The place where I started playing football was a dusty street, the pitch nothing more than a stretch of earth. I was seven years old and it was the only thing I knew how to do.
I grew up in Jardim Paineiras, a working-class neighbourhood on the outskirts of Diadema, a city just outside Sao Paulo. My older brother had been born when our parents still lived in a shack.
By the time I came along, things had improved slightly – we lived in a small brick house, but it was a very simple home, just about enough for the five of us. My sister slept in the same bed as my mother and father, and I shared a mattress with my brother. Luxury it definitely wasn’t.
My parents worked tirelessly to make sure we never went hungry
Financially, we were just OK. We didn’t own much, but I can’t complain about my childhood overall. My parents never let food run out at home.
They worked tirelessly to make sure that we never went hungry. My mum was a cleaner and my dad had a job at Ford. That’s how they raised the three of us.
What truly fascinated me as a child was the street football, those endless two-versus-two battles, with the goals marked out by a pair of flip-flops. Being left-footed, I’d constantly beg to borrow someone else’s left boot.
My parents couldn’t afford to keep buying me new pairs, and since I played nonstop, my boots wore out quickly. Sometimes I’d end up playing with one bare right foot and someone else’s boot on my left.
Beyond the street kickabouts, I grew up in the varzea – the gritty, uneven dirt pitches of Sao Paulo’s amateur football scene. It’s where I learned two priceless lessons.
The first was losing any fear. The varzea toughened me up – I was always playing against older, stronger lads and got intimidated a lot in the beginning.
Over time, I became braver. Dribbling was my natural weapon, and the more they tried to scare me off, the more I wanted to beat them with the ball at my feet. I got kicked, shoved into walls and fences, was fouled constantly, but kept going.
Out there, I grew a thick skin, so when you finally get to step into a professional derby under pressure, you’ve already lived that battle countless times. At only 10 years old, I’d already learned not to be intimidated.
The second gift that the varzea gave me was ball control. On those rough, bumpy pitches, you needed to have sharp coordination and lightning-quick reactions just to keep a move going. You couldn’t trust the ground, so you had to improvise constantly. That chaos helped to sharpen me technically.
Word spread that I had talent. People kept telling my dad to take me to a club, but he worked too much and barely had time. His weekends were precious, and when possible, he’d come to watch me play.
My godfather – my dad’s brother – was in a better position financially, and his son Ricardo already played at a local football school, Pauliceia, in São Bernardo, next to Diadema.
One day, the coach there, a man called Bene, asked my uncle if he knew of any talented left-footers who had been born in 1977. He thought of me immediately. I was taken along, did the trial and, according to him, Bene said, “I asked you to bring me a kid to test, but you’ve brought me one who’s already good enough to play.”
I still kept my passion for the varzea alive, but now I was also training with Pauliceia. Suddenly, I was playing in more organised competitions across the ABCD region – Santo Andre, Sao Bernardo, Sao Caetano and Diadema – representing the club in every corner.
At one point, a select team was picked with the best players from the area and we travelled to Argentina to face Boca Juniors, River Plate and other traditional sides. We couldn’t afford hotels, so the organiser arranged for us to stay with host families.
That’s when something funny happened: the family who took me in thought I was an orphan, and by the end of the trip, they wanted to adopt me! Of course, I had to politely turn them down, explain that I had a family back in Brazil and return home.
Soon after that, we were invited to a tournament in Caraguatatuba, taking on the local side and the giants of São Paulo – Palmeiras, Corinthians, Santos and São Paulo FC. I stood out, and that’s when the latter came calling.
At just 12 years old, I joined their academy setup without even going on trial. I still remember my very first session at the Estadio do Morumbi – I was kitted out head-to-toe in club gear, with a proper pair of boots handed to me. For a kid from Diadema, it was pure dreamland.
Moving into Sao Paulo at 12 freed up more space at home for my siblings, since I lived in the club accommodation underneath the stands at Morumbi. Dozens of kids chasing the same dream shared dormitories stacked with bunk beds.
The club provided food, education and lodging, meaning one less mouth for my parents to feed. I’ll always be grateful to São Paulo, since they cared deeply for their academy boys.
To my relief, I didn’t suffer too much with homesickness. The secret was that I loved playing football too much. I was already doing it every day in Diadema, and now I was doing it at a massive club with proper facilities. I ate well, slept in my own bed – life was bliss!
Responsibility arrived naturally as I grew, surrounded by a winning culture. The competition toughens you up little by little. My memories are of enjoying myself during the week doing what I loved most, then going back home at weekends to be with my parents.
