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In the meantime, Moggi began lobbing grenades from Turin, and the shrapnel all spelled out the same general notion: “With that nickname, he’s done for in Italy, it’s like calling him Poopy.” “We don’t need to go caca OR Kaká.” “At Juventus, we’re all constipated.” “We’re the Triad, and we don’t pay good money for stinky Kaká.” It was like a vaudeville act, and I started to have a sneaking sense of doubt: just wait and see, maybe Lucianone is right about this one too. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I had never seen Kaká play, even on video. So I was worried, more than a little. One day, during a press conference, someone asked me about him, about his gifts and skills, about what we expected from him. And they wanted more: human interest, details, anecdotes, and future prospects. It was an in-depth interview on a subject I hadn’t studied in the slightest, about which I knew nothing. It was an exam that I could only hope to flunk. I did my best to muddle through, recycling stories I’d heard from others, and one-size-fits-all generalities: “He has two legs, he wears football boots with studs and heels, he’s a soccer player by vocation and profession …”—that kind of stuff. It was awkward. “He’s a good midfielder, he can play in a more attacking position, too. You might call him slow, he has a nice personality. In short, he reminds me a little of Toninho Cerezo.” I had played with Cerezo, and, from the descriptions I’d heard of Kaká, the comparison might hold up. I just took a stab in the dark, but nobody seemed to have caught on. That’s the way it always is at press conferences: you fake it, you spout blatant nonsense, and everybody nods wisely. Even the people who work with you.

At last, one fine day, Kaká showed up for training. For orientation. The first thing I wanted to do was ask him, “Now, have you told your mother and father you won’t be going to school today?” Milanello security would certainly have had fair cause to ask to see his driver’s license before letting him in. But what happened next is this: still groggy from jet lag, he got onto the field, and I heard a heavenly choir and the sound of trumpets. He was a heavensent genius, truly sent by heaven. So, if I may: thank you, Lord. Thank you.

Once he got the ball between his feet, he was incredible. I stopped talking, because there were no words to express what I was feeling. There were just no words in my vocabulary for what I was seeing. Truly superior stuff.

In his first clash as a member of A. C. Milan, Kaká found himself face-to-face with Rino Gattuso, who gave him a violent shoulder block, massive but not sufficient to make Kaká lose control of the ball. Rino took it with admirable calm, enlightening us with a profound observation about that little encounter: “Aw, go fuck yourself.” In his way, he had just put the team’s seal of approval on his new teammate. That teammate, after holding onto the ball, gave it a tremendous smack, easily thirty yards, to the frustration of Nesta, who completely failed to block it. Now, hold on for a second, this doesn’t make sense. Give me that remote control, I want to watch the replay. I had TiVo, I just didn’t know it yet. My dear Moggi, maybe it’s because I’m a congenital overeater, but I like Kaká. I really like him. A lot. He takes off his glasses, puts on a pair of shorts, and he becomes something I never would have expected: a world-class player.

After every training session, Galliani and I would talk on the phone. I’d tell him everything that was going on, the things that had happened, and he would give me his thoughts and impressions. It was an uninterrupted daily relationship. That day, I called him: “Signore Galliani, I have some news for you.”

“Good news or bad?”

“Good news. Excellent news.”

“Carletto, are you quitting?”

He felt like joking—always a positive sign. “No, I’m staying, and one of the reasons is that we have just acquired a phenomenon.”

He might not be at Zidane’s level, but he was close. He was the second greatest player I’ve ever coached, and certainly the most intelligent.