The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer 1469636972, 9781469636979

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The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer

This book was sponsored by the Consortium in Latin American and Ca­rib­bean Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Duke University.

A book in the series Latin Amer­i­ca in Translation / en Traducción / em Tradução

The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer Mario Filho Translated by Jack A. Draper III

The University of North Carolina Press Chapel Hill

 © 2021 The University of North Carolina Press Portuguese-­language original © 2003 Herdeiros e sucessores de Mario Rodrigues Filho and was published by MAUAD Editora Ltda. (http://­www​.­mauad​.­com​.­br) All rights reserved Set in Minion by Westchester Publishing Ser­vices Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Rodrigues, Mário, 1908–1966, author. | Draper, Jack A., III, 1976– t­ ranslator. Title: The black man in Brazilian soccer / Mario Filho ; translated by Jack A. Draper III. Other titles: Negro no futebol brasileiro. En­glish | Latin Amer­i­ca in translation/ en traducción/em tradução. Description: Chapel Hill : University of North Carolina Press, 2021. | Series: Latin Amer­i­ca in translation/en traducción/em tradução | Translation of: O negro no futebol brasileiro. 4a. ed. Rio de Janeiro : Mauad, 2003. Identifiers: LCCN 2020035407 | ISBN 9781469636979 (cloth ; alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469637006 (paperback ; alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469637037 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Soccer—­Brazil—­History—20th ­century. | Soccer—­Social aspects—­ Brazil. | Athletes, Black—­Brazil. | Discrimination in sports—­Brazil—­History— 20th ­century. | Brazil—­Race relations. Classification: LCC GV944.B7 R6213 2021 | DDC 796.3340981—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2020035407 Cover illustration: Sabará (Onofre Anacleto de Souza), 1953. Public domain/ Arquivo Nacional Collection, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Contents

Translator’s Note to the First En­glish Edition, vii Author’s Note to the Second Edition, xi Author’s Note to the First Edition, xv Chapter 1 ​Nostalgic Beginnings, 1 Chapter 2 ​The Grass Field and the Empty Lot, 48 Chapter 3 ​The Rebellion of the Black Man, 107 Chapter 4 ​The Social Ascension of the Black Man, 161 Chapter 5 ​The Trial of the Black Man, 213 Chapter 6 ​The Black Man’s Turn, 271 Acknowl­edgments, 331 Notes, 333

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Translator’s Note to the First En­glish Edition

Published ­here for the first time in En­glish, The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer is an astoundingly rich pa­norama of anecdotes from soccer and daily life in Brazilian society from the early twentieth ­century through the 1960s. The language of Filho’s text, the first four chapters published originally in 1947 and the latter two in 1964, is vibrant and surprisingly modern in style, while shifting between more lyrical, epic moments and lighter sections featuring Filho’s by turns ironic and sympathetic take on the vicissitudes of the strug­g le to break down class and racial barriers in the game of soccer. Mario Filho’s narrative can also be read as a treatise on the democ­ratization of Brazilian culture in the context of its massification. He emphasizes the importance, for ­those who wish to understand the history of the sport (especially in the de­cades of the 1920s–40s, when major class and racial integration occurred among Brazilian soccer teams), of considering the spatialized class divides of the empty lot versus the club field for players, and general admission versus the grandstand for fans. T ­ hese spatial dualisms paint a picture of a hierarchical society with a large divide between a power­ful economic and po­liti­cal elite and the g­ reat mass of the remainder of the population. They also echo sociologist Gilberto Freyre’s division of Brazilian society in its early history into the big h ­ ouse of the master versus the slave quarters.1 Further, they anticipate Roberto DaMatta’s more modern division of Brazilian society into the spaces of street and h ­ ouse and, in par­tic­u­lar, his discussion of carnival, in which he notes the division of samba school headquarters into a close equivalent of the grandstands and general admission sections initially featured by Filho ­here, in the context of soccer.2 The story of class and racial integration of Brazilian soccer w ­ ill be a story of the interaction and interpenetration of t­ hese spatial dyads si­mul­ta­neously coded by class and race. Gilberto Freyre himself was a ­great supporter of Mario Filho’s writings and wrote a laudatory preface to the 1947 edition of this book. T ­ here and elsewhere, Freyre described the development of a Brazilian soccer style as a fusion of “Dionysian” impulses in Afro-­Brazilian culture (ludic, irrational forms of individual dance, movement, and improvisation) with the originally “Apollonian” Eu­ro­pean sport (focused on more rational team strategy and tactics) to form a unique national hybrid.3 Without g­ oing into a more detailed analy­sis of Freyre’s formula, what I would like to emphasize ­here is that this par­tic­u­lar

dyad focuses on a distinction between the non-­European ele­ments of Brazilian culture on the one hand, and Eu­ro­pean culture on the other, in order to emphasize a kind of national synthesis or unity of Brazilian soccer identity. The key point being that difference, with regard to Brazilian soccer and related culture and social relations, is projected externally. However, the reader of The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer ­will find a fascinating dialectic play out, which is more focused on internal difference within Brazilian sports and society. This includes, first, the increasingly multiclass and multiracial playing field, as class and color lines are overcome by poor, working-­class, and black players.4 The emphasis ­here is less on the production of a Freyrean hybrid (mestiço, or mulatto) identity of the team or the nation and more on the story of economic, social, and psychological strug­gle involved in the desegregation of soccer for black players over the course of several decades—­a strug­gle I have analyzed in more detail elsewhere.5 Second, Filho explores internal differences of identity and playing style even among black Brazilians themselves, perhaps best epitomized by his contrasting portrayals of two soccer g­ iants of the 1930s: Domingos da Guia and Leônidas da Silva. Both Afro-­Brazilian players—­the former a defender and the latter a striker—­are discussed in tandem in chapter 4 by Filho in terms of their differing temperaments, mindsets, and playing styles. On the one hand, Guia is a rather phlegmatic, fastidious defender, delivering precise and intelligent passes from the back line, all without breaking a sweat. Silva, on the other hand, more closely matches the paradigm of the creative Brazilian dribbler and scorer, moving to the tune of samba with an Afro-­Brazilian swing or ginga, which Pelé would only come to epitomize two de­cades ­later (as detailed in chapter 6). Filho’s portrayal of dif­fer­ent players like ­t hese two emphasizes the diversity within the community of black players itself. Departing from this emphasis on internal difference, his larger tale of black Brazilians and how they helped define the national soccer style, even as they strug­gled against racism, complicates and transcends Freyre’s more simplistic and homogenizing vision of black players in Brazil. In terms of the Brazilian World Cup teams, this divide between a more serious, calm, collected defender and a more creative, improvisational, emotional attacker would inform virtually all the decisions as to which player would captain the side. More often than not, it would be the Domingos da Guia–­like player who would be selected as captain, proving that the “En­glish” temperament continued to be very much respected and effective for a team leader on the field. Just as Domingos da Guia himself was very much a Brazilian—­ and Afro-­Brazilian—­player, despite not matching the iconic stylistic model ­later perfected by Pelé, a solid defensive line would become a far less lauded but essential part of all Brazil’s World Cup champion teams. Thus, Filho’s viii  Translator’s Note to the First En­glish Edition

focus on t­ hese two players in the era of the 1930s, when Brazilian soccer fully racially integrated and went professional, paints a picture of a balance between the Apollonian and the Dionysian in the Brazilian game. This balance would prove fundamental to Brazil’s astounding success on the global stage. Not only that, but we see in Filho’s history that black players, and to a more ­limited extent black coaches, w ­ ere contributing to all sides of the game, from the tactical approach, to making offense and defense come together on the field, to the individual improvisation and creativity—­the “samba” on the soccer field for which they would become most famous. Thus, it is quite prescient when Filho writes, in chapter 4, that Leônidas and Domingos are “the symbols of Brazilian soccer.” In closing, a few general notes about my translation. ­Every translator must make innumerable choices in a work as extensive as this. ­Here I ­will emphasize that I have attempted to preserve as much as pos­si­ble Filho’s colloquial syntax and punctuation. Filho’s free-­flowing, journalistic style is one key way in which he enables himself to quickly jump between the viewpoints of players, coaches, fans, club presidents, management, and even presidents of Brazil, in addition to his own perspective and that of the larger Rio de Janeiro and national media he was a part of, and the international media he became familiar with when Brazilian clubs or national teams traveled abroad. Fi­nally, it should be noted that Filho peppers his text with En­glish terms, reflecting his understanding of soccer or futebol as an import of En­glish football, which Brazilians would gradually make their own. When it seems particularly relevant, I have indicated with italics that a term is in En­glish in the original text, especially ­earlier in the narrative, in order to highlight Filho’s own emphasis on the greater En­glish influence in the first de­cades of the sport’s history in Brazil. I have not done this in ­every case purely as a stylistic choice, to avoid the redundancy of repeated italicization of the same En­g lish words many times throughout the book. Where Filho uses other languages besides his native Brazilian Portuguese (such as French or Spanish), I have reproduced the language in the original, with an En­glish translation in a footnote. Furthermore, for any poems, chants, or songs cited by Filho, I have done my utmost to reproduce the original Brazilian Portuguese rhyme schemes in the En­glish translation. Lastly, in the remainder of this book, any bracketed words in the notes are my own, while the rest are translated from the original. Jack A. Draper III Columbia, Missouri, 2020

