An era comes to a close in Brazil, and all for the best

	After playing brilliantly in 2002, this is the lasting image we'll have of Ronaldo from '06. Simon Bruty/SI
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FRANKFURT, Germany -- Sitting on the sidewalk, almost weeping, I begin to write a letter. It's the only thing that remains to be done.

Dear Mom,

I know, I know. You told me this would happen. But as my uncle in the U.S., who knows nothing about soccer, told me once, "Don't listen to your mother on soccer matters. She knows nothing!"

But you were right.

You know that photo in my room of me sitting on the sidewalk in Mexico in 1986? It was the same then as it is today: I'm totally destroyed, and it's because of the French.

Back then, Michel Platini & Co. beat us on penalties. The greatest shooter in Brazilian history, Zico, missed. And Sócrates, "the Doctor," also missed. We were eliminated, despite the level of genius on our team. And with such pain in our hearts, we sat and we cried.

Here, 20 years later, those same Les Bleus beat us. But this time, Mom, they didn't do it to us. We did it to ourselves. Our so-called "geniuses" brought tears to our eyes.

They made us applaud. They made us cheer them on and thank them. (We're polite that way -- thanking them for things.)

But what do you know? You don't understand football! Even if you say Robinho plays better, runs faster and fights harder that anyone on the 23-man roster. Football isn't your thing! You couldn't be right, we told you, about the fact that Carlos Alberto Parreira seems to be a cold coach, a distant man, vastly different than Luis Felipe Scolari was in 2002.

"He doesn't hug the boys," you said.

And you, beautiful at the age of 80, absurdly questioning why Cafu, Roberto Carlos and Ricardinho -- a combined age of older than 95 -- should take the place of such young boys as Cicinho, Gilberto and others.

"Youth is a gift, a wisdom of its own kind," you used to tell me. "When it's managed right, it creates wonders."

But, as always, I thought you were wrong. As wrong as the thousands of supporters in front the players' hotel here sitting on the sidewalk, crying, shouting at the few players who dare show their faces.

How could I be so wrong, Mom? How could I truly believe that all of those stupid ad campaigns meant to sell shoes and jerseys -- joga bonito indeed -- wouldn't mean more to the players than the game? How could I really believe they cared about the feelings of millions of Brazilian hearts back home?

Remember how you taught me never to run away from responsibility? That's exactly what these players did: They ran. They lost to the French and simply left the hotel, left Germany and headed back home.

But no, Mama, not to Brazil. They went to Italy. To Spain. To England. A few of them even went to beautiful islands in the Mediterranean. I couldn't tell you where because people might chase them, ruining their vacations. We don't want to do that to them, do we?

It's not that they're arrogant or blind to the loyal dedication of hundreds of millions of fans across the earth. No, they used the team, Mama. They made a mockery of our only treasure, our biggest pride. They made mistake after mistake, game after game. But they still kept their stubborn pride, slowing the team down.

But don't worry. I'm not crying tears of sadness. I won't give them the pleasure. No, I'm crying out of madness and anger -- rage, almost. Winning isn't everything. But losing without honor -- that's what hurts.

We suffer. They say they suffer, too. Well, they suffer on their islands, in their fancy cars, in their European villas.

Football is great because the mighty can always lose to the meek, and the ball is always round. But we failed to understand that pride, that fun and pleasure in the beautiful game, can also happen outside Brazil.

Our supposed geniuses -- Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, Cafu, Roberto Carlos, Parreira, Mário Zagallo -- even our sponsors and politicians always said, "When the pressure is at its highest, Brazil will really turn it on and come through."

Some geniuses.

When it comes down to it, Brazil did only two things right here in Germany: We put an era to bed, saying farewell to fat, tired and arrogant players and coaches. And above all, we gave a real man -- a fantastic athlete and an amazing player -- the right stage for his farewell to soccer.

But that man wasn't Brazilian. He is Zinedine Zidane. At least we say goodbye to the World Cup having seen one of the best footballers in history.

That's enough reason to stop crying and get up off that sidewalk. All my best, Mom.

Love,
Ricardo.

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