This piece was meant to be about the search. It was supposed to be one of those stories with a missing element, a sort of magical mystery exploration, like ‘Frank Sinatra Has A Cold’ for Brazilian football enthusiasts.
Sometimes you land the interview. Other times you have to just accept that the story will have to be told without it. In some form, at least.
That was the direction it was taking with Kerlon Moura Souza. It was going to be a profile from afar, chronicling the tale of one of the game’s most peculiar talents and the origin of his signature move, told through the foggy lens of reminiscence. I had revisited the videos of the iconic dribble that brought him fame and watched them repeatedly. I tried to console myself by thinking maybe it was for the best. Sometimes, picking apart the logic of a legend’s narrative can spoil its charm.
It’s not like I didn’t make an effort. Oh no, the effort was a major part of it. The plan was to dramatize things, to make a fruitless and arguably mundane pursuit sound like something out of a spy movie.
I wanted to mention the desperate emails I had sent him over the years; the hours spent tracing his movements from my own home; the messages I sent to his personal and professional social media accounts; the hopeful inquiry I made to one of his employers. All of which resulted in… nothing. A complete void with a side of silence.
As time passed, I often wondered what the title of the story would be. ‘The Hunt for the Seal Dribbler,’ maybe. Or, if the subtle reference to his famous move didn’t resonate with my editor, something more direct. ‘Kerlon: An Unrequited Love Story’ would have sufficed.
Earlier this year, I decided it was time. No more delays, no more frustration. I was going to do it, write the piece, check it off my list, and move on.
Then, I found him.
Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy was a gifted soccer player. He was quick, skillful, and powerful. Many believed he would become a star one day. In many cases, that’s where the story ends. It’s usually enough to captivate people.
But this particular boy had something special. He had a unique move, his very own invention. He could make the ball stick to his forehead. He could flick it up and keep it there, defying gravity. It stayed with him wherever he went. He could run, change direction, and the ball would remain there, just above his eyes, like a little round companion.
Some people admired the boy and his trick. It was entertaining and amusing in the way that peculiar things can be. If anyone had tried it before, they had likely given up before showcasing it. But the boy wasn’t ashamed or afraid. He performed the trick even when he knew it would lead to trouble, even after it turned strangers into adversaries.
The trick brought the boy fame. It also made him a target.
The kids are leaving as I arrive. They head into cars and trucks with their parents, tired but happy. Day two of their summer soccer camp is done.
It’s just past noon in Hemby Bridge, a town southeast of Charlotte, North Carolina. The air is humid; my shirt sticks to my back once I step out of the taxi. I start jogging, trying to find Kerlon at the local school’s sports fields before he leaves.
He’s not expecting me. I don’t know what to expect from him.
As I approach, a man loads footballs into his car. He wears a bucket hat and a black shirt. It’s him.
I call out his name. A smile appears on his face.
He’s gracious and welcoming. He mentions having lunch plans with his family but agrees to speak if I return early the next day, before training. I agree.
Kerlon was already famous before playing professional soccer. It was inevitable: the move he showcased in youth games for Cruzeiro and Brazil’s U-17 team was bound to make waves.
It was unconventional and baffling. Before Kerlon, the vast majority of dribbling techniques involved the feet. Seeing him dash with the ball bouncing on his forehead led to a cognitive dissonance. It’s no wonder defenders struggled to handle him initially; it’s hard to counteract something you can hardly comprehend.
The element of surprise faded quickly. This was the mid-2000s, a tad early for the trick to go viral, but videos of it soon circulated. One clip, posted on YouTube in December 2005, has over 3.7 million views. People dubbed the move the ‘seal dribble,’ evoking colorful circus imagery. Kerlon earned the nickname ‘O Foquinha’ — The Little Seal — and his club even sold seal toys to capitalize on his fame.
Kerlon became O Foquinha — The Little Seal (Daniel de Cerqueira/AFP via Getty Images)
Kerlon’s talent extended beyond his trademark move. He was Brazil’s top scorer at the South American U-17 Championship in Venezuela, outperforming future senior internationals like Marcelo, Renato Augusto, and Anderson. A popular YouTube video compared him to Ronaldinho, and while that might have been generous, Kerlon did display flashes of brilliance akin to the legendary player. He could impact games with his passing, finishing, and set-piece prowess. But everything always circled back to the dribble.
Brazil went wild over Kerlon’s dribbling in a way only Brazil could. It was football as improvisational theater, as astute problem-solving, and above all, as unpolished play. The seal dribble was experimental, innocent curiosity elevated by technique. It was playful and absurd, not necessarily the move itself, although it did possess a casual, spontaneous energy. The real absurdity lay in the fact that Kerlon executed it during official matches.
He did it in the South American Championship against Colombia and Uruguay. Later, he replicated it for Cruzeiro in a local derby, triggering a chaotic brawl and hysteria. But we’ll delve into that later.