Translator’s Note to the First En­glish Edition  ix

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Author’s Note to the Second Edition

The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer, the first edition of which went out of print years ago, was an essay that, although it insinuated more than it concluded and sought, above all, to outline the pro­cess, in some ways painful and long, of the democ­ratization of Brazilian soccer, came up against a test to which few books are submitted while in print. It’s enough to recall that the defeat of Brazil in 1950, in the world championship of soccer, brought about a recrudescence of racism. The black man was blamed for the disaster of July 16. Thus, apparently The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer, in a superficial reading, assumed an optimistic perspective with re­spect to racial integration that had not yet been realized in soccer, without a doubt the widest field that had been opened to the social ascension of the black man. The proof would be in ­those sacrificial lambs that ­were singled out, coincidentally all black: Barbosa, Juvenal, and Bigode. The whites on the Brazilian side w ­ ere not accused of anything.1 It is true that Brazilians called themselves, excoriating themselves in that moment, a sub-­race. We ­were a race of mestizos, a sub-­race incapable of overcoming a setback. But Brazilians, unconsciously, idealized an idol in the image and semblance of Obdúlio Varela, El Gran Capitán, evidently a Uruguayan mulatto. If Brazil had become world champion, as we all expected in 1950, the national idol would be—­naturally, as it always had been—­a mulatto or a black man. The first was named Arthur Friedenreich, son of a German ­father and a black m ­ other. A mulatto with green eyes. The second, Leônidas da Silva, son of a Portuguese f­ ather and a black ­mother. A mulatto closer to black, with an upturned nose. When Brazil won the Sweden World Cup in 1958, Brazilians chose two idols: the black Pelé and the mulatto Garrincha. The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer supported this proof without having to change a word. The curious ­thing is that almost the same length of time had separated the choice of a national idol of Brazilian soccer: nineteen years between Friedenreich and Leônidas, and twenty years between Leônidas and Pelé and Garrincha.

It is striking that without having to modify anything that I wrote, preserving intact the four parts of the first edition of The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer, the second edition arrives, expanded and with the pretension of being definitive. Few p ­ eople realize how much is demanded of a soccer player. He has to represent a club, a city, a state, the nation. What is expected of him is that he embody the best virtues of man; in the case of the Brazilian, the best virtues of the Brazilian man. When the Brazilian accused Barbosa, Juvenal, and Bigode, he accused himself. Soccer would not be the passion of the p ­ eople if the p ­ eople did not identify with a team, their team, with a flag and a shirt. Soccer fans are linked, irremediably, to their team, for better or worse, for happiness or for disgrace. At heart, fans want the players to be better than them. The players represent them, represent their club, their city, their state, their nation. The defeat of the player is the defeat of the fan. The ones who lost in 1950 ­were the Brazilians. More so the ones who d ­ idn’t play than the ones who did. It is easy to imagine the pressure exerted on the player, white, mulatto, or black. More so on mulattoes and blacks, tied to the racial mixture out of which the Brazilian is molded. Soccer unleashes a strug­gle between clubs, which is its everyday existence. To the point that this strug­gle was called a war. The player was the soldier, the cannon fodder, although some w ­ ere generals, gods of t­ hese ­battles. Many a player succumbed to that permanent tension, true stress. One chapter added to The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer gives it new dimension. The other concerns the whitening of the black man in the clubs that defend him. A black man on the Fluminense team is not black for Fluminense. He is treated like a white man. He can forget about his color and say, like Robson: “I used to be black and I know what that’s like.” In real­ity, black soccer players sought, as they ­rose through the ranks, to be less black. Even forgetting to remember, in some cases, that they w ­ ere black. Having their hair straightened, getting plastic surgery, fleeing from their color. Thus the importance of Pelé, “the King of Soccer,” who made a point of being black. Not to offend anyone but to ennoble his ­mother, his ­father, his grand­mother, his u ­ ncle, the f­ amily of poor black folks that prepared him for glory. No black man in the world has contributed as much to sweeping away racial barriers as Pelé. He became the greatest idol of the most popu­lar sport on earth. T ­ hose who clap for him clap for a black man. For that reason Pelé ­didn’t have his hair straightened: he is black like his f­ ather, like his ­mother, like his grand­mother, like his ­uncle, like his siblings. To ennoble them, he ennobles the black man. xii  Author’s Note to the Second Edition

For this reason he is more than black, he is “the Black Man.” Other black players of Brazilian soccer recognize him as such: to them, he is “the Negro.” I am certain that The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer is enriched by t­ hese current additions and that, belonging to it by right, they complete the book, giving it a definitive form. Mario Filho Rio de Janeiro, 1964

Author’s Note to the Second Edition  xiii

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Author’s Note to the First Edition

The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer did not, to be sure, cost me merely the five months I spent writing it. Since 1942, when I began a daily column in O Globo, which I named On the Front Line, I was preparing myself, unknowingly of course, for the work presented ­here in this volume. This is what allowed me to realize this goal. I managed to study, separately, vari­ous eras of Brazilian soccer, or, better yet, of carioca soccer,1 whose history does not differ, in essence, from that of any other ­great sporting center in Brazil. ­Here the knowledge of sources was invaluable to me, sources who other­w ise would have remained unknown. With each Front Line, reliving a past almost dead, even in the memories of ­those who had experienced it, I was placing myself before characters in a history that had to be written before it was irrevocably lost. Soccer t­ oday fills the pages of the more austere, less sports-­focused press. This was not always the case, however. It’s enough to look over collections of newspapers and magazines from thirty or forty years ago. Soccer was only in­ter­ est­ing to the papers a­ fter it became a passion of the p ­ eople. As long as it did not fill the fields, did not divide the city into groups, real clans, soccer barely existed for the newspapers. For this reason, consulting newspapers up ­until 1910 serves, at most, to provide statistics of match results. Only a­ fter 1910 is it that soccer, now a journalistic subject, allowed for fans of the so-­called British sport, each one with its own club, to write columns, sometimes signed with initials. Marcos de Mendonça did me the courtesy of loaning me his a­ lbum, the most complete repository of soccer events from 1910 to 1919. With precious photo­g raphs, clippings from newspapers—at times ten clippings from dif­ fer­ent papers about the same game—­Marcos de Mendonça’s a­ lbum served me well, principally to trace what I would call the history of the importance of soccer, an importance that one senses growing in ­these clippings and photo­graphs. The debut of Marcos de Mendonça in 1910, in a game between Haddock Lobo and Fluminense, rated a quarter of a column. In less than three years, the newspaper was giving a page to a s­ imple game. The a­ lbum also furnished me with names, presenting a number of protagonists whom I could consult—­protagonists who experienced, who should remember, what had happened in ­t hose times. I sought them out, one by one. None of them

refused to give me information; on the contrary, they all made themselves available to collaborate with me: Guilherme Pastor, who was preparing a history of Bangu, which he had seen founded; Flávio Ramos, a cofounder of Botafogo; Emanuel Sodré, another Botafogo founder, who followed closely the life of Carioca, the club of the Lions Square boys, the same boys who became 1910 champions; Norman Hime, from the early days of Botafogo; Afonso de Castro, the archive of Fluminense; Alfredo Koeller, founder of América; Luqs de Mendonça, founder of Catete, of Haddock Lobo, and colleague of Belfort Duarte, among t­hose who worked the hardest for the merger of América and Haddock Lobo, which gave, to América, its field; Gastão Cruls, who was t­ here when soccer was the required recreational activity at the São Vicente de Paulo High School; Gabriel de Carvalho, who received a slap from Abelardo Delemare, a slap that broke up the Metropolitan League; Marcos de Mendonça, symbol of an era of carioca soccer; Alberto Borghert, of Rio, of Fluminense, leader of the movement that brought Flamengo to soccer; Joaquim Guimarães, a fan with a Fluminense, a Flamengo ribbon in his hat who would flirt on a ­little balcony on Voluntários da Pátria Street and, while flirting, would watch Botafogo play ­every after­noon; Diocesano Ferreira Gomes, “Dão” of the Correio da Manhã newspaper, a “fly,” as they used to say, in Flamengo’s garage; Mário Polo, of Fluminense yesterday and t­oday, one of the first newspaper columnists to receive the assignment of writing about soccer; Harry Welfare, the “Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” a true En­glish soccer mission in Brazil; Pedro da Cunha, a fan since that era who never misses a match; Hugo Fracarolli of the Palmeiras Athletic Association of 1915, the club that made a point of being, in São Paulo, what Fluminense was in Rio: white and sophisticated; Paulo Canongia, the Carioca representative who would embarrass players from the other small clubs—­the poor whites, the mulattoes and the blacks—at the moment of signing the match ledger; Orlando Bandeira Vilela, who helped to cart sand to the plot of Andaraí’s field, who experienced the life of Plaza Seven and knew Monteiro up close; José da Silva Filho, “Laúsa,” an Andaraí youth product; José Tricoli, a Bangu youth product; Luís de Meneses, the enfant-­gâté of Botafogo; Arnaldo Guinle, the patron of Fluminense, a kind of Prince of Wales of the Brazilian sport; Max Gomes de Paiva, who ended up with the archive of Belfort Duarte; Agostinho Forte Filho, the “Dadá” of Fluminense, a high-­class player always mischievous on the field; Mário Reis, who remembers every­thing that happened in carioca soccer since 1916, capable of telling you the lineups, the referee, and the score of each game without consulting a newspaper, just pulling from memory; Paulo and João Coelho Neto, boys when, on Sundays, the Fluminense players would get together at the Coelho Netos’ ­house; Ana Amélia, the fan who xvi  Author’s Note to the First Edition