The turning point came when, at just 16, I jumped straight into the first team. It was 1994, my last year as a youth player, and instead of finishing that stage, I skipped the final youth year, as well as two or three years of juniors. In effect, I was fast-tracked about four years of development.
Was it challenging? Absolutely. But also wonderful. I was walking into a squad that had just won everything – the state championship, the Brasileirao, two Copa Libertadores and even two Intercontinental Cups against Johan Cruyff’s Barcelona and Milan’s Fabio Capello.
There was a winning identity, and I had to earn my place fast. My salary was around 150 reais, but the match bonuses – the famous bicho – ranged between 1,000 and 1,500 reais. That made a massive difference. I gave the money straight to my dad.
To be honest, those bonuses were probably more than he earned in a whole month. Thanks to that, he managed to speed up the home improvements he’d been working on through sheer sweat – tiling the floor, plastering and painting the walls, buying a wardrobe, a bigger bed. It felt incredible to contribute.
I started out on the bench but soon became a starter during the 1994 Copa CONMEBOL and began to get attention both in Brazil and abroad.
The more Sao Paulo won, the more I could help at home. Footballers today complain about the packed calendar, but I couldn’t. Every victory meant more financial relief for my family.
Instead of buying just one litre of milk, we could afford two. Instead of four bread rolls, we could buy six. Little upgrades like a better shirt for my parents or wearing new flip-flops instead of old, worn-out ones meant the world to us.
Even now, it makes me emotional thinking about it. Helping my parents, who had sacrificed everything for us, was priceless.
Playing at Sao Paulo made me value my achievements even more, but the values I learned at home stayed with me everywhere. I was lucky that God gave me that gift and that the right people believed in me at the right time.
One of those was the first-team boss, Tele Santana. He first watched me filling in during a reserve-team training session and liked what he had seen.
Looking back, it all happened at the right time. I wasn’t even a starter in the youth teams when I was promoted. The lads born in 1976 had priority and the coach didn’t rate me. At one point, he even wanted to release me, but the directors insisted I stayed.
I remember my legs shaking at the start when I first joined in with the senior players for training. But once the ball rolled, I forgot my nerves and just played with joy.
Was I nervous? Of course! But as the session went on, it melted away. I did what I always did: played football with a smile.
Luckily, Tele and his assistant Muricy Ramalho liked me. The following week, he called me back. From then on, every training session felt like a match, and the staff began guiding me more seriously.
After just five sessions, I was living at the professional training centre. That was when everything changed. I’d gone from sleeping in a room with 40 kids to sharing with just one teammate, with a television in our room and meals available whenever we were hungry.
That comfort was new, and I knew I couldn’t waste the chance.
“HELPING MY PARENTS, WHO SACRIFICED EVERYTHING FOR US, WAS PRICELESS. IT STILL MAKES ME EMOTIONAL”
I’d wake up earlier than anyone, eat my breakfast and already be in my kit when the senior players came down. As skinny as I was at 16, I was ready to seize the opportunity.
Tele intimidated me massively. He radiated authority, always serious, rarely smiling. Imagine – a kid from Diadema stood side-by-side with the man he used to watch while working as a ballboy during the club’s Copa Libertadores matches.
I felt a mix of fear, respect and admiration. But he was extraordinary in how he taught. Tele cared about us off the pitch too.
He would warn us youngsters, not to splash out on cars before buying our parents a house. On the football side, he obsessed over the small details – your body positioning, striking technique, the movement in specific plays and so on.
One morning, I was up early in the canteen at the training centre, waiting to watch the youth team, who trained on one of the pitches at the first team complex occasionally.
Tele was always the first to arrive at the training ground and asked me what I was doing there. When I told him I wanted to watch the lads train, he reminded me that I was still technically a youth player myself and that on that day I’d be training with them.
He didn’t say it outright, but I always took that as his way of keeping my feet on the ground. At a time I was rising quickly, he wanted to make sure I stayed humble. That was him: strict, meticulous and determined not to let success go to a young player’s head.
Sao Paulo’s winning environment drove me, though. I wanted to live what Cafu, Leonardo, Muller and Zetti were living. Bit by bit, I did just that.
By 17, I was shining. I ended 1994 playing the Copa CONMEBOL, had a strong 1995 and suddenly people recognised me. Back in my neighbourhood, they couldn’t believe that ‘the stuttering kid’ – my childhood nickname – was the same Denilson starring at Morumbi.
