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 2006, Ronaldinho was on top of the soccer world. Twice named FIFA World Player of the Year, his golden toes keyed Barça’s Champions League title. Those memories only made it more painful to watch his bloated, bench-riding decline. As last season’s losses mounted—FC Barcelona finished third in La Liga, for godssake!—so did speculation about his nocturnal activities and the secrets behind his shaky health. 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. The forums mentioned Club Riviera, but I found my way to the Hotel Saratoga first. 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. I don’t know how much they’d charge a soccer star for entry, but I’m a 6’5″ pale American who obviously gets the tourist rate: 12 Euros for me, 12 for my driver/backup man, Vincent. Pricey!
The main floor felt like a Las Vegas dive (here’s a photo, thanks to a recent police sting). We went to the bar for our included-in-the-door-price drinks (you’ve got to keep up appearances). That’s when the parade started, impossibly beautiful women from Moravia and Brazil using ridiculous lines to approach us. This might be everyday life for one of the wealthiest soccer players in the world, but to a bald, 36-year old writer, the role reversal felt a little exotic. I made conversation, faking a bad English accent to cover the wrong kind of questions about possible famous clientele. Vincent, devoted to keeping up our cover, draped his arms around Alicia, a Jamaican girl dressed for a beach party.
By all appearances, the Saratoga is a “sex hotel.” The ladies live and work here, meeting clients in the bar and negotiating rates before taking them upstairs. The girls work 12-hour shifts and have to buy their way out to take a day off. “Truck drivers go there,” one of my tipsters told me, horrified. His qualms were not moral, but aesthetic. “You’d think, making the kind of money he makes, he’d go someplace with a little more class.”
In a hallway I found two dark-eyed girls looking bored. Martina, a 5’2″ Colombian wearing jean cut-offs and a button-down, seemed promising. She told me how she took this job to pay some debts but hated working here. I bought her a drink: 30 Euros for a Jim Beam that tasted like well whiskey. She offered to sell me some cocaine and I pretended not to understand. I told her I expected the Saratoga to be nicer, since I’d heard that celebrities came here. “Just soccer players,” she said, scoffing. Soccer players? Like who? She shared a glance with Lorena, her taller Venezuelan friend, and they both sing-sang the name I was looking for: “Ro-nal-DINh-o!!” No way, I said, laughing. Martina shouted across the bar to her cousin, “This guy doesn’t believe Ronaldinho comes in here!” The cousin laughed out loud, nodding. “He lives a few blocks away,” Martina said, lowering her voice. “He has a really nice house.”
So what does this prove? Maybe nothing. I’ll confess that I could have pushed this harder. I didn’t try to talk to Ronaldinho’s favorite girl, didn’t even ask anybody if he had one. If I were a serious reporter, I probably would have paid to go upstairs with Martina, where I could intensify my interrogation in private. But honestly, I had no desire to explain myself to that Russian bouncer and the bulge in his jacket. Plus, the sales pitch was getting to me. I can understand what might draw Ronaldinho to a place like this. After all, we’re both human.
Instead, I mumbled something about ATM machines and left.
Ronaldinho left Barcelona in much the same way, giving little of himself but making sure he got some cash—$54m from AC Milan—on his way out the door. That was probably for the best. He could have gotten more money from Manchester City, but in Milan he could become somebody’s savior again. They’re certainly paying him for it. Still, I hope he takes a lesson from Martina. You only get so many chances in this life, and it’s easy to get trapped by your own choices.
I hope he doesn’t get fat again. Because if he’s really spending 30 Euros for every glass of Jim Bean he buys a lady, those 54 million bills won’t last long.
* Some names have been changed to protect … well, mainly me.