would wear the same dress till the day of defeat, the dress she was wearing first on the day of an América victory and l­ ater, the day of a Fluminense victory; João Santos, the president of América who brought Manteiga to Campos Sales field; Egas de Mendonça, married to a Borges w ­ oman, the Borges ­women demanding that their boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands leave América with Manteiga on the team; Jaime Barcelos, who led the América team in 1922 and 1928; Osvaldo Melo, the “Prince of Passes,” who was not ashamed to play beside Manteiga; Ademar Martins, the “Japa­nese” of Flamengo, champion of 1920 and 1921; Jaime Guedes, from the first days of Vasco in soccer; Álvaro Nascimento, chronicler of Vasco; Antônio Campos, president of Vasco, who almost went bankrupt b ­ ecause of Vasco; Claudionor Corrêa, “the Balloon,” champion of 1923; Pascoal, champion of 1923 and 1929; Horácio Werner, who brought Pascoal to Rio de Janeiro, changing his name from Pascoal Cinelle to Pascoal Silva; Vicente Caruso, who went to Fluminense with Nilo Murtinho Braga and managed to experience, up close, life on Álvaro Chaves Street in 1924, year of the birth of Amea and the re­nais­sance of white soccer; Reis Carneiro, one of the most active members of the Union Commission of Amea; Oscar Costas, president of the Brazilian Sports Confederation, which made a point of sending a national side to Buenos Aires in tuxedos; Luís Vinhais, who led the São Cristóvão team to conquer the championship in 1926; Castelo Branco, all his life director of the confederation; Antônio Avelar, many times president of América; Fábio Horta, who received notes from Floriano, the “Marshall of Victory” on the back of a picture, asking for money; José Pereira Peixoto, Vasco player, who saved Welfare from a Jaguaré knife attack; Togo Renan Soares, Bangu coach in the era of Col­o­nel Pedroso, when Domingos began to draw attention; Sílvio Pacheco, who punched Leônidas in 1932 and refused to play with Leônidas on the side; Oscarino, the “Pai-­de-­Santo” of the Rio Branco Cup of 1932; Ivan Mariz, the only amateur from Fluminense who ­d idn’t hesitate to sign his contract as a professional soccer player; Bastos Padilha, the president of Flamengo, who brought the best black players in Brazilian soccer to Gávea; Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer, an old Botafogo player, president of Amea in the year of the split, t­ oday president of the Brazilian Sports Confederation; Gustavo de Carvalho, the Flamengo president who fought with Leônidas; João Liro Filho, president of the National Sports Council, who tried to make peace between Gustavo de Carvalho and Leônidas; Roberto Pedrosa, who came to seek out Leônidas for São Paulo; Domingos, Leônidas, and Valdemar, who related their lives to me; José Scassa, a journalist who was, shortly ­after the world championship, Leônidas’s secretary; Leite de Castro, head of the Department of Social Assistance of the Metropolitan Federation; José de Almeida, head of the Technical Department of Fluminense, who shared Author’s Note to the First Edition  xvii

with me the riches of the greatest Brazilian sports archive; and countless more directors, players, and fans. The official documents showed me that true history is written in another way. Whoever peruses the books of AMFA from 1906 to 1923 and from 1924 to 1932—­which ­were twice put at my disposal by the president of the Brazilian Sports Confederation, Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer—in addition to the reports of the confederation itself, would not discover, in any part, anything about the strug­g les of the black man, without ­going into the facts in intimate detail.2 The minutes, the correspondence of the clubs, does not speak of blacks. The laws of ­these entities do not touch upon, even lightly, the question of race. They l­imited themselves to raising social barriers, prohibiting manual laborers, subaltern domestics, office boys, waiters, barbers, low-­ranking soldiers, and the like from playing soccer in affiliated clubs. I went along, bit by bit, lifting the veil, hearing from ­here, from ­there, reconstituting the oral tradition, much richer and much more alive than what is written in official documents; serious, circumspect, and more than the newspapers, which ­don’t tell the w ­ hole story. ­Today they say a lot of ­things without saying anything at all. The more gossipy press, wanting to get into the lives of players to satisfy the curiosity of a larger and larger audience for soccer, has been around less than twenty years. And this press I had at my fingertips: the complete collections of Vida Esportiva (Sporting life), a magazine that was born in 1916 and died in 1920, and of Crítica (Critique) from 1928 to 1930, O Globo (the Globe), the Jornal dos Sports (Newspaper of sports), and O Globo Esportivo (the Sporting globe). I preferred, however, to hear from directors, players, and fans. I heard from hundreds of them, from e­ very era of Brazilian soccer. When I could hear it from the ­horse’s mouth, I ­didn’t look for anybody e­ lse. I assembled, in this way, material of such caliber that it surprised someone whose opinion I greatly re­spect. The material was so ­great, and in such detail, that it raised a doubt. The doubt of how I could manage to assem­ble it, cata­log it, and use it in a coherent narrative, without a gap, without interruption. Would I make use of the imagination of a novelist who had not yet written a novel? No, I ­didn’t use my imagination. No historian could have taken more care than I in selecting the data, in determining its veracity through exhaustive consultations. At times a ­simple doubt made me dispense with a chapter, requiring of me further work and research. One vanity I have: that of presenting a work that defies contestation. If I had exaggerated, let alone twisted the facts, ­there would be no lack of ­those who could contradict me. Before its release as a book, The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer had the widest journalistic exposure that one could hope for, since it was published daily, over five months, in O Globo, the paper with the greatest circulation in the Brazilian press. And not one refutation arose from xviii  Author’s Note to the First Edition

anyone, although almost all the protagonists of the history of Brazilian soccer are alive and have read the pages gathered in this volume. Which proves that what is ­here is the truth, pure and ­simple. Mario Filho Rio de Janeiro, 1947

Author’s Note to the First Edition  xix

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Chapter 1

Nostalgic Beginnings

1. ­ here are t­ hose who believe that soccer of the past is what was good. Once in T a while we run into one of t­ hese nostalgic folks. T ­ hey’re all white, none black. It was something that intrigued me initially. Why is the nostalgic always white? The nostalgic always being white, never black, raised some doubts. And then the golden era, chosen by the nostalgic, was an era that one could call white. One would see light-­skinned, very white players, even blond players on the teams at times: En­glish or German. Few with darker skin and hair. Mulattoes and blacks w ­ ere a rarity, one h ­ ere, one t­ here, they w ­ ere lost in the crowd, not drawing any attention. One knew who was black and who was white, blacks and whites w ­ ere not confused. Bangu could put a black player on the team although it was a club of En­glishmen. So much so of En­glishmen that it included the “The”; it was “The Bangu Athletic Club.” The Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil, a Brazilian textile factory with Portuguese capital, had sent to find masters in ­England. The En­glish masters founded The Bangu Athletic Club. One of them, John Stark, a master of printing, lent the ­house in which he lived, #12 Estevam Street, for the ceremony of the founding of the club. The found­ers of Bangu ­were nine: seven En­glishmen, one Italian, and one Brazilian, white. Thus, Bangu was born almost completely En­glish. It’s true that the director of the factory was Brazilian. He gave the name to the celebrated street along Bangu’s field, “the ground of Ferrer Street” or “the pleasant field of Ferrer Street,” as the columnists of the era would write. João Ferrer was t­ here to prevent Bangu from becoming an exclusively En­ glish club. And even if he ­weren’t ­there, in order to make Bangu the factory club, for the masters and the workers, the En­glishmen of Bangu ­were not so many that they could imitate the example of Paissandu Cricket Club and Rio Cricket and Athletic Association. At Paissandu and Rio Cricket it was the same t­ hing, just that one was in Rio and the other in Niterói. At most, they ­were clubs restricted to En­glishmen and the sons of En­g lishmen. At Rio Cricket, ­t here was no question: it was much more restricted than Paissandu.

