That tribute to Zico

This year Madrid celebrated its two championships in style, but forgot to make the Olympic return.

Neither did Marcelo enjoy a tribute match after 16 years at the club.

There was a time when those farewell matches closed a career.

Nostalgia for those times brought to mind a heroic game of mine at Zico's farewell.

I left football in March 1987 and, like all of us who have been abandoned by the sport, I set out to explore a new life.

But we were about to enter 1990, the year of the World Cup, and Carlos Salvador Bilardo, coach of Argentina, passed through Madrid.

He was not an ordinary man and he made me an insane proposal: “If you give me six months of your life, I will give you another World Cup”.

Feeling took over and I answered yes.

We had already won, together, the 86 World Cup. Advised by Maradona,

I went through the Scientific Center of Sport in Rome, in charge of Professor Dall Monte, an eminence.

Four years earlier, Diego had been there to prepare for the 86 World Cup with the known results.

I just wanted to get out of there with a physical program that would help me in the challenge.

With the plan under my arm, I went to Argentina to give six months of my life, my part of the contract.

But it is not easy to respect individual plans in the midst of a collective project, so I fought with my body every day.

A fierce fight that didn't even let me sleep from exhaustion.

As I did not have my own club, I lacked games to measure my evolution.

We were in February and Zico called me to invite me to his farewell: a Brazil against the Rest of the World.

It was impossible to say no to a total

, today somewhat overshadowed because Pelé existed in Brazil;

and in his time, Maradona.

But we are talking about a footballer who played 1,047 games and scored 729 goals.

No one wanted to miss the game, so

would come from all over the world.

But I needed to compete and I promised to attend only if he would let me play the entire match.

"Impossible," said Zico, who needed space for everyone to participate.

We spent a week negotiating.

Bilardo also took part in the tug-of-war haggling for minutes.

Poor Zico, as if he had nothing else to think about, offered me 45 minutes.

But Bilardo and I demanded the entire match.

Zico, surely fed up with the argument, agreed.

One hundred thousand people in the Maracana and an amateur spirit in all the invited players.

Except for me, who stepped foot in the legendary stadium for the first time and warmed up with professional seriousness in the first half-serious game I played in three years.

He wasn't up for distractions.

The game began in slow motion, as is often the case in these tributes.

Two touches back, three to the side, everything to get into a situation.

Minus the super professional;

that is, me.

I was parked on the right and as soon as the ball appeared in my sector, I accelerated like a champion so that they gave it to me deep, with the aggravating circumstance that, in effect, they gave it to me.

I ran like hell because the ball wanted to go over the bottom line, but I reached it.

Of course, when I braked I felt that the biceps femoris was broken in two.

I had been injured.

We had a minute of game.

I could barely walk, but swallowing pain I slowly made my way to the locker room tunnel.

I spent as much dignity as I could next to Zico, who, holding back his laughter, asked me:

- And the ninety minutes?

It's been more than 30 years, but when I get over my embarrassment, I'll answer you.

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