When they saw me on TV, it was surreal. In 1996, I got my first Brazil call-up. Suddenly, rumours of European clubs swirled. I was linked to Milan, Barça, Real Madrid, Manchester United.
By 1998 things got serious. Then one day, Sao Paulo’s president summoned me and my former agent. That alone was terrifying for a kid, since contact with the president was rare.
He told me the club had received a $12 million bid from Barcelona and intended to accept it. I had no clue what $12m even worked out at in reais. At that point, whatever they said, I would have agreed to it.
I went home and told my parents I was off to Barça. But then Betis arrived, offering $32m (£21.5m).
Brazilian law at the time meant I was entitled to just 15 per cent of that sum, but still, it was a life-changing amount of money. More than twice the offer from Barça and a chance to secure my family’s future.
Today people always talk about career planning. Back then, that didn’t exist. My train was there and I had to jump on it.
My first priority was sorting out my parents’ lives; the rest came after. Only later, when the press highlighted it, did I realise it was a world-record transfer fee.
Honestly, I barely cared. My only concern was giving my family comfort. Between 1995 and the 1998 World Cup Final, my career had been magical.
Everything at Sao Paulo felt like a dream. We won the state championship before I left, and I went to my first World Cup on the back of that. I played every one of our matches in France, carried the ‘world’s most expensive player’ tag, and arrived in Seville in the best shape of my life.
The only downside was not winning that World Cup, but even then, I was living the high point of my career. Moving to Betis was the moment that I became a man and a real professional footballer.
I didn’t know much about Seville. I’d been told I’d cope with the language, the winters weren’t too harsh, and the food would be fine. My parents came with me, so things were good off the pitch.
But on it, I struggled. I wasn’t playing well and football stopped being fun. I lost some of the irreverence that I carried. Instead came sadness, anger, and pressure.
I thought adapting to Spanish football would be easy, given my four brilliant years in Brazil. However, the expectations on me were enormous and the press questioned how anyone could pay such a fee for me. I grew up quickly through those tough times.
“FOOTBALL INTRODUCED ME TO THE WORLD – IT LET ME STEP INTO HOMES ACROSS THE GLOBE”
My first two seasons were awful and we got relegated from La Liga. During the 2000-01 season, I split the year between a loan spell at Flamengo and Betis in the second division.
That summer, I went home expecting a quiet holiday – out of nowhere though, I was called up for Brazil again for the first time in more than a year. I couldn’t believe it.
Playing in the second tier, the last thing that I expected was a Selecao call-up. But Luiz Felipe Scolari had taken over – he phoned me, said he had been watching me and selected me for the 2001 Copa America. That was when the joyful, playful Denilson returned.
The cherry on top came in 2002 – the World Cup in Japan and South Korea. Four years before that, I’d sweated over whether I’d make the final squad. In 2002 I was certain.
Older, more mature, more respected. If in 1998 I was still the kid, by 2002 that role belonged to Kaka.
The memory that never leaves me is the final whistle against Germany, as we won the final in Yokohama. I was running round with the Brazilian flag wrapped around me and looking to the sky, thanking God. After all the difficult times I’d been through, to be there as a World Cup winner was overwhelming.
Winning that trophy leaves a legacy. Long after I’m gone, people will know what I achieved. Football introduced me to the world.
It let me step into homes across the globe with the ball at my feet. Leaving the title of world champion for my family is the greatest honour.
In early 2009, I nearly joined Bolton. I still don’t fully know why it fell through
Later in my career, I even came close to the Premier League. In early 2009, I nearly joined Bolton. I still don’t fully know why it fell through.
Maybe internal politics, agents with more influence. I spent a week training there. The sessions were brutal physically, even more so as I’d been inactive, but I got through them.
One day, a staff member showed me my parking spot, gave me the remote for the training ground gate and even pointed out my locker.
To me, that meant it was done. All that was left, I thought, was signing the contract.
But the next day, they told me the manager had opted for another player instead – a centre-forward, Ariza Makukula, who had played at Sevilla. Likely an agent with stronger connections.
My career didn’t finish quite as I’d dreamed. I’d wanted to return home strong, like Rai, who went back to Sao Paulo after happy days at PSG.
But the club didn’t welcome me back as I’d hoped. Instead, it was Palmeiras that gave me that recognition. We won the Sao Paulo state championship, I still felt competitive and bowed out at a high level.
In hindsight, December 2008 was my real farewell at the top. After that I had flashes, short stints elsewhere, but it was never truly the same.
Still, I’m very proud. I built a winning career, became a champion wherever I went and lived every dream that skinny kid from Diadema imagined.