Still, a Brazilian could manage to play for Paissandu in the final days of soccer at the club, that is, in the m ­ iddle of the G ­ reat War, when the En­glishmen and their sons w ­ ere departing to fight for ­England. Like Sidney Pullen. We sent to Buenos Aires one Paissandu player: Sidney Pullen. He had been born in Brazil; he was Brazilian. The Argentinians did not believe that a Brazilian player could have such an En­glish name, with a face all the more En­ glish. It was necessary to produce his birth certificate and all his documents. Shortly thereafter, before the Argentinians’ doubts had been entirely put to rest, Sidney Pullen left for ­England as an En­glish soldier. With the En­g lishmen and En­g lishmen’s sons being called up, enlisting themselves in the British army, Paissandu had no other remedy: they opened up an exception for Cândido Viana. Cândido Viana had been playing as a back for a while, on Botafogo’s second team, but he was a sports columnist, writing for the Jornal do Commercio (Newspaper of commerce). As a sports columnist, he had f­ ree entry to Paissandu, and Paissandu needed a back. A happy coincidence: Viana was at the ser­vice of Paissandu. So Paissandu had on its team, which was on the verge of disbanding, a Brazilian player who was not the son of an En­glishman. Rio Cricket, never. We can find on Rio Cricket in 1914, naturally amidst the En­glishmen, a German or the son of a German. The Germans, however, ­were white like the En­glishman. And blond. ­There was no talk of war. The En­glishmen got along well with the Germans; when they got together, they d ­ idn’t feel so foreign. Paissandu and Rio Cricket ­were bits of ­England transplanted to Brazil. On sunny Sundays the En­g lish flag would flap in the wind, high up on its pole, one on Paissandu Street, the other in Icaraí. The collection of newspapers is ­there; all one has to do is look up the lineups of the Paissandu and Rio Cricket teams. ­These lineups must have been torture for the authors and proofreaders. For the readers, too, the majority of whom d ­ idn’t know a bit of En­glish, having to spell the names of the eleven players on Paissandu, the eleven players on Rio Cricket. Paissandu with a Cruickshank, C. T. Cruickshank, the first and ­middle names reduced to initials; also an M. Murry, a G. Pullen, an E. Pullen, a T. Treehand, a J. P. Hampshire, an L. Wood, a C. L. Robinson, an L. Yeats, and a J. McCulloch. Rio Cricket was not far b ­ ehind with its A. L. Sutfield, its E. A. Tootal, its G. Reither, its T. Moreno, its C. Calvert, its E. Kirby, its L. F. Garton, its F. Slade, its Conrado Mutzembecher, its F. Millar, and its J. F. Monteith. The names ­were published in the paper; ­those who ­didn’t know the players wondered if t­ here had been any errors in the proofreading. If one day they 2  Chapter One

appeared correctly, the next they appeared with typos. The Brazilians found it pretty; they tried to imitate the En­glishmen. Victor Etchegaray, a not-­at-­a ll Brazilian name, showed up in the lineups as V. Etchegaray; Clyto Portela as C. Portela; Horácio da Costa Santos as H. da Costa Santos; Félix Frias as F. Frias. However, t­ here ­were two Etchegarays, Victor and Emílio. When they played together some confusion arose, dispelled in the Brazilian manner: “­There’s Victor! ­There’s Emílio!” Imported soccer, made in E ­ ngland, had to be translated. And as long as it was not translated or Brazilianized, whoever liked it had to familiarize themselves with En­glish names—of players, of every­thing. On the field, a player with self-­regard had to speak in English—or rather, yell in En­glish. The lexicon of the team captain, precisely the one who would yell most on the field, needed to be vast. When a player on his team had the ball and a player from the other team was ­running up to take it, he had to warn “man on you.” When the other team was attacking and he needed to call his players up front, the signal was “come back forwards.” And ­there was “take your man” and more. ­There w ­ ere eleven player positions on a team: goalkeeper, fullback-­right, fullback-­left, halfback-­right, center-­half, halfback-­left, winger-­right, inside-­right, center-­forward, inside-­left, winger-­left.1 The referee [juiz] was the referee, transformed into referi ou refe; the linesman [bandeirinha] was the linesman; and so on. But the names of the players of Paissandu Cricket Club and Rio Cricket and Athletic Association ­were more difficult to remember. They changed a lot, especially t­ hose of Rio Cricket. En­g lishmen who came for the En­g lish telegraph,2 to Leopoldina, spent some time ­here and afterward left, never to return again. They left and ­were substituted by ­others. And Rio Cricket was ­there with doors open to them. One would leave and another would enter. On the field, one hardly noticed a difference; they seemed the same. Bangu could not count on any En­glishmen arriving from E ­ ngland; they ­were all spoken for with guaranteed spots on Paissandu or Rio Cricket. The En­glish colony of Bangu—­a long way out, isolated one might say—­was small. How many masters did the Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil have? For this reason, Bangu was never a closed club in the sense of Paissandu or Rio Cricket, at least in soccer. Indeed, in cricket, the En­glishmen refused any talk of mixture. Even a white Brazilian ­couldn’t make it on a cricket team. What is more, Brazilians ­were never much for cricket, a game good for an En­glishman. The players pad themselves, wearing something close to medieval armor, in order to wield their bat. In addition, the ball was made of wood, covered in leather; if it hit the leg of a player, it could break it. Nostalgic Beginnings  3

It would begin in the morning, at nine ­o’clock, and continue into the after­ noon, sometimes all the way till five o ­ ’clock; if it was winter, it would be getting dark. And it would stop e­ very half hour for the players and fans to drink whiskey. One break was longer than the o ­ thers, that for lunch. The bar would fill up; the En­glish would drink, eat sandwiches, laugh, and sing, beating a rhythm with their glasses. Before installing the field, according to a very En­glish precaution, they installed the bar. Once the bar had been built was when the En­glish of Bangu could think about the field. ­There was a garden at the factory, a wide lawn of En­glish grass, grass that would make Bangu’s field the greenest, the softest of carioca fields. The garden, the so-­called goal bars on one side and the other, would serve as the field so long as grass was not planted on the neighboring piece of land, separated from the factory by a wall, and where the trash was disposed of. The trash was manure and of the highest quality; the grass quickly consumed it and spread out, covering the field of Bangu in green. On cricket days, one could see only En­glishmen scattered across the field and in the bar. On soccer days, it was another story. The workers would hang around to see many whites, mulattoes, and blacks also with a desire to kick the ball. All that it took was for the ball to go out of bounds, as it did ­every so often, for the workers to run ­a fter it, like boys ­running ­after a São João balloon.3 ­Later the impression ceased to be this, of boys ­after a São João balloon, and became that of boys a­ fter an a­ ctual ball. Street urchins would show up at any field, in any street, where a game of soccer was being played. But in 1904, the year in which Bangu was born, it was more common to see boys ­running a­ fter a balloon, though only in June, than a­ fter a ball all year long. And the En­glish, in order to put together two teams, had to find ­people to fill in the holes, so much so that when Bangu made its soccer debut, playing a real match against Rio Cricket in Icaraí, ­there ­were already two Brazilians on the eleven, the word used by the more erudite columnists. But t­ hose Brazilians w ­ ere white. One was Luís Gaspar, center-­half, from right ­there, a weaver in the factory. The other, Augusto Alvarenga, left halfback, was imported from the city, an employee of the retail part of the business, having nothing to do with the factory. Bangu was two months old; it had improvised a team. That team, with Luís Gaspar and Augusto Alvarenga, would not be the final Bangu team. Bangu was still in formation—­its true team only arose a year ­later, with five Englishmen: Frederick Jacques, John Stark, William Hellowell, William Procter, and James Hartley; three Italians: César Bocchialini, Dante Delocco, 4  Chapter One

and Segundo Maffeo; two Portuguese: Francisco de Barros, or “Chico the Doorman,” a factory guard who was constantly rattling the woodwork, who only saw the ball and nothing ­else, and Justino Fortes, a ­g iant the size of William Hellowell; and one Brazilian, Francisco Carregal—­a Brazilian with 50 ­percent black blood. His ­father was white and Portuguese; his ­mother black and Brazilian. Francisco Carregal, maybe b ­ ecause he was Brazilian and mulatto—­the only Brazilian and the only mulatto on the team—­was a perfectionist in the way he dressed. He was the best dressed player on Bangu, a real dandy on the field. ­There is a photo­graph of this Bangu team, a photo truly worth saving in an ­a lbum. Frederick Jacques, master engraver, the goalkeeper, is in the back, standing between José Vilas-­Boas, director of sports, and João Ferrer, honorary president of Bangu. João Ferrer is all in white, his white clothes and white collar blending together with his white chest covering and white tie; he looked like a nurse. José Vilas-­Boas is in pale gray at the top, reserved. One looks at the photo­graph and sees only mustaches: droopy mustaches, like that of Frederick Jacques; rolled mustaches, like that of José Vilas-­Boas; twisted mustaches, like that of João Ferrer. Only three players did not wear mustaches: the doorman Justino Fortes; the En­glishman William Hellowell, with a very white face, without a wisp of peach fuzz, smooth and soft like the face of a boy; and the Brazilian Francisco Carregal. César Bocchialini’s mustache was quite Italian, a daring ­little mustache with fine tips pointing upward. That of Francisco de Barros, “Chico the Doorman,” was not daring at all. On the contrary, it was an austere mustache, weighted down with the responsibility of a ­father of a ­family with many ­children, while that of John Stark gave him, helped by his mild air, the face of a bird dog, good and friendly. And then ­there was the mustache of Dante Delocco, well trimmed, like that of Segundo Maffeo. That of William Procter was black, darkening his face; that of James Hartley was blond, almost white, making him look older. Also, James Hartley already had thinning hair. The Bangu shirt was not like it is ­today, knit and tight fitting, with broad stripes in red and white. It had very thin stripes, almost touching. And it had a neck more like a soft collar. At least like one of t­ hese collars t­oday, whose design comes from sport shirts. The fabric was a bit silky and brilliant, like muslin. Not all the shirts w ­ ere the same. Some had, right in the center, r­ unning from top to bottom, bars of the same cloth, with horizontal stripes. Wide bars, the thickness of a fist; skinny bars, the thickness of a fin­ger. The En­glish ­didn’t pay much attention to ­these details. They ­were less careful in their manner of dress than w ­ ere the Italians and Portuguese. Nostalgic Beginnings  5

