When most stars die, they turn into something called a white dwarf.
It’s dense, it’s small, it’s weak. It's at the end of its life, limping toward the end, projecting very little light. A star that has collapsed inward upon itself. A victim of its own stardom, so to speak.
I watched Ronaldinho’s debut for Mexican side Queretaro earlier this week, and it made me sad, like watching your grandfather dodder around and try to remember people’s names.
He doesn’t really move around on the field anymore. The touches are less crisp. The passes are not on target. He even missed a PK. No, no, he terribly missed a PK.
Usually, when a star player loses his athleticism, he can still stick around for a while and impact a game through distribution and set pieces.
Based on what we saw, Ronaldinho can no longer do either of these. It wasn’t just the PK. He sailed more than one corner kick right at the goalie. He nailed the wall on a free kick near the box.
And this was in Liga MX. Can you imagine him in the Premier League? Or the Bundesliga? Or in Spain or France or Italy? We have a sinking feeling that if Ronaldinho was able to play in the Brazilian league, he wouldn’t be in Mexico.
Watching Ronaldinho at his best was like being at the circus and watching the ringleader conduct the circus while also being on the trapeze. Without a net.
I remember getting excited whenever Ronaldinho got the ball, and the feeling that anything was possible.
In his prime, Ronaldinho was far and away the most skilled player I have ever seen, and I include Messi in that statement. The ball was glued to his foot, only until he allowed it to go away, but it always went wherever he wanted it to go. Usually on to a teammate’s foot, or in the corner of the net.
We hate watching athletes lose it. “It,” the magical thing that made them so great in the first place. “It,” the thing that they have relied upon throughout their entire professional, and in many cases personal, lives. “It,” in many cases the thing that took them out of poor neighborhoods and made them and their friends and their families rich. When “it” goes, it’s like the athlete has lost a piece of who they are, like someone close to them has. “It” leaves a void that can’t be filled.
For Ronaldinho, that meant flamboyance and playfulness and movement and quickness and incredible skill.
Ronaldinho secretly hasn’t had “it” for a while, not since his last days at AC Milan. And without, “it,” who is Ronaldinho? Maybe he doesn’t even know.
What happened? Was it injury? A family tragedy? Substance issues? Partying instead of practicing? A combination? Aging? Steven Gerrard’s as old as Ronaldinho and he just scored a game-winner in extra time in the Champion’s League.
One thing is for certain: it was there and now it is gone. And maybe Ronaldinho doesn’t even know where it went.
I hope he figures it out because no player is more exciting to watch than Ronaldinho when he’s on a roll. Now he dodders around the field, an "old man" (as if player years are somehow like dog years) trying to remember the names of his teammates. A white dwarf, collapsing inward on himself.
