The roar in his ears was deafening, as though tens of thousands of people were cheering and shouting at the tops of their lungs.
What a way to ruin a perfectly good sleep!
Had that damn old geezer started his morning exercises early again?
And now he was even speaking Turkish?
How fashionable.
Kaka’s brow twitched as he opened his eyes in annoyance.
!
!!
!!!
Where was he?
A football pitch?
Why were there so many people?
The information flooding his mind was a complete mess, while an overwhelming sense of guilt and self-reproach gripped his heart so tightly that his eyes reddened from the pain.
Istanbul.
Atatürk Olympic Stadium.
AC Milan.
Liverpool.
The Miracle of Istanbul?!
Celebrating at half-time?!
Was this Turkey?
May 25, 2005, the UEFA Champions League Final, AC Milan versus Liverpool?
The scoreboard displayed a glaring 3-3.
It looked like the ninety minutes were already over, and this was the short break before extra time.
The man looked around blankly.
A stocky man in a suit stood in front of the players with a tactical board in his hands, speaking passionately enough to send flecks of saliva flying.
His flushed face contrasted sharply with his gentlemanly attire.
This dream was ridiculously realistic.
Apparently, having a little drink before bed really did wonders for sleep.
He recognised the man immediately.
Carlo Ancelotti, the manager of AC Milan.
Shifting his gaze, he spotted a handsome Ukrainian with a prominent nose breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on Ancelotti’s tactical board.
Sensing the man’s gaze, the man took a deep breath and forced out a stiff smile.
The Nuclear Warhead, Andriy Shevchenko.
He looked nervous.
The man smiled back, suppressing the excitement in his heart as he continued looking around.
Two men with long hair sat nearby.
Well, their hair wasn’t exactly flowing anymore.
It was soaked with sweat and plastered against the backs of their necks, while their rapid breathing alone made it obvious how exhausted they were.
Paolo Maldini and Andrea Pirlo.
One clean-shaven, the other bearded.
Then there were Gennaro Gattuso, Cafu, Clarence Seedorf…
Every face was familiar.
The man had seen these players countless times on television, but this was the first time he had ever been this close to them.
Still, his gaze didn’t stop.
He continued searching through the crowd.
Since this was AC Milan, that person had to be here.
Yet even after looking around and checking the substitutes one by one, he couldn’t find that dazzling figure anywhere.
Where was Kaka?
This was the Miracle of Istanbul, one of the most famous comebacks in football history.
He clearly remembered Kaka playing in extra time.
Had he gone back to the dressing room?
Feeling slightly disappointed, the man casually picked up a water bottle beside him, squirted some water into his mouth, rinsed it around, and spat it out with muscle memory.
Ancelotti’s urgent voice continued nearby.
“We have to keep Gerrard and Xabi Alonso under control!
Serginho, Andrea, you can’t let Gerrard keep making those forward runs!”
Serginho and Andrea Pirlo nodded silently.
Seeing that, Ancelotti turned toward the forwards, Andriy Shevchenko and Jon Dahl Tomasson.
“Andriy, Tomasson, once you’re back out there, we need more from you in attack.
Especially you, Sheva.
Keep making runs and attacking the centre of their defence…”
Looking at Shevchenko, who seemed as though he’d just been dragged out of a swimming pool, and then at the equally sweat-soaked Ancelotti, the man couldn’t help curling his lip.
He really treats them like beasts of burden.
Sheva looks half-dead, and you’re still telling him to keep making runs?
As he thought this, Ancelotti’s voice continued.
“Kaka, support Sheva and Tomasson.
Be decisive when you make your forward runs.
If the attack breaks down, get back quickly and help strengthen the midfield…”
Kaka?
The man’s ears immediately perked up.
Following Ancelotti’s gaze, he looked to his side.
Where was Kaka?
Unable to spot his idol, the man felt a burst of irritation.
Damn it.
Even in a dream, that bastard Ancelotti was annoying.
“Get back and defend if the attack fails”?
Why not just tell Kaka to dribble past all eleven Liverpool players and blast the ball into the net himself?
The man’s already played more than ninety minutes!
As a die-hard Kaka fan, his opinion of Carlo Ancelotti was far from the mainstream view and even contradicted Kaka’s own feelings toward his former manager.