And much less careful than Brazilian Francisco Carregal, perhaps due to the pride of being of a superior race. Francisco Carregal appears in the foreground in the photo, with his legs crossed, holding the ball. Written on the ball, in chalk, is the initials of the Bangu team and the date of the match photo­ graph: “05-5-14,” referring to May  14, 1905. The soccer cleats of Francisco Carregal look brand new, or at least polished that morning for the game. One’s attention is drawn to the difference between the plight of Francisco Carregal, concerned with not looking shabby, and the blasé air of William Procter, who ­didn’t give import to such ­things. Francisco Carregal, a ­simple weaver, had bought every­thing new: the soccer cleats, the short pants, the wool socks. The shirt was provided by the club. William Procter, the master electrician, had ordered some old shoes cleated, had cut up with scissors a pair of white pants that ­were no longer of use, and chose not to buy the wool socks, which cost 8,000 réis in the Casa Clark store. Instead, he put his feet in common socks, which went only halfway up his legs, and he allowed himself to be photographed with black gaiters. The black gaiters ­really hurt the eyes against the white legs of William Procter. It seemed that he ­hadn’t finished dressing, that he had come ­running out from inside to pose for the photo­graph, without pants, in underwear. Principally ­because he is between Francisco Carregal, finely kitted out, and James Hartley, who, beyond woolen socks, wore shin guards on his legs. Shin guards ­were a rare ­thing, which had to be imported from Eu­rope, like a true refinement. William Procter could be careless; Francisco Carregal could not. Among the En­glish, the Portuguese, and the Italians, he felt himself to be more mulatto while wishing to appear less, almost white. He passed perfectly. At least, he w ­ asn’t scandalizing anyone. If Manuel Maia, black goalkeeper, son of two black parents, was not pointed at, the mulatto center-­forward Francisco Carregal would not draw any attention. What harm did it do for a worker to play soccer? Would he stop being a worker for that reason? On Sunday he would kick the ball around, sweating his shirt through, while early Monday morning, when the factory opened, he would be ­there. He would go to the looms like the other workers; he would work, stopping only for lunch, ­until four ­o’clock. He ­didn’t even have time to remember the previous day’s match. And why remember it? Work was time for work, and the game, time for play. In the end, Bangu was, despite the “The,” a club of the workers of the Industrial Pro­gress of Brazil Com­pany. If not for the factory, how could the club provide a field? And the rest? The rest was every­thing. 6  Chapter One

The worker who played alongside the masters, white or black, did not rise up or go down; he just remained where he was. If he wished to rise, he had to work a lot, to learn a lot, to be promoted from weaver to master. Just as Francisco Carregal ended up being promoted, at the price of hard work rather than playing soccer. Soccer was a pastime. Like ­every pastime, it cost money, more or less—­less in Bangu than on Retiro de Guanabara Street, where Fluminense had made its field. For this reason, ­there was no danger that a Francisco Ca­ rregal, although a clean mulatto, or Manuel Maia, despite being a good, respectful black man, would join Fluminense. To join Fluminense, a player had to live the same life as an Oscar Cox, a Félix Frias, a Horácio da Costa Santos, a Waterman, a Francis Walter, an Etchegaray; all made men, heads of firms, high officials in big companies, sons of wealthy f­ athers, educated in Eu­rope, accustomed to spending money. It was a demanding life. Whoever lacked a good income, a good allowance, a good wage, would not be able to keep up. Just to give an idea: each player who went to São Paulo at the turn of the ­century to play a football match had to spend 130 mil réis on travel expenses. Oscar Cox, originator of the idea to create Fluminense, even tried to convince the Central Train Station. He went ­there and said he was representing a Brazilian sporting del­e­ga­tion, the first that would go from Rio to São Paulo, but got nothing; the Central Station did not discount even one real. A soccer player was a passenger like any other. Result: all the members of that nameless team ­were obliged to put their hands in their wallets. On the return, they settled accounts: 130 mil réis from each, real money, in that era of almost equal exchange with the pound. And in São Paulo, beyond the h ­ otel bill, no one paid anything. One would buy a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, and it was already paid for. A paulista, or sometimes an En­glishman or a German, had made a signal: paid for.4 Every­thing was paid for. That hospitality, however, was an exchange. The cariocas went to São Paulo, and the paulistas came to Rio. And the cariocas’ turn quickly arrived to do the same, following the paulistas around to pay their expenses. Once that period was over—­fortunately always quickly, two or three days at the most, other­wise ­there ­wouldn’t be enough money—­they would total every­thing up, calculate each share, and divide up the expenses. And ­a fter a game ­t here was always a cele­bration. Generally in the Café Cantante Guarda Velha restaurant, which was t­ here on Senador Dantas Street. The victors would fraternize with the losers. The idea would come from the victors, the defeated still stunned, not ready to think about anything, much less a cele­bration. Cele­bration of a defeat? It was unbecoming to refuse, and the losers had to show themselves as on par Nostalgic Beginnings  7

with the victors, eating like them, drinking like them, singing like them. And, principally, paying like them. When the time came to pay, ­there w ­ ere no winners or losers; every­one came together as bill payers. And the losers could even feel a vanity in their good sportsmanship, of having contributed to the greater brilliance of the victors’ party. And without covering their ­faces, without showing sadness or the pain of defeat, and without haggling over money. What the winners spent, the losers would spend. And ­these cele­brations ­were not cheap. They continued into the wee hours, and did p ­ eople drink! Therein lay the fun, in drinking a lot. The more they would drink, the more they would sing. Every­one standing, with a stein of draft beer in hand, singing and swaying their heads, following the rhythm, with a loud voice, the louder the better: “When more we drink together,” quickly; “more friends we be,” slowly, the words dragged out. It was that En­glish song to end parties, an end that never came, that the young men of Botafogo, almost boys beside the real Balzacian men of Fluminense, translated into Portuguese. “When more we drink together” ended up as “onde mora o Pinto Guedes” (where Pinto Guedes lives), while “for he is a jolly good fellow” became “a baliza é bola de ferro” (the post is an iron ball).”5 It worked fine. Also, every­one was a ­little bit more rather than less in the bag, not hearing very well with the half deafness of a good bender. The En­ glish ­didn’t even notice the exchange of words, or if they did, they remained for that reason. Not even the waiters coming and g­ oing, taking the empty glasses and bringing full ones, noticed a t­ hing. The impression given was that every­one was singing in En­glish. Only the En­glishmen and the Germans ­were singing thusly, glasses in hand. It was not cheap to commemorate a victory, for the winners or the losers. Many a young man disassembled, failed to show up, or even left the club. Their allowance had not arrived. And the players saved their money; they d ­ idn’t spend without reason. If they had some old white pants, they ­wouldn’t buy shorts. They would cut the pants at knee length or a l­ittle lower, and presto. Some old boots with cleats could serve as soccer shoes.6 Money was saved for other ­things, which would certainly arise. When Oscar Cox discovered a piece of land located on Guanabara Street with Rozo Street access, t­ here was no debate. Fluminense had thirty members, each one paying a monthly fee of 5 mil réis. The piece of land alone would eat up 100 mil réis of the total receipts of 150. If money was lacking, however, they would open up a subscription period. Subscriptions ­were never lacking—­for this, for that, a shack that needed to be built, the field that needed a fence, shirts and balls. 8  Chapter One

No balls ­were arriving, each one 25 mil réis. Fluminense, even when they had only a field without grass, of bare earth; a wire fence stretched between stakes of rough wood; a mud hut, ­there in the back, where the players changed their clothes; an improvised open-­air shower, did not need to concern itself with color, with the social condition of their players.

