Chapter 1:
RetirementThe End of a Legend
After speaking with the club, Kaká finally made his decision.
Retirement.
It wasn’t a hard one—not really. He had seen it coming for a long time.
Ever since being left out of Brazil’s 2014 World Cup squad, he knew his glory days were behind him. Injuries and defeats had become a pattern. Whether on the field or at home, it felt like nothing was going right.
Sometimes, Kaká couldn’t help but wonder why he had to go through it all—why he was allowed to reach such incredible heights, only to fall so far. If this was some test from above, he would’ve rather lived an ordinary life without the pain.
“Dear God, if You truly exist, why don’t You bless Your faithful servant with the chance to be reborn?” he asked aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
In Orlando, Kaká slowly started to feel the limits of his body.
He knew the club signed him more for his name than his form, but he was still thankful they gave him the chance to keep playing. So he gave them everything he had left.
Still, last season, Orlando missed the playoffs—by just one point.
A team with “the Son of God” couldn’t even make the postseason.
It should’ve been big news. But by then, not many people cared. The media had moved on. Fans drifted away. And the few who stayed didn’t expect much.
Just stay healthy, be happy, and enjoy the game. That was all they wanted.
But inside, Kaká still had a fire.
In interviews, he’d look into the camera and say, “We want to reach the playoffs. I just want to win. I’m willing to make sacrifices for victory—real sacrifices.”
And he meant every word.
If winning demanded it, he was ready to give everything.
Retirement.
It wasn’t a hard one—not really. He had seen it coming for a long time.
Ever since being left out of Brazil’s 2014 World Cup squad, he knew his glory days were behind him. Injuries and defeats had become a pattern. Whether on the field or at home, it felt like nothing was going right.
Sometimes, Kaká couldn’t help but wonder why he had to go through it all—why he was allowed to reach such incredible heights, only to fall so far. If this was some test from above, he would’ve rather lived an ordinary life without the pain.
“Dear God, if You truly exist, why don’t You bless Your faithful servant with the chance to be reborn?” he asked aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
In Orlando, Kaká slowly started to feel the limits of his body.
He knew the club signed him more for his name than his form, but he was still thankful they gave him the chance to keep playing. So he gave them everything he had left.
Still, last season, Orlando missed the playoffs—by just one point.
A team with “the Son of God” couldn’t even make the postseason.
It should’ve been big news. But by then, not many people cared. The media had moved on. Fans drifted away. And the few who stayed didn’t expect much.
Just stay healthy, be happy, and enjoy the game. That was all they wanted.
But inside, Kaká still had a fire.
In interviews, he’d look into the camera and say, “We want to reach the playoffs. I just want to win. I’m willing to make sacrifices for victory—real sacrifices.”
And he meant every word.
If winning demanded it, he was ready to give everything.
....
“No one blames you,” his mother Simone told him gently. “Everyone understands—it’s your body. You can’t push it anymore.”
“Yes, everyone understands me. But I…” Kaká sat on the couch, head down. “…but I don’t understand myself.”
He couldn’t wrap his head around how things had fallen apart.
He had once lifted the Ballon d’Or. Once been named the best footballer in the world. Once completed the Grand Slam of football.
He had once stood at the very top.
Now, he hadn’t even made the playoffs. And somehow, he was the one asking for others to understand.
But his pride wouldn’t let him ask.
Kaká wasn’t ready to let go.
What kept him going was the breath in his lungs—and that breath told him: I can still play. I want to play.
But in a friendly against his old club, Real Madrid, that breath ran out.
A 1–1 draw. A loss on penalties.
He stood there in his purple jersey, watching Real Madrid celebrate in the distance.
A strange calm came over him.
It was time.
“Yes, everyone understands me. But I…” Kaká sat on the couch, head down. “…but I don’t understand myself.”
He couldn’t wrap his head around how things had fallen apart.
He had once lifted the Ballon d’Or. Once been named the best footballer in the world. Once completed the Grand Slam of football.
He had once stood at the very top.
Now, he hadn’t even made the playoffs. And somehow, he was the one asking for others to understand.
But his pride wouldn’t let him ask.
Kaká wasn’t ready to let go.
What kept him going was the breath in his lungs—and that breath told him: I can still play. I want to play.
But in a friendly against his old club, Real Madrid, that breath ran out.
A 1–1 draw. A loss on penalties.
He stood there in his purple jersey, watching Real Madrid celebrate in the distance.
A strange calm came over him.
It was time.
...
As Kaká walked off the pitch, a few fans waited near the tunnel, calling his name. He stopped, smiled weakly, and posed for a few photos.
His chest felt heavy, but their love gave him a little comfort.
Among them was a boy—maybe ten years old—holding a beat-up notebook.
His eyes were wide with awe.
“Senhor Kaká,” the boy said quietly, “will you trade your shirt? It’s for my avó. She says you’re her hero. I’ll give you her jar.”
He held out a small clay jar, simple but marked with soft patterns—something old, something meaningful.
Kaká knelt, caught off guard.
“Your grandmother’s jar,” he said, almost to himself. Then softly: “Okay. For her.”
He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and handed it over. The boy hugged it tight and ran off, shouting thanks.
Kaká stood still, holding the jar like it weighed more than it should.
That night, in his room, he sat on the edge of his bed, the jar in his hands. The light hit its patterns.
He turned it slowly in his palm, like it held answers.
He lowered his head.
“Dear God,” he whispered, “if You truly exist… why don’t You bless Your faithful servant with the chance to be reborn?”
He set the jar on the nightstand. Said a prayer.
Then lay down, the silence pressing in.
It was over.
His chest felt heavy, but their love gave him a little comfort.
Among them was a boy—maybe ten years old—holding a beat-up notebook.
His eyes were wide with awe.
“Senhor Kaká,” the boy said quietly, “will you trade your shirt? It’s for my avó. She says you’re her hero. I’ll give you her jar.”
He held out a small clay jar, simple but marked with soft patterns—something old, something meaningful.
Kaká knelt, caught off guard.
“Your grandmother’s jar,” he said, almost to himself. Then softly: “Okay. For her.”
He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and handed it over. The boy hugged it tight and ran off, shouting thanks.
Kaká stood still, holding the jar like it weighed more than it should.
That night, in his room, he sat on the edge of his bed, the jar in his hands. The light hit its patterns.
He turned it slowly in his palm, like it held answers.
He lowered his head.
“Dear God,” he whispered, “if You truly exist… why don’t You bless Your faithful servant with the chance to be reborn?”
He set the jar on the nightstand. Said a prayer.
Then lay down, the silence pressing in.
It was over.
...
“That day,” he would later say, “I learned the difference between persistence and stubbornness.”
From São Paulo, to AC Milan glory, to Real Madrid’s spotlight… back to Milan, then a loan to São Paulo, and finally, the quiet ending in Orlando.
What kind of goodbye could ever match a journey like that? Kaká didn’t know.
But he knew one thing—it was time.
Time to say goodbye.
From São Paulo, to AC Milan glory, to Real Madrid’s spotlight… back to Milan, then a loan to São Paulo, and finally, the quiet ending in Orlando.
What kind of goodbye could ever match a journey like that? Kaká didn’t know.
But he knew one thing—it was time.
Time to say goodbye.
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