. Frank Rijkaard, the man who had assumed the managerial post that season, realised that a major clear-out was needed. Top of the list were his compatriots Marc Overmars and Phillip Cocu, followed swiftly by Luis Enrique, Javier Saviola and an out-of-sorts Juan Román Riquelme.
In came Deco, the all-encompassing talent from Porto. On the right, Ludovic Giuly was a willing supplicant for Ronaldinho’s rampages from the left. Samuel Eto’o, angry and brilliant, completed an attacking unit that rivalled Europe’s finest. The revival was instant.
Backed by their inspired Brazilian, Barça stormed to top spot in LaLiga, but it was in the Champions League that Ronaldinho’s brilliance would truly be felt. On 7 March 2005, Rijkaard’s men travelled to Stamford Bridge for the second leg of their quarter-final tie against Chelsea. José Mourinho’s side had raced out of the traps, smashing three quick goals before a Ronaldinho penalty gave the Catalans a glimmer. Then, on 38 minutes, Ronaldinho received the ball on the edge of the box.
Thousands of words have already been written about those next few moments. There are hundreds of YouTube clips and dozens of articles. This, perhaps more than any other moment in Ronaldinho’s career, summarised his brilliance. Swarmed by a glug of Chelsea defenders, it seemed as though there was simply nowhere for the ball to go. He shaped to shoot, before fading. Then, he eyed the smallest of spaces to Petr Čech’s right-hand side. All it needed was a toe-poke, the same kind that he had used so often in futsal or in games with Bombom. All it needed was a moment of genius, one that would cement his legacy forever.
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Few remember that Barcelona actually went out that night, undone by John Terry’s late header. Few remember the bust-up between Ronaldinho and the stewards at the final whistle. Everybody’s head was still in that moment, every thought devoted to working out just how he did that? “He is special,” Rijkaard would admit in an interview later that year. “He is the best player in the world and he’s very important in the dressing room. He likes to laugh and take the pressure off all the other players, even though he’s under a great deal of pressure himself. His attitude is always contagious.”
It wasn’t just his teammates who were enamoured. Watching Ronaldinho was to relive the football of your childhood; it was re-enacting those long summer days with your friends at the park; it was chasing blow-away balls and putting down jumpers for goalposts. It was the sport we loved in its purest, most innocent form — uncorrupted by the pomp and chicanery of the grown-up game.
Needless to say, Ronaldinho’s performances that year won him the accolade for World Player of the Year.
In two short seasons, he had proven his potential and more. Now, he was the figurehead of arguably the best team on the continent; with it came the sponsorships and the spotlight. “In his world of demands and endless opportunities, Ronaldinho is a one-man endorsement machine,” reported the New York Times in 2004. Pepsi, Nike, Lenovo and Gatorade were just some of the companies plastering his toothy smile across their advertisements.
For now, though, it seemed not to affect his game. As well as being the unquestioned star, Ronaldinho had taken it upon himself to mentor the latest graduate from the Barcelona B team. His name was Lionel Messi. “I started at the same age as him and it’s difficult,” Ronaldinho admitted about the young Argentine in an interview with The Observer in 2005. “He’s a child, he’s the youngest of us all. I think when there are jokes and cheerfulness its easier to adapt.” In truth, it had taken just one session for Ronaldinho to realise that he was in the presence of greatness. As revealed in Guillem Balague’s book Messi, the Brazilian had called a journalist friend that afternoon to announce that he had just finished playing with someone better than him.
It was a thought that simply could not be countenanced. Ronaldinho was so far and above every footballer on the planet that he had no peers. Yet the Brazilian knew even then that this was the beginning of a long goodbye in his role as Barcelona’s commander-in-chief. It wasn’t quite time for the sunsets and violins, though. The previous year, Ronaldinho had demonstrated his audacious skills by setting up the winner in a 2-1 away win against Real Madrid. Xavi, the goalscorer that evening, has since argued that that goal — abetted by the Brazilian’s nonchalantly lofted pass — was the first time that Barcelona’s players felt the tide was turning in their favour.
On 19 November 2005, however, a new hegemony was confirmed. On the eve of the game, Barcelona were a point ahead of their hated rivals. Eto’o scored an impudent opener before Ronaldinho collected the ball from Deco’s slide-rule pass. Accelerating away from Sergio Ramos, he skipped past Iván Helguera’s tired legs before rifling an arrowed finish at Iker Casillas’ near post. Just 17 minutes later, he did exactly the same thing, prompting waves of applause to break out amidst the grudging Madrileños in the stands.
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Two weeks later, Ronaldinho won the Ballon d’Or, but the individual achievements paled in comparison to Barcelona’s stunning 2-1 triumph in the Champions League final. Even as opponents Arsenal took an early lead, the Blaugrana’s superiority was evident. Ronaldinho may not have scored on that fine evening in Paris, but he, more than any other person at the club, had been responsible for getting them there in the first place.
Everybody adores Ronaldinho’s persona. The marketed joy, the bankrolled cheeriness. Yet we fail to acknowledge his recovery from the most crushing grief, even less the way he shouldered responsibility for his family after the forced retirement of his brother. Life had already extracted its pound of flesh from him even before he departed South America to prove himself; before he breathed fresh life into a dying football club and a tired people yearning for a renewed expression of their identity.
Ronaldinho might have been a hurricane of skill and charisma, but it was his determination and anger that made him turn up every day. It was the burning legacy of his father and brother that made him eke everything from his talent, made him refuse to take a holiday between 1999 and 2003. It was his refusal to give in to the gnawing realities of life, his choice to defy the pointlessness of ‘good enough’, that made everyone forget their cynicism and sadness, 90 minutes at a time. “Everything has great importance in its time in my life,” he told Deutsche Welle in 2006. “But when I have the ball, it’s my girlfriend, and I treat her accordingly – with gentleness.”
Yet even the hottest loves grow cold when left unnurtured. Rijkaard had grown too trusting of his all-conquering players, whilst the decision to allow assistant Henk ten Cate to leave for the Ajax job had robbed the squad of its most feared disciplinarian. Standards slipped and performances dropped. Ronaldinho gained weight and lost form, routinely missing training and moving to the fringes. Barcelona, after the heights of the previous season, finished trophyless. Ronaldinho scored more goals that year than in any other in Catalonia, which left many wondering how effective he could have been had he managed to apply himself.
Things grew worse the following year. It seemed as though the Brazilian was perennially injured, struck down with unfortunate bouts of gastroenteritis or mysterious muscle problems. In reality, he had simply fallen out of love and favour with the game. If he hadn’t been so good, Los Cúles would have hurt a lot less. Paunched and disinterested, watching him hulk around the pitch was heartbreaking. Within the club, concerns were growing about the influence that he was having over Messi’s development, with suggestions that his penchant for partying had been leading the youngster astray. The man himself denies that he was a bad influence: “It’s not true, you shouldn’t always believe what you read,” he told FourFour Two. “I always tried to be a good influence on him and actually try to do for him what Ronaldo did for me.”
The way Messi was brought under Ronaldinho’s wing, the way the best player in the world cultivated the man he identified as his eventual successor, seems to support this characterisation. Yet, after 94 goals and 69 assists, it was time for the Ronaldinho to depart the Camp Nou stage. His 207th and final game in a Blaugrana shirt would arrive in a sorry 2-1 defeat to Villarreal. By then, he was already a bit-part player, a man that the club needed to move on.
At least, that was the official narrative. The way Ronaldinho tells it, new manager Pep Guardiola asked the Brazilian to stay on and be part of the new era. Both men knew, however, that separation made sense. AC Milan made their bid and Ronaldinho made his move. “Since my first goal to my last goal in Barcelona, they were amazing and marvellous times,” he told Sport360 in a 2016 interview. “Once I start to remember, I start to relive those moments.” We start to relive them, too. The flicks, the smiles, the tricks. The flutters of joy. The moments when he won our hearts and helped us remember why we love football at all.
(Art: Dimitris Kostinis)