Kerlon performing his signature skill (AP Photo/Ana Maria Otero)
Under the swaying trees, Kerlon settles on the wooden bench as comfortably as possible. We’re running a bit behind schedule — training begins in 20 minutes — so the conversation starts without much fanfare. Kerlon delves into the tale of the trick that altered his life with poise and assurance.
“As a young kid, I used to practice a lot with my dad,” he recounts. “One day, he kicked the ball high for me. It bounced and came up to my head. I did a few headers in a row, keeping the ball up. My dad paused and asked, ‘If you ran with the ball on your head, would it be a free kick?’. I wasn’t sure, so we decided to find out. He checked the rules and saw it was permissible. There wasn’t an issue.”
Kerlon’s father, Silvino, encouraged him to perfect the move. Initially, he practiced it in place. Eventually, he attempted it walking in a straight line. “Then I did it while running and finally with cones, dribbling around them as if they were opponents,” Kerlon explains. “We worked on it daily to refine it. It was a meticulous process.”
Once Kerlon mastered the technique, Silvino contemplated how his son could utilize it in games. He bought a book on peripheral vision and incorporated it into their routine, ensuring Kerlon could detect approaching opponents even with the ball held high.
“It was a result of his dedication,” Kerlon remarks. “I could easily keep the ball up, but he figured out how it could be applied on the field. The strategy was all his.”
Kerlon was 13 when he first demonstrated the trick in front of others. Having just joined Cruzeiro, he played midfield in an academy match.
“At one point, the opposing goalkeeper took a goal kick, and it was reminiscent of my training with my dad,” he says. “My dad would strike long balls for me to control on my chest, lifting them into the air. The same played out in the game, and off I went. The other kids stood still. I continued from the middle of the field to the edge of the box. Upon reaching the penalty spot, I brought the ball down and scored. It was all so natural.”
That moment validated the concept. Kerlon and Silvino decided to further refine the dribble. He practiced it often and introduced it in matches, though he insists he never used it just for show. He vehemently opposes the notion that the seal dribble was nothing more than a gimmick.
“I consider it a tool I had at my disposal, a way out of a difficult situation,” he affirms. “I never entered the field with the intention of doing it. It was something that occurred organically.”
It was foreseeable that some people would perceive the move as a provocation. Dribbling has always been intense; this seemed like a deliberate attempt to embarrass opponents. At the youth level, Kerlon faced trips and kicks. By the time he advanced to professional games, the challenges bordered on outright assaults.
Case in point: the Belo Horizonte derby in September 2007. Cruzeiro led Atletico Mineiro 4-3 with 10 minutes remaining when Kerlon, a substitute, executed the dribble following a short corner.
One, two, three touches, and Atletico defender Coelho charged into him, propelling Kerlon into another realm with a shoulder strike. It was a dreadful and cynical challenge. Moments later, players from both sides swarmed the scene, resembling a scene from a martial arts film.
The incident prompted a fair amount of debate on both sides. Many felt that Kerlon — the obvious victim — somehow deserved the harsh treatment.
“He might get seriously injured and miss future games,” cautioned Atletico coach Emerson Leao. “He could be kicked in the face one day and never play again.”
Fluminense captain Luiz Alberto was more blunt: “It’s disrespectful to his opponents. They’re professionals, too. If it was me, he wouldn’t get past me. I’d use capoeira moves if necessary. I’d take the ball, his head, and everything else.”
Kerlon, however, defended himself with an eloquence surpassing his years. “Spectators come to the stadium for a spectacle,” he remarked. “We need to decide the predominant theme of Brazilian football — art or violence.”
(AP Photo/Fernando Llano)
Surprisingly, Kerlon found support from Atletico midfielder Maicosuel and numerous Placar magazine readers. “It brings people to the stadium in the same way Garrincha’s feints once did,” read a published message of endorsement. “Overzealous fighters like that troglodyte Coelho need to face consequences.”
Now, nearly two decades later, Kerlon views the incidents with humor. He mentions that he knew early on the seal dribble would be polarizing.
“There was significant backing from the youth teams,” he recalls. “But at the professional level, even my teammates advised against it. They believed I was inviting trouble. I faced resistance from the older players. They really disliked it.”
Did the violence from opponents affect him? Kerlon chuckles. “No,” he responds. “I relished it. When you enjoy playing freely, dribbling past defenders, getting kicked feels satisfying. As long as you don’t get hurt, it’s exhilarating. It’s not a negative experience. It motivates you.
“You see your opponent is frustrated, but you keep going because it’s part of your style. I find it fascinating. Look at Neymar. He thrives on beating his marker, getting fouled, dramatizing the situation. That’s part of the Brazilian flair.”
Regarding his coaches, some were more receptive to the trick than others. “A few thought it was unnecessary or a risk to our team,” he says. “I always made it clear I wouldn’t perform the move in our box. It was reserved for the opponent’s area, where we could earn a dangerous free kick or penalty. It was meant to benefit the team, not just me.”