Juninho. Not the bloke who used to take free-kicks for Lyon. The proper one. The little fella. A showboater cut from a very special cloth—so special they didn’t need much of it. But, boy, what he lacked in inches, he made up for in absolute, undiluted magic.
To see him at the Riverside, as we did, was to witness something more than a footballing shift. It was an awakening. The day he arrived, thousands flooded the club’s gleaming new stadium—not for a game, not even a training session, but to catch a glimpse of this mythical Brazilian. Samba drums beat a rhythm of hope. Schools emptied. Streets buzzed. A town that had seen more grey skies than silver linings suddenly found itself dancing.
He hadn’t even kicked a ball, and yet the transformation had already begun.
And when he did kick one—well, the place erupted. His feet did things we didn’t know were allowed in our postcode. He played like a dream and made you feel like you were in one. He floated, shimmied, laughed as he turned defenders inside out. He was flair with substance, elegance with bite. Middlesbrough, a place not known for glamour, suddenly felt like the centre of the footballing universe.
Everything around him bloomed. Babies were named Juninho. Local takeaways invented dubious “Brazilian-style” specials with his name plastered on them. Flags flew, streets buzzed, and Middlesbrough—honestly—felt like it belonged to something bigger than itself. The club launched Boro TV, the first of its kind, because having Juninho felt too big for Match of the Day alone.
But football isn’t a fairytale for long. After two seasons of spellbinding moments, Boro were relegated. Juninho sat on the turf and cried, a picture etched in the memory of everyone who saw it. Not just because he was leaving, but because it mattered. To him. To us. You don’t cry like that for just another job.
He needed top-flight football ahead of the 1998 World Cup. Everyone knew it. It didn’t make it easier.
Middlesbrough wasn’t the same after he left. The magic faded. You ask yourself, looking back—was he really that good? Did it really feel that important? Was it all just youthful exaggeration? No. It was real. You know it was. He made people believe in the extraordinary, even just for a season or two.
He transcended football. Juninho didn’t just sign for Boro, he moved in. Brought his parents. Ate baked beans for breakfast. Opened his front door to kids asking for a kick-about. Stayed friends with the small Brazilian family who met him at Teesside Airport. He didn’t play for the club. He played with the town.
And yes, they remember the step-overs and the goals and the nutmegs. But what lingers even more is that warmth. The fact that for a short time, a Brazilian genius made Teesside the most joyful place in football.
He came back - because of course he did. Twice. Most memorably in 2004, lifting the League Cup. Not quite the irrepressible showman of the early days, but still our Juninho. Still adored. Still sacred.
He wasn’t just a player. He was a feeling. One that Boro fans carry with them, long after the boots were hung up. The kind of player whose name you say with a smile. The kind your dad tells you about until you can picture it like you were there.
Juninho. The heartbeat of a fleeting dream. The little lad who made a small town believe we were big.
Words by Lee Kelleher