2. For someone to join Fluminense he had to be, without a shadow of a doubt, from a good f­ amily. If not, he would remain on the outside, like the street urchins of Retiro da Guanabara, celebrated redoubt of hustlers and troublemakers. The street kids would lean over the wire fence to watch the training sessions; if the ball went out they could run ­after it, give it a kick. But no delaying. If they delayed, they ­wouldn’t be allowed to carry the bags of the players, at the end of training, to the tram that ran down Laranjeiras Street. Some boys from nearby Alfredo Gomes High School would come over to kick the ball around on Fluminense’s field. ­These boys, indeed, could enter the field, raise some dust, and kick the heavy ball, which would barely move. ­There was only one incon­ve­nient fact: they w ­ ere boys; from the right families, good enough for Fluminense, but boys. They still needed to grow, despite their families, despite their whiteness. It was not only a question of just wanting legitimate white men. Nobody on Fluminense was thinking in terms of color, of race. If Joaquim Prado, winger-­left of Paulistano—­that is, a left winger—­from the black branch of the Prado ­family, ­were to transfer to Rio, he would be received with open arms by Fluminense. Joaquim Prado was black, but he was from an illustrious, rich ­family, which traveled in the best circles. He was a kind of carioca ambassador in São Paulo. If a tour of a club from Rio de Janeiro was announced ­there, Joaquim Prado, without anybody telling him anything, made the arrangements. He would not forget a detail, thinking of every­thing. The job of a club from Rio de Janeiro was to go, to show up, consigned to Joaquim Prado. Jumping off the train, the first sight of São Paulo was the good and friendly Joaquim Prado, arms extended for a hug. Beyond that, cars w ­ ere waiting and rooms reserved at the h ­ otel, as well as luncheons, dinners, and outings. For this reason, whoever went to São Paulo to play a soccer match would return enchanted with Joaquim Prado, without even noting that he was black. And if they took a look at him, it was to like him all the more. A true lord. He dressed well, admirably well. No loud colors, not even the contrast of black and white, so pleasing to men of color. Gray, black, and navy blue. In the Nostalgic Beginnings  9

eve­nings, always in black, in a tuxedo. He w ­ ouldn’t dine, w ­ ouldn’t attend a theater, in anything but a tuxedo. Even t­ hose who h ­ adn’t brought a tuxedo w ­ ere at ease in Joaquim Prado’s presence. He would do every­thing as if he ­were not ­doing anything at all. He had also been born into that environment; he lived in it. He was the Paulistano scene. ­Because he lived in São Paulo, Joaquim Prado played for Paulistano. If he’d lived in Rio, he would have played for Fluminense. Naturally he would choose Fluminense—­not just ­because it was a club of fine ­people, like him, but also b ­ ecause it was a club of made men, like himself; men of responsibility. Joaquim Prado would only fit well on Fluminense. The natu­ral tendency of t­ hings was for each player to seek out his own milieu, g­ oing to where his ­people ­were. And if his ­people had no club, the solution was to found another one. As in the case of Botafogo, which consisted of students of the same high school, divided into clubs, discovering affinities with Fluminense or with a club that did not yet exist. The difference came about when the school bell rang at four o ­ ’clock, the end of the day. The Antunes (Almir, Alair and Aciole), the Borgherts, Chico Loup, Gustavo de Carvalho, Eduardo Guerra, and Raul Maranhão would head up Laranjeiras Street, turning left at Guanabara Street, on the way to Fluminense. Flávio Ramos and the Sodrés, Emanuel and Mimi, could have done the same. They received invitations but did not go, like the ­others, to kick the ball around on Fluminense’s field. They attended a match at the Paissandu field, with the best ­will in the world to enjoy Fluminense’s soccer. They felt nothing when the team with the shirt of white and gray squares—­Fluminense was not yet the tricolor—­entered the field. The o ­ thers did indeed—­A lberto Borghert, Gustavo de Carvalho, Chico Loup—­they jumped, shouted, and never tired of clapping. They only ­stopped clapping to point out, with profound admiration, the Fluminense players. That one t­ here was Víctor Etchegaray. They knew by heart the names of all the players, even the complicated En­ glish ones. Buchan, Salmond, and Etchegaray ­were not En­glish but Brazilian, like Oscar Cox. Oscar Cox had brought a ball from Eu­rope, while h ­ ere nobody knew anything about soccer. He had been at some pains for four years to or­ga­nize a team, searching for En­glishmen who ­were obligated to know something about soccer, searching for Brazilians who had returned from Eu­rope, like he had. Cox had not studied in E ­ ngland; he had studied in Switzerland. It had been ­there, in Lausanne, at the High School of La Ville, where Cox had learned soccer. Many Brazilians had studied in Eu­rope; all one had to do 10  Chapter One

was bring together eleven Brazilians who had studied in Eu­rope, and one had a team. So Oscar Cox took four years, from 1897 to 1901, to form a team, five years to found a club. The club was Fluminense. It had been difficult to form a team and found a club, to transplant soccer from ­England to Brazil. But once the team was formed, the club founded, soccer began to catch on. Paissandu also had a soccer team. And t­ here was another in Niterói. For Alberto Borghert, Gustavo de Carvalho and Chico Loup, it was enough. Even if Fluminense w ­ ere the only team, it would also be enough. For them, soccer was Fluminense. For Flávio Ramos and Emanuel Sodré, Fluminense was one t­ hing, soccer another. They understood soccer soon enough, but they ­didn’t understand Fluminense. They returned home with their heads full of soccer. It was easy to play, to put foot to ball, to run ­after it. The ball was so big ­there was no way to go wrong. Every­thing was ­simple; when the ball went in, goal, new kickoff. Only the keeper could touch the ball with his hands. And Flávio Ramos and Emanuel Sodré saw themselves on a field, like that of Paissandu, r­ unning a­ fter the ball. Themselves along with o ­ thers. The o ­ thers, however, did not have mustaches; they w ­ ere young men like themselves, with smooth ­faces, a ­little peach fuzz showing, the lads of Botafogo, of the Largo dos Leões; they would buy a ball, and presto. But nothing ­doing with Fluminense, no ­going to the Guanabara Street field to kick the ball around. In the Largo dos Leões ­there was a field, a large plaza with three rows of palm trees. It would serve perfectly as a field. The palm trees d ­ idn’t get in the way—on the contrary. Where would they find goal posts better than the imperial palms of the Largo dos Leões? If the goal ended up a ­little big, t­ hey’d arrange a paving stone. Botafogo was born t­ here, in the Largo dos Leões, in the field of palm trees. In the after­noon, ­after classes, before sunset, they would get together for an evens against odds game, the lads of Botafogo. Some boys—­like Flávio Ramos, Emanuel Sodré, and Lauro Sodré—­studied at the Alfredo Gomes High School. O ­ thers, like Álvaro Werneck, Mário Figueiredo, and Basílio Viana, studied at Abílio. Otávio Werneck, Arthur César de Andrade, Vicente Licínio Cardoso, and Jacques Raimundo w ­ ere of the National Gymnasium, Pedro II. P ­ eople from the same high school would separate, while ­those from dif­fer­ent high schools would come together, the neighborhood uniting, dividing, creating borders. Alberto Borghert, Gustavo de Carvalho, and Chico Loup would remain in Laranjeiras, even though ­there was no spot for them on Fluminense—­not yet, Nostalgic Beginnings  11

at least. They would found a club to wait for the day when they could join Fluminense as men. The desire to be a man, so strong in e­ very ­little boy, brought them closer to Fluminense. The desire to be a man was no less strong in Flávio Ramos and Emanuel Sodré, younger than twenty. But they would become men on Botafogo, their club. It was a neighborhood rivalry taking the form of a club, a banner, a shield: the shield of Fluminense and the shield of Botafogo, made by a mulatto, Basílio Viana. But a mulatto full of surprises. With his tight clothing, a costume vest puffing up his chest, and pointy shoes with Cuban heels, Basílio Viana spoke French and bragged about having been at Mackenzie College. Mackenzie College was in São Paulo, but Basílio Viana had never left Rio. At least that’s what they said. Álvaro Werneck recalled having always seen him at Abílio High School. When Werneck matriculated at Abílio, Basílio Viana was already ­there. Basílio himself, Mackenzie College this, Mackenzie College that. And then, once one began talking about soccer, the name Mackenzie College would no longer grace the lips of Basílio Viana. Mackenzie College was for him, in his boyhood, what Paris would be ­later. He would go to Paris not just once or twice; when he returned, it seemed he had never been anywhere ­else. And he brought proof: suitcases patched up with h ­ otel labels, French names, Paris, Paris, Paris; photo­graphs of starlets of the Folies Bergère, of the Moulin Rouge, of the Casino de Paris, dedications in ink still fresh to mon cher Basílio Viana, from beautiful white ­women, legitimate blondes. Mackenzie College did not have a label to put on his suitcases, or starlets to write affectionate dedications. It mattered ­little, however, ­whether Basílio Viana had been at Mackenzie College. He was in the circle, in the group; he was one of them. He also ran a lot. He had a club, Electro, for foot races, a club that ended up leaving b ­ ehind, as its only souvenir, a book of receipts. To make use of the book of receipts, Botafogo called itself Electro for a month. Maybe Basílio Viana, the runner, could be a winger [extrema]. The word extrema did not yet exist in soccer; the one that was used instead was “winger,” ­either right or left. When Botafogo competed for the first time in a match—or, if you prefer, a challenge—­there in the field of the Cycling Club, a close-­cut lawn surrounded by clapboard and wire fencing but with goal posts, every­thing set up just right, Basílio Viana was one of the players in the white knitted shirt of Botafogo; that of the Football Athletic Association was made of red cloth. 12  Chapter One

