I just read Ronaldinho 's farewell letter to the fans of FC Barcelona, thanking them for their constant affection and support, and it raises some serious questions. Like, why doesn't the letter mention a prostitute named Martina? But I'm getting ahead of myself. In , Ronaldinho was on top of the soccer world. Those memories only made it more painful to watch his bloated, bench-riding decline.
One Spanish sports paper ran an epic account of his night on the town in Castelldefells, the seaside suburb where he lived. Still, some fans believed his decline was too drastic for such simple explanations as drinking and conga drums. During Ronaldinho's last match, one he missed much as he did 21 of 38 league fixtures—often with mysterious injuries described as "annoyances"—the mob chanted his name until one fan shouted "Viva la cocaina!
Y las metanfetaminas! Barcelona fans adore their heroes, under certain conditions: 1 beat Real Madrid; 2 win La Liga outright; 3 never miss a game without some grisly injury; and 4 if you must lose, don't give them a reason to blame your personal life. Break one rule, and all bets are off. They will shun you, laugh at you, drive you out, and spend a lifetime speaking of you with shame and pity.
Ask Ronaldo. During a recent trip to Spain, I got a tip from some well-connected sports folks—including a local columnist—that Ronaldinho was spending his energy—losing his mojo, really—with an alleged girlfriend at a roadside brothel, down the street from his suburban villa in Castelldefells.
There was enough chatter on-line that I decided to find out for myself. Two infamous brothels straddle the highway about 20km southwest of Barcelona. It looked like any small office building—except for the four Russian bouncers who stand guard out front, bald and wide as doors in black Italian suits.
