This was going to be about the search.
It was going to be one of those pieces with an absence at its heart, a kind of mysterious pursuit, like “Frank Sinatra Has A Cold” for Brazilian football fans.
Sometimes you get the interview. Sometimes you shrug and tell the story without it. A version of the story, anyway.
That’s how it was shaping up with Kerlon Moura Souza. It was going to be a long-distance profile, focusing on his unique trick through the foggy lens of memory. I had watched his famous dribble countless times. Maybe it was better this way. Nothing ruins a folk tale like scrutinizing its logic.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried. No, the trying was going to be a big part of it. The fruitless pursuit would sound something like spycraft.
I planned to reference the pleading emails sent over years, tracking his whereabouts, and the Instagram messages. All yielded a grand total of… nothing.
As time went on, I often imagined what the title might be. ‘The Hunt for the Seal Dribbler’ or ‘Kerlon: An Unrequited Love Story’ could have worked.
Earlier this year, I decided enough waiting and frustration. I was going to write the piece, finally tick it off my list, and forget about it.
Then I found him.
Once upon a time, there was a boy with a special move. He could make the ball stick to his forehead, flick it up, and keep it there, defying gravity.
Some people loved the boy and his trick. Others saw it as an invitation for confrontation. The trick made him famous and also a target.
As kids were leaving the summer football camp in Hemby Bridge, North Carolina, I arrived, frantically trying to catch Kerlon before he left.
As I approached, I saw a stocky man with a neat goatee packing a bag of footballs into his car. I shouted his name, and he grinned.
He was gracious, friendly, and agreed to meet me the next morning before training.
Kerlon was famous before playing first-team football. His trick — first showcased at youth level for Cruzeiro and Brazil’s under-17 side — was destined to make waves.
There are a thousand ways to dribble, but Kerlon’s method involved his forehead, forcing defenders to face something so unfamiliar they couldn’t counteract it.
This was the mid-2000s, and Kerlon’s trick quickly became a sensation. The seal dribble made him O Foquinha — The Little Seal. His club even sold seal toys, cashing in on his fame.
Kerlon had more to his game than his seal dribble. He was top scorer for Brazil at the South American Under-17 Championship, outshining future internationals. But everything came back to the dribble.
Brazil went crazy for Kerlon’s dribble. It was football as improvisational theatre, as streetwise problem-solving, and above all, as unrefined play.
He did it in the South American Championship against Colombia and Uruguay, even sparking a mass brawl during a Cruzeiro local derby. But that’s for later.
Beneath swaying trees, Kerlon got comfy on a wooden bench. Slowly, he launched into the story of the trick that changed his life.
“My dad and I trained a lot. One day, he kicked the ball up high, and I did four or five headers in a row. My dad asked if it would be a free kick if I ran like that. We checked the rules and saw it was legal.”
His father, Silvino, asked him to practice. At first, he did it on the spot. Later, while walking, running, and dribbling around cones.
When Kerlon perfected the technique, his father incorporated peripheral vision training, so he could see opponents approaching even with the ball up high.
Kerlon first did the trick at 13 during an academy match at Cruzeiro. A goal kick bounced to his chest; he lifted it into the air and ran to the penalty spot, scoring.
Predictably, some saw the move as a provocation. In youth games, Kerlon got tripped and kicked. By the time he played with adults, challenges looked like sucker punches.
In a September 2007 derby, Atletico Mineiro’s Coelho shoulder-charged him brutally following a seal dribble, which led to a mass brawl.
Many blamed Kerlon. “He could miss a lot of football,” said Atletico’s coach. Rivals echoed the sentiment, calling his move disrespectful.
But Kerlon defended himself eloquently: “We need to decide what Brazilian football stands for — art or violence.”
Years later, Kerlon sees the funny side. Even his teammates had doubts. “But I liked it. It drives you on. Like Neymar, feeling good about beating his man and getting fouled. That’s part of the Brazilian style.”
Kerlon says some coaches were more open to his trick than others. He always promised to do it only near the opposition box, to win dangerous free kicks or penalties.
In Malta, one coach asked him to do the dribble straight from kick-off. Kerlon reluctantly agreed but got injured and had to go off immediately.
Kerlon’s story of gradual decline and injury now comes into focus.
Despite an early fanfare, his career faltered in Italy, Japan, the U.S., Malta, and Slovakia before retiring at 29.
Six ACL injuries and ankle problems slowed him down, killing his momentum.
“I gradually lost my love for football,” he says. “Everything hurt. I didn’t want to be in pain anymore. That’s why I stopped.”
Content with life in the U.S., Kerlon is now the technical director of a local soccer school and does private sessions.
The American kids know his story vaguely but don’t get too excited, which suits him fine.
“People still remember,” he says. “Whenever a player does a little header to himself, commentators in Brazil start talking about me. ‘The Little Seal! Remember Kerlon?’”
When asked why he agreed to talk, Kerlon smiles: “When you came here to find me, I felt proud. Look how far my dribble traveled.”
The first boys and girls are making their way onto the training pitch. I thank Kerlon for his time and ask one last question: Can he still do the seal dribble now?
He smiles. “Easy,” he says, grabbing a ball. In seconds, he’s running across the turf, the seal dribble gliding on his forehead, the years and injuries fading away.
(Top photos: Getty Images; design: Eamonn Dalton)
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