Basílio Viana did not stand out amidst the players of Botafogo and the Football Athletic Association. ­Others had made use of old pants as soccer shorts, or shorts that ­were close enough, or long pants cut at the knee. Basílio Viana’s shorts ­were as good as t­ hose of Norman Hime, who wore the shorts from his ­England days, true soccer shorts. Every­thing he wore was En­glish: the shorts, the cleats, the thick wool socks—­really every­thing except the shirt bought at Casa Clark. The Baron of Werneck, who watched the challenge u ­ nder an open umbrella, very serious, very grave, without clapping, was impressed with the elegance of Norman Hime and Basílio Viana. That was how the players should enter the field. Basílio Viana, however, did not last long on the team; a better winger appeared, and he was out. The shield of Botafogo, however, made by him, was in a frame, affixed to the wall like a painting, in full view of anyone who entered the club headquarters, the servants’ quarters of a ­house in ruins. Basílio Viana could not have a greater proof of re­spect. But even so, he removed his Botafogo shirt, then black and white, and put on the black shirt of América and played against his club, against his shield. ­There was just one goal in that game, scored by América. T ­ here was confusion when they saw that the ball was at the back of the net of Botafogo. Basílio Viana made a point of assuming paternity of the goal, in order to be able to make a graceful exit from soccer. Basílio Viana was not like Pereira, a forty-­year-­old Portuguese with no illusions of youth, who just wanted to play. Even Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão, a young buck like Basílio Viana and full of illusions, would also jump from club to club. Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão played wherever t­ here was a place on a team for a fullback in order to do his signature kicks, which ­rose high in the air like São João balloons. The ball would get tiny, every­one straining their necks to see it. A success. No one, however, liked this kick—­which would l­ ater take his name—­more than did Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão. To do a kick “à Maranhão,” he was willing to go to the ends of the earth. If he found out about the existence of a new club, he would show up t­ here and do his ­little tryout. He would roll up the hem of his pants, exposing his elastic boots, which would often fly a­ fter the ball. Then Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão would take off his shoes. Barefoot, he would kick even better, and the ball would go higher. ­Because of that kick, Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão did not have a steady club. It might be Bangu, with its En­g lishmen and the black Manuel Maia Nostalgic Beginnings  13

­ ehind him in the goal. Tall, blond Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão would b be mistaken for an En­g lishman of Bangu. He fit well at anyone’s side: En­ glishmen of Bangu; Brazilians of Riachuelo and Mangueira; whites, mulattoes, and blacks all mixed together. It was as if Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão had a need to change clubs and shirts in order to do advertising for his kick. João Pereira, aka “P’reira,” wanted to play on the right wing. As long as he was playing on the right wing, kicking his corners, he ­wouldn’t think of leaving. He was willing to stay his w ­ hole life on the same team, wearing the same jersey; he would do every­thing to stay. He would even like it if his club was having difficulties, relying on him. Pereira would not make them beg. He would reach into his pockets—­his money was the team’s money. Pereira’s generosity became famous. When he came on the field, the few fans, spread out along the fence, would shout “aí P’reira!” Pereira would puff out his chest, smooth his mustache, and try to excel even more at his corners. Poor Pereira! The money would allow the club to improve a bit, and pretty soon they would remove him from the right wing. He ­didn’t complain; if they ­didn’t want him anymore, he would leave. And he would go in search of another team where ­there was, on the right wing, a place for him. In the beginning it was easy; the Football Athletic Association would drop Pereira, and Riachuelo would start him on its team, naturally on the right wing. If up till then he had been generous, Pereira now became lavish. But it was no use, quite the contrary: with Pereira’s money the club would grow, and they would think they d ­ idn’t need him anymore. It became less and less easy for Pereira, even difficult. Plus, he had gone through all the clubs. The answer was to have his own club, just for him. So Pereira founded clubs, not to be the president but to be the right winger. If Pereira was playing (“P’reira!”), every­body knew it: the club was Pereira’s. He would buy the ball, outfit the players, and pay for transport, and the bar expenses would be on his tab. The smaller the club, the more black players would be on the team, which for Pereira was better. He had become disillusioned with whites. As far as whites went, he recruited only poor ones without money for a ball or a pair of cleats, grateful like the black players, grateful like he was when he played on the right wing and could kick, while resting, his corners. On further consideration, this was a good ­thing. It allowed him to better see what differences ­there ­were, not between blacks and whites but between clubs—­clubs of neighborhoods, of suburbs, of the Southern Zone and the Northern Zone.7 Large and small, each one remaining in its place, preserving its distance without even attempting to grow closer. Sometimes one would 14  Chapter One

be right next to the other, like Fluminense and Guanabara—­Guanabara of the hill, of the favela; Fluminense of the chic neighborhood. ­Those who lived in tin shacks would go to Guanabara, while ­t hose who lived in mansions would go to Fluminense. The p ­ eople of the hill could, at most, root for Fluminense, fight for it from the outside like Chico Guanabara, a tough with a cropped brim hat sitting high on his head, a kerchief at his throat, a switchblade in his ­belt, clogs falling off his feet. Nobody dared speak ill of Fluminense in his presence, as Chico would soon have his fists up, do leg sweeps, and draw his switchblade. He was a Fluminense henchman. As a fan, as a henchman, he would do. What is more, Chico Guanabara had no intention of being anything ­else for Fluminense. It never crossed his mind to wear the tricolor jersey. The tricolor jersey suited Edwin Cox, fine, elegant, playing in a beret. The jersey that suited Chico Guanabara was that of the club from the hill. Even as a fan he knew his place: among the general admission, viewing from afar the grandstand, full of young w ­ omen—­a bouquet of flowers, according to the comparison of a worldly columnist. It followed the good social order of g­ reat f­amily h ­ ouses, with every­one in their places, including the poor relatives. General admission on one side, grandstand on the other, the players ­running in the ­middle of the field—­running more for t­ hose in the grandstand than for ­those in general admission. Just as at a l­ittle party, a shindig, with ­couples dancing. P ­ eople in the hall itself, watching; ­people outside the hall, peeking in; ­people outside the ­house, in the street, the hangers on, spying. General admission w ­ ere not the hangers on; they ­were the kitchen, the larder, the backyard, more on the inside, almost outside. The hangers on w ­ ere the hill, which was covered with curious folks lacking the ten tostões for general admission and who saw only pieces of the game: half the field, one goal down ­there in the background, the players tiny. It’s true that ­there ­were fans entering as general admission who would try to get onto the grandstand. T ­ hese fans ­were almost always poor students. They had to pre­sent, however, a special pass, a blue, green or pink card. Once the first half was over, every­body would head to the bar. T ­ hose departing the grandstand would receive that card to distinguish themselves from t­ hose leaving general admission, who ­wouldn’t receive any card at all. But that which distinguished the grandstand man from the general admission man was not the card. The doorman would look and could tell right away, especially if the grandstand man had a ribbon with the colors of the club encircling his straw hat. Only the members, the VIP fans, the ­people from the inside, could afford to encircle their straw hats with t­ hose white and black, Nostalgic Beginnings  15

or red, white, and green ribbons. The ribbons came from Eu­rope; it was necessary to send away for them. Many fans awaited them anxiously. Before they arrived, they felt almost humiliated before the o ­ thers, who already had their ribbons, who could already show them off, proudly, wrapped around their straw hats. So ­there ­were always plenty of signs. To fix social injustice. Whoever belonged to general admission would remain in general admission; whoever belonged in the grandstand would stay ­there. Every­body was satisfied; ­there ­were no shocks. At least that was the illusion, although the story of “win but d ­ on’t take” had already begun in Bangu. Bangu would open its doors to every­one, the grandstand and general admission ­people mixing together. And even if they ­didn’t mix, when the game was over, the distance that separated ­those who had paid two thousand réis from ­those who had paid ten pennies would dis­ appear entirely. The crowd would invade the field, spread itself throughout the grandstand, encircle the shed where the players changed clothes, and take over the train station, with the trains s­ topped, waiting for the city’s fans, all of them in shirt collars and ties, wearing straw hats with ­little ribbons, white and black, or red, white, and green.8 When Bangu won, t­ here was no prob­lem; the train could return without broken win­dows. When Bangu lost, however, it was another ­matter. The players from the city would lock themselves in the shed and would not want to leave without a police escort; the fans would run to hide themselves on the train, flat on the long wooden benches, while the rocks would come flying, breaking win­dows and heads. The police would come, and the players would leave the shed, well guarded, with the directors of Bangu in tow, being very friendly and making apologies. In a tumult like this, it was natu­ral that nobody would remember the cup being offered to the victor. Thus, the expression that caught on was “win but d ­ on’t take.” The club from the city might win the game; the cup, however, would remain in Bangu. At its base, it was a class war, but without anyone seeing it as such. Every­ one took it more as a rivalry between a suburban club and a club from the city—­a rivalry that was emphasized from just one side: the side of the suburban club. The suburban club was distancing itself, moving farther and farther apart, even wishing to separate itself. Why separate? B ­ ecause it felt itself to be a dif­fer­ent club, with dif­fer­ent p ­ eople. And Bangu had its En­g lishmen, whiter than the Brazilians of Botafogo. And while it had its En­glishmen, it also had its factory workers, its poor whites, its mulattoes, its blacks. What distinguished Bangu from Botafogo, from 16  Chapter One

