On 23 June at the RheinEnergieStadion in Cologne, the last group game: Japan versus Brazil.
Wary of Kaká’s form since the tournament started, Japan packed the middle from the first whistle and tried to smother him.
That kind of crowd might have bothered the old Kaká.
He had never been elite at wriggling free from a standstill or bursting through tight gaps.
This version was different.
After the system’s specialised work his close control was at its peak.
Against Japan’s smaller players the mix of size, agility and touch turned into a show.
What the crowd and the cameras saw was this.
“Kaká, three on him!
The defender’s on the floor, he’s through!”
“Kaká, on his own!
Japan’s back line is on the ground!”
“He’s past them again, ball into Adriano…”
“He’s gone past them, Kaká!!!!!!”
“He’s gone past them again, Kaká is unstoppable today…”
The whole first half he glided through people.
Japan’s middle was a sieve.
Brazil had the ball and still did not score.
Kaká was flying.
Every time he got it he ran at them like the pass button had been ripped off the pad, stepping through midfielders and centre-backs as if they were cones.
Japan ran out of answers and went for the lumberjack approach, chopping him down on the edge of the box and handing Brazil a string of free-kicks.
Ronaldinho took them and looked off.
Nothing dangerous came of it.
Even so, the stands were gone on Kaká.
Picture a man over 1.80 with Ronaldinho’s close skill, elegant and nasty at the same time, carving a defence that looked a level below him, and then give that man an angel’s face.
Every touch scratched an itch.
The ground stayed high for ninety minutes.
Thud!
“Hahh…
haah..” Kaká dropped into his seat, breathing hard, towel over the sweat.
Parreira jabbed at the board, racing through the second-half plan.
“…We need more support up front.
Ronnie, run more, pull space for Kaká.
Robinho, Ade, be ready to join him.
Don’t let them sit on him like that…”
“And Kaká…”
His eyes landed on the soaked, handsome face and went sour with leftover worry.
“Kaká, you… you need to protect yourself…”
He had meant to tell him off for hogging it.
Looking at the kid, the scolding changed key.
“Okay, Coach.
Second half I’ll play more with the others.”
Kaká knew what had been left unsaid.
He had got high on the dribbles, ripped Japan’s midfield apart, and still been sloppy with the last pass and the finish.
He could get there.
He was not converting enough inside the box.
Japan were getting desperate too.
The full-body treatment had freshened him up, but those tackles had career-ending written on them.
He was a long way from enough points for another full-body session.
A broken leg would have him in tears.
“Okay…”
Seeing him take the hint, Parreira’s old face lit up.
Even Adriano’s black mood eased a fraction.
Jesus knew how angry Ade had been in the first half.
He had wanted Ronaldo Nazário’s absence to lock down his place as the main man.
Then Kaká exploded with hat-tricks and stole the whole light.
Who gets this?
A midfielder who does not practise passing and practises dribbling instead.
His own two games had been ordinary.
One goal against Greece and then nothing, not even an assist.
Watching Kaká keep the ball in the first half he had nearly gone off on him on the pitch.
You’re a midfielder.
Fine, you’re handsome.
Fine, you’ve got fans.
Fine, you score for fun.
Fine, the dribbling is filthy.
Why won’t you pass?
I was standing in front of an open net and you still had to nutmeg two more players before you were happy.
Then you either got chopped or the keeper saved it.
Japan were lucky too.
How many times did they take him down in the box while the referee went blind?
A couple of penalties and Ade could have had one himself.
Kaká had no idea about any of that.
It did not stop him changing in the second half.
If he did not change soon, Japan were going to lose their minds.
The fifteen minutes ended and the game started again.
The crowd that had been screaming for fifty minutes almost passed out in the first seconds of the half.
Kick-off.
Ronaldinho clipped it over the Japanese midfield.
Kaká took it, dropped a shoulder into Nakata, shoved the ball forward and ate up the grass in long strides.
Stride, then acceleration.
His hair flew back.
The noise from the stands felt like a shot of nitrous.
Another touch sent the ball metres ahead and he went up another gear.
“Kaká!
Big knock-on, he’s charging!
Nakata can’t live with him, Ogasawara coming across… wow!!!!!”
The commentator was already on his feet.
The second Ogasawara lunged, Kaká touched it early.
The ball jumped forward, away from the poke, and he went past on the right.
At the same time his body whipped the other way, brushing Ogasawara’s left shoulder.
The force sat the midfielder down hard on his backside.
The middle was open.
Tanaka and Miyamoto felt their scalps crawl.
They stepped up because they had to.
After forty-five minutes of this, the fear was already in them.
The ball was flying.
Kaká ate the ground in huge strides and was at the edge of the box in a blink.
Tanaka and Miyamoto shuffled back toward the middle, Fukunishi and Nakata recovering to close the cage.
Damn.
He was blowing.
He had gone too hard from the restart.
Breathing was ragged, legs starting to complain.
Two centre-backs in front, midfielders flooding from behind, still a few steps short of the area…
Ade was not exactly bursting a gut to join.
Ronaldinho was still deeper and marked.
Robinho had pulled Kaji away, and that was about it.
Damn.
Screw it.
Shoot.
Legs heavy, he forced another step onto the ball.
Left foot planted on the line of the box, body leaning hard left, arms thrown back, right leg cocked like a drawn bow.
“He’s going to hit it!”
Tanaka and Miyamoto had been waiting for another dribble, the old lure-him-in routine.
Then Kaká opened up in front of them like a bird taking flight.
Tanaka’s face changed.
He threw himself at the shot.
Too late.
Bang.
The right foot smashed the leather.
The ball cracked past his cheek so fast it burned the ear.
Tanaka hit the turf on his side, grass in his mouth, head whipping toward the goal.
Kawaguchi was on his knees with a blank look.
When he got up the ball was still spinning lazily against the net.
“Kaká!!!!!!!”
“Stunning from range!”
“World-class.
An absolute screamer!”
“Kawaguchi never moved.
The ball left like a cannon shot and ripped through Japan’s goal!”
“Long live the king!
Long live Kaka!”
The official commentator nearly swallowed his tongue and ended his career.
Nobody in the party cared.
The goal made no sense.
A run from the centre circle, opponents crushed and left behind, everyone waiting for the first-half show at the edge of the box, the pretty dribble that would dump the panicking centre-backs.
Instead he hit a shot that set the RheinEnergieStadion on fire.
“Awesome!”
Kaká laughed, held his breath and ran for the flag.
He wanted the knee-slide.
The legs were gone, so he tipped his head back, both hands at the sky, and gave the world the face.
“Hahaha!
Ricardo!
Too good, too good!”
Ronaldinho jumped on his back.
Roberto Carlos and Silva piled in.
Adriano was still sour inside, but even he had to admit that strike was filthy.
He pressed his lips together and gave Kaká the high five.
Nakata, who had chased the whole way, felt his legs go and sat down the instant the net moved.
He stared at the glowing figure with a helpless look.
He gritted his teeth, got up, waved the others into shape.
Then he looked at Tanaka and his face changed.
“Tanaka?
Your ear?”
“What?”
Tanaka blinked, followed Nakata’s finger, touched the left ear and saw the blood.
Then the stab landed.
The eardrum was gone.
Nakata called the doctor on.
Players and commentators noticed at the same time.
Seeing Tanaka’s bleeding ear, the noise in the RheinEnergieStadion somehow got louder.
Kaká’s screamer, raw speed and force, had burst Makoto Tanaka’s eardrum.
Fans later named the clip…
Doomsday!