Chapter 5: Chapter 5: The Emperor of Football
The old man pointed to a nearby field that was attracting the biggest crowd and lots of cheering - clearly this was the legendary battleground where the master players gathered.
"Come on, come with me," the old man said, not waiting for Kaka's response as he pulled him along.
Kaka could only shrug at his former teammates and say, "I'll be back soon."
Of course, they were more than happy to see him go. Good riddance, and hopefully he wouldn't return.
Kaka followed the old man to the sidelines of the crowded pitch. They were playing 7-a-side, though it wasn't an official setup. Most of the players looked to be young adults in their 20s, but there were a few middle-aged guys mixed in too. One team was mostly wearing Brazil's bright yellow home jerseys, while the other team had on Inter Milan's blue and black striped shirts.
Ronaldo was a big star at Inter Milan at the time, so the Italian club was quite popular in Brazil.
Kaka watched with interest as the players showcased some excellent skills. While their core techniques might seem amateurish to a professional's eye, they played with plenty of flair and style.
"Hey! Sanches, I know you're tired, so get off!" the old man suddenly shouted at one of the middle-aged players. Before Sanches could respond, the old man shoved Kaka onto the field of play to replace him.
Sanches must have been genuinely exhausted, as he just waved, shouted "Sub!" and walked off without argument.
Kaka, wearing the Brazil jersey, joined the Inter Milan side...which would have made for an awkward photo if it was captured.
"Go on kid, kick their asses!" the old man yelled encouragement from the sideline.
As Sanches passed Kaka coming off, he gave the younger man a puzzled look and small nod. "Fred, who's this kid?" he asked one of his teammates.
"I don't know," Fred replied, "but I can tell he's a master player."
"A master?" Sanches laughed. "Brazil is full of so-called masters."
Fred shook his head. "No, no, I'm pretty sure he's an actual professional player."
After all, Kaka's training background and overall demeanor made it quite evident to any experienced observer.
"Oh? Well that's interesting then," Sanches said, taking a swig of water as he turned his attention to watch Kaka on the field.
The "Brazil" team had possession at the moment. While defenders and attackers were somewhat positioned, the defenders regularly pushed up further than the strikers in an undisciplined way.
The current ball carrier was a defender who had collected the ball from the back and used a fancy turn to dribble past the "Inter" striker before passing it wide to the left flank.
The receiver was a young man around 20 years old, wearing the iconic number 10 jersey of São Paulo FC rather than Inter's colors.
As soon as he got the ball, cheers went up from the sidelines - either recognizing his skill or his familiar face, as Kaka thought the number 10's features looked oddly recognizable.
The São Paulo number 10 took the pass on his right foot, seeming set to dribble forward as defenders rushed out to pressure him. But his forward momentum was just a feint, as he suddenly pulled his upper body back, dragging the ball with him and wrongfooting the defender.
It was a simple move, but effectively deceived not just the defender but also Kaka and the other observers.
After easily evading the first defender, the number 10 started dribbling upfield. The beaten man quickly tried to recover and Kaka moved to provide cover defense. However, the number 10 cheekily flicked the ball through the trailing defender's legs, rendering Kaka's covering run pointless.
While such time-wasting skill moves would be frowned upon on a full pitch, they drew appreciative applause from the spectators on this small court.
The number 10 eventually dribbled smoothly into the box and shaped to shoot. Kaka hurried across to try to block, but it proved another feint - as the shooting foot became the planted foot and the other foot pulled the ball back so the player could spin and try to dribble past Kaka instead.
Kaka wasn't surprised, having anticipated such trickery from this type of flamboyant player who would probably attempt a needless scissor-kick even when through on an open goal.
Reacting quickly, Kaka regained his balance and gave chase. The opponent didn't expect such a swift recovery, but his ball control was rock-steady as he used a slight upper-body feint to push the ball to the left with the outside of his left foot, evading Kaka's second attempt at a tackle.
Though still unflustered, Kaka stretched out his right foot to reach for the ball, but the number 10 feinted again - suddenly hooking the ball from the left side across his body to the right, before a deft right instep touched it past Kaka's final lunge.
Throughout the entire sequence, the ball remained completely glued to the number 10's feet, his movements carrying an intricate rhythm and impeccable timing that Kaka could only admire.
While Kaka's ball control was also highly skilled, it had a tinge of rigidity and deliberateness that fell well short of the natural fluidity and ease his opponent displayed.
If Kaka was a standardized product from the factory assembly line, this number 10 was a meticulously handcrafted work of art sculpted by a master artisan. It wasn't just a degree of difference, but a stark contrast in style.
Kaka hadn't been completely outclassed, but he had lost his positioning. In a desperate lunge, he stuck out a leg to trip the number 10 to the ground.
The appreciative murmurs from the sidelines turned to gasps of dismay, with criticisms of Kaka's overly physical approach in what was just a casual recreational game.
Immediately the opposition players surrounded them.
"Hey brother, no need to get so serious here, right?"
"Falcao, you okay man?"
"That was unnecessary, no?"
After all, this was just a kickabout for fun, and tripping someone seemed like excessive force.
Realizing his professional lapse, Kaka quickly raised his hands in apology and helped the number 10 player up off the ground.
"No worries," the number 10 said as he dusted off his shorts. "Good defensive effort."
Kaka was speechless. While his defensive abilities were better than many pure attackers who relied solely on jockeying, he still didn't deserve such generous praise.
You've only seen a glimpse of what I can do.
The skillful number 10 appraised Kaka carefully before asking, "Are you actually a professional player?"
"Not quite yet," Kaka replied. "Just on the under-23 team so far."
"Which club?" the number 10 probed further as he placed the ball for the restart.
Rather than answer verbally, Kaka simply pointed to the badge on his opponent's jersey.
"Ooh, São Paulo?!" The other players also perked up with interest.
While pro players were abundant in the football-mad nation of Brazil, with many attending these pickup games to stay sharp and show off, São Paulo players carried a different weight of expectation.
The fact that the club bore the city's very name spoke volumes about its local influence, and the gazes directed at Kaka immediately became much more friendly and respectful.
"São Paulo? I've never seen you before."
"He's still in the under-23s, that's why."
"Falcao, didn't you want to practice playing 11-a-side? You could get this kid to join in first."
Falcao?
Hearing the name for the second time and recognizing the familiar face, Kaka suddenly realized he was in the presence of one of the all-time greats - the future Emperor of Indoor Football.
While there were a few players nicknamed Falcao, only three really stood out in football lore: the Brazilian legend dubbed the "Eighth King of Rome" by Roma fans, the fearsome Colombian goalscorer known as the "Tiger", and this man before them who would go on to be crowned as the undisputed Emperor of the futsal game.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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