Fluminense, was the factory worker. Bangu, a factory club, put workers on the team on an equal footing with the En­glish masters. Botafogo and Fluminense, not even as a joke; only elite folks. It was the first distinction that was made between ­great and small clubs—­one, the club of the bigwigs; the other, the club of the l­ ittle guys. Bangu felt this before any other club, and it did not easily accept it. It had its revolts, invading the field a­ fter the match, throwing stones at the train, keeping the cup. It also began wanting to play with only other small clubs, clubs of factory workers, of the suburbs. A trophy, the João Ferrer Cup, ended up being instituted for ­these games. Suburban clubs thus began to be founded, including Esperança, Brasil, and mini-­Bangus, also helped by a factory. Alongside them, Bangu was big. It seemed like Fluminense, with its En­glishmen and sons of En­glishmen, but not entirely, as t­ here ­were one or two factory workers amidst the masters, a mulatto player, and a black player. Bangu distanced itself, only to return ­later. It was also courted primarily by Fluminense. Fluminense ­d idn’t go up ­t here without bringing a corbeil. When the corbeil appeared, almost always of red and white flowers, it would receive applause from the general admission and the grandstand. The corbeil would make the Bangu fans forget that Fluminense was a club from the city. Fluminense could even win the game and take the cup. Botafogo ­wouldn’t bring a corbeil, and it ­didn’t go well for them. Once, ­after a Botafogo victory up ­t here, Manuel Motorneiro—­a lso known as Manuel “Juca Rocha,” ­because he worked for Juca Rocha—­had to draw a revolver and keep it drawn, guarding the shed. The Botafogo players ­were in ­there, changing their clothes, unaware that the shed was surrounded by Bangu fans with sticks in their hands, with rocks—­the picture of “win but d ­ on’t take.” Manuel Motorneiro was the Chico Guanabara of Botafogo. Like Chico Guanabara, he was white but poor white, with the right only to root for, to fight for, his club. As long as the police ­didn’t come, and the police always took a while to show up, he remained, without budging an inch, pointing his revolver at the crowd. If anyone took a step forward, t­ hey’d be dead. Manuel Motorneiro would r­ eally shoot. He had brought the revolver for this, to shoot it, if needed. Botafogo would win—­Manuel Motorneiro had no doubt about it—­and if Botafogo won, ­there would be trou­ble. The police arrived, and the door of the shed was opened. Afraid, some quite pallid, white as paper, the players of Botafogo came out, guarded by the police and by Manuel Motorneiro, still with his revolver in hand, and went to the train. Arriving at the train, they tried to lie down among the wooden benches, curling up and covering their heads with their hands, ­because ­there Nostalgic Beginnings  17

was no Manuel Motorneiro or police officer who could deliver them from the rocks. The signal for the departure of the train was, infallibly, the first rock, the first broken win­dow. Proof that soccer was becoming popu­lar, an entrance fee was charged, and every­one could go see the match—or attend the “meeting,” to use the language of the papers. It was a question of ten pennies for general admission, of two thousand réis for the grandstand. Initially, t­ here ­were more p ­ eople in the grandstand. General admission was almost empty, a fan h ­ ere, a fan t­ here, united by the distance that separated them from the grandstand, covered by flowers. Also, the ads that w ­ ere put out ­were for the grandstand. The society columns would note, “Our ­grand monde was pre­sent,” and then list the names of the young misses, all ornaments of society. In the streets would be a man in an enormous cardboard ball costume, with his legs and head sticking out. On the ball, in large letters, would be the announcement of the game: “­Today, on the grounds of Fluminense, a g­ reat soccer match, Fluminense and Botafogo. Every­one, ­today, to the grounds of Fluminense!” The man stuck in the cardboard ball did not climb the hill, did not go to the villas, with their l­ ittle ­houses close together, to the streets of h ­ ouses with doors and win­dows, to cul-­ de-­sacs. He would go to the Largo do Machado instead, choosing the best time—­that is, the time of the chic mass at the Matriz da Glória church. When the mass ended, ­there would be two lines of young men on the stairs, from top to bottom, awaiting the young w ­ omen. The young ­women would come wearing hats and light dresses, the skirts covering the ankle, leaving uncovered only the shoes, their umbrellas open. And ­there would be the man in the big cardboard ball, his im­mense stomach announcing the upcoming match. It was ­today: Fluminense vs. Botafogo. The young men made discrete signals; the w ­ omen made even more discrete signals. Every­thing was arranged. In the after­noon ­there would be a game, and the c­ ouples would meet in the grandstand of Fluminense. ­These ­were the ­people that Botafogo and Fluminense wanted.

3. Soccer would prolong that delicious moment a­ fter mass, and the young ­women ­were all the more beautiful. They had gone home, delaying in front of the mirror, adjusting their hair to be combed upwards, with a swirl. On the grandstand, seated, opening and closing their fans—­serious, smiling, quiet, nervous—­they seemed as if on display. The young men d ­ idn’t dare to come too close, staying on the track, near the fence, with their backs to the field, before the start of the game. Or, instead, walking from one side to the other, glancing surreptitiously, spying. 18  Chapter One

In any case, the young ­women ­were being seen much more, and much better, than when mass let out—­the mass at nine in the São João Batista da Lagoa Church, the church of the young ­women of Botafogo; the mass at ten at the Matriz da Glória, the church of the young ­women of Fluminense. Even the players, when they came on the field, ran immediately to the place most full of hats—­hats that w ­ ere enormous and heavy but seemed light, as they ­were covered with flowers, fruits, and feathers, the famous pleureuses.9 ­Those flowers, fruits, and feathers are what gave the grandstand the air of a garden, a bouquet, full of lively, joyful colors. The players would stop in front of this painting in spring, in autumn, and raise their arms, shouting, “Hip, hip, hurrah!” This cheer was just for the young w ­ omen, the p ­ eople of the grandstand. The players did not repeat this in front of the general admission seats, where the fans without ties or collars w ­ ere. They broke up to initiate a kick-­around, since the ball attracted them; like the young ­women, they could not remain quiet. The referee—­very elegant, with a black tie and flannel pants, the whistle hung around his neck on a fine cord, like a medal—­would shortly blow the signal to start. The sound of the whistle would be lost amid the cries of the young ­women. It merely seemed as if a young lady had shouted more loudly. Almost always, the players would bring to the field a souvenir from a young ­woman in the grandstand. If one saw a player wearing a cap, one would know, or at least suspect. For this reason, the players made a fuss about adorning themselves—­w ith a tricolor cap, with a satin sash. A player without a cap or a sash was a player without a girlfriend—or without a s­ ister, as the s­ isters ­didn’t want their b ­ rothers to look bad, so they sometimes substituted for the girlfriend. Biting their clenched handkerchiefs, crying out, and stomping their feet, the young ­women cheered for their ­brothers, their cousins, their boyfriends. The fence that separated the field from the grandstand could have dis­ appeared and would not have been missed. During halftime, the field and the grandstand would become one. Players and fans would be in the bar as well as the grandstand. The players liked to appear in the grandstand, sweaty and tired, to greet the young w ­ omen. They d ­ idn’t stay long, coming and g­ oing quickly, their cleats scraping on the cement. This would cause the young ladies to get more ner­vous; for this reason, they ­couldn’t stop opening and closing their fans—­beautiful fans, some large, of embroidered cloth; ­others small, of mother-­of-­pearl. And the ­fathers and ­mothers nearby ­were finding all this very right, very correct. The sons on the field, the ­daughters in the grandstand; parents, ­children, the w ­ hole f­amily. One could also say, all the families. What went on t­ here—on the field and in the grandstand—­was the same ­thing that went Nostalgic Beginnings  19

on at the dances of the Laranjeiras Club (more for Fluminense and Paissandu) and at ­house parties at the homes of the Baron of Werneck, Dona Chiquitota, and the Himes (more for Botafogo). Whoever was from Botafogo, however, would also be invited to the dances at the Laranjeiras Club. Soccer, the rivalry of the neighborhood, the flag, the shield, separated Fluminense from Botafogo, whereas dance united them—­ principally the Laranjeiras Club dance, with its enormous hall, all lit up, the orchestra playing waltzes and polkas. Botafogo d ­ idn’t have a headquarters or a hall, which explains the more intimate h ­ ouse parties, hosted by one of the players—­Otávio or Álvaro Werneck, when the party was in the ­great ­house on the corner of São Clemente and 19th of February Streets, the Baron Werneck’s mansion; Flávio Ramos or Norman Hime, when the party was in the Largo dos Leões, the win­dows open to the ave­nue of royal palms, ­either at the home of Dona Chiquitota or at the Himes’ ­house. Very rarely was it in the Himes’ ­house, as old Edwin Hime enjoyed the serenity of a quiet h ­ ouse, its win­dows closed, a life turned inwards. Even so, he made an exception once in a while to please his sons, players for Botafogo. Since the ­others hosted parties, they also had to host one. They did so about once a year, sometimes once e­ very other year. It was not b ­ ecause they considered themselves above the o ­ thers. Hilda and Lia Hime had even sewn with patience and care Botafogo’s banner, made entirely of silk. Basílio Viana had made the design on a large scale, the size that would fit on the banner, and the Himes spent many a morning and after­noon on it. The more complicated shield, with its fine, twisting letters, took more time, ­because it had to be embroidered. It became a job that only feminine hands could do when they are guided by love. The Himes loved Botafogo, with the kind of fan love that reaches the point of a religious vow. How many times did they relate that they had made a sacred promise in exchange for a Botafogo victory? They would make the promise at the nine ­o’clock mass on a match day, a mass they never missed, rain or shine, at the São João Batista da Lagoa Church. On that day, the players—­among them Norman and Gilberto Hime—­had to run more on the field, to work up more of a sweat, so that Hