Photo: Zico with his grandson Felipe

RIO DE JANEIRO - Yesterday morning, Zico arrives at Maracanã for a TV interview. He drives his own car. He parks it himself, gets out, and waves to the team and the other guest. He is recognized and intercepted by a group of Germans visiting the stadium. He poses, smiling, for photos with each and every one. Afterwards, he signs autographs balls, shirts, and stationery.

We gather and head down the elevator hall. There's an army of people sweeping the floor, installing cables, gluing panels. They drop what they're doing and go pose with him and ask for autographs. Zico greets everyone. Suddenly, we hear: "Zico! Zico! Zico!" There are 20 or 30 schoolchildren, many wearing Flamengo jerseys, sitting on the floor of the hall with their teacher. Zico, who has just become a grandfather, happily approaches, sits among them, and is extensively photographed.

We ascend to the stands on the 6th floor, where the recording will take place. As the elevator door opens, the ring appears before us—a panorama he's seen a thousand times from down below, from pitch level. But he can't help but exclaim, "How beautiful!" It's a weekday, and the Maracanã is empty, but we can almost hear the echo of the 180 voices that, in the 70s and 80s, shouted his name so many times. It's still his home—he, who scored goals and won titles for Flamengo and Brazil on five continents.

TV people, accustomed to snubbing soap opera stars, surrender to Zico. They embrace him, tell him what he meant in their lives, and how grateful they are for so much. I've been told that this shower of affection, this flood of love, repeats itself throughout the day—in Rio, where he lives, in Japan, where he worked, in Turkey, where he works, and wherever he goes.

And - I can guarantee because I've seen it - Zico hears each of these statements as if it were the first time.