To Kaka, Ancelotti had been a mentor, a guide, and the coach who recognised his talent and trusted him.
But in this man’s eyes, Ancelotti also bore some responsibility for his idol’s rapid decline.
As a player who relied heavily on explosive acceleration, sudden stops, and sharp changes of direction, Kaka’s style naturally placed enormous strain on his knees.
Unlike many traditional South American players who relied on elaborate footwork and close-control dribbling to beat defenders, Kaka often overwhelmed opponents through pure acceleration and directness.
When he surged past defenders, there was nothing flashy about it.
He was like a heavy truck smashing straight through everything in its path.
But that brutally direct style, so dependent on explosive leg power, also placed tremendous pressure on his knees and meniscus.
Throughout football history, young prodigies who became famous for their speed and explosiveness often struggled with injuries later in their careers.
Many never fully recovered after suffering one serious injury.
Players like that needed their careers carefully managed, with sensible limits placed on their playing time.
Yet after joining AC Milan, Carlo Ancelotti had practically used Kaka as a workhorse.
With Kaka’s natural sense of responsibility and gentle personality, he rarely refused the club’s demands and was always willing to sacrifice himself for the team.
And unfortunately, Ancelotti was a manager who depended heavily on his trusted core players.
Put those two factors together, and even after the Milan Lab warned the club about the wear on Kaka’s left knee, Ancelotti continued using him for full matches again and again.
A packed schedule, relentless intensity, and constant physical strain eventually pushed Kaka’s body beyond its limits.
His physical condition began deteriorating far too early, contributing to the rapid decline that followed the peak of his career.
It was difficult for this man, as a Kaka fan, not to feel some resentment toward Ancelotti because of that.
Of course, he knew professional football wasn’t that simple.
From a manager’s perspective, Ancelotti’s decisions were understandable.
But after watching his idol be destroyed by injuries and eventually leave Real Madrid in silence amid the jeers and criticism of the supporters, how could a devoted fan remain completely rational about it?
As those thoughts flashed through his mind, the man turned his gaze away from Ancelotti in irritation.
Receiving no response, Ancelotti simply assumed the player was exhausted and didn’t think much of it.
After seeing a 3-0 lead turn into 3-3, Carlo Ancelotti was under enormous pressure himself, so he failed to notice anything particularly strange about his star player’s behaviour.
The short break passed in the blink of an eye.
Ancelotti put down his tactical board, anxiety visible on his face, and clapped his hands loudly.
“Heads up, everyone!
Come on, boys!”
The AC Milan players rose one after another, each wearing a different expression as they prepared to return to the pitch.
Seeing this, the man quickly craned his neck, desperately trying to spot his idol among the players heading out.
But then Andriy Shevchenko, already near the touchline, suddenly turned around and waved at him.
“Kaka, come on.
We’re going back on.”
The man froze.
He knew perfectly well that behind him were only the seats of the substitutes’ bench.
There was no Kaka sitting there.
Andrea Pirlo walked past him and casually patted him on the back.
“Let’s go, Ricardo.
The match isn’t over yet.”
Then Paolo Maldini came over and gave his shoulder a firm slap.
“Hey!
Ricardo, wake up!
This is the Champions League Final!”
Gennaro Gattuso walked past and slapped him on the backside before striding toward the pitch.
Clarence Seedorf and Hernán Crespo approached as well, both holding out their hands.
Almost instinctively, the man raised his hands to high-five them.
Then he froze.
These hands…
They were clearly larger than his own.
He slowly looked down.
He was wearing AC Milan’s red-and-black shirt.
The adidas logo sat on the chest, with the familiar OPEL sponsor printed across the front.
And over his heart was the unmistakable AC Milan crest.
Red and black stripes.
The red cross of Milan.
The oval badge.
He could hear Seedorf and Crespo urging him on.
“Come on, Kaka!
Let’s get out there and win this!”
Someone pushed him lightly from behind.
Still dazed, the man allowed himself to be guided toward the pitch.
He slowly raised his head.
The enormous stands surrounding the Atatürk Olympic Stadium were packed with supporters.
Countless fans were shouting, cheering, and waving red-and-black shirts bearing the number 22.
And printed above that number was an impossibly familiar name.
KAKA
His mind went completely blank.
“So…
“I am Kaka?!”
___
Yo, add this to your library; it’s gonna be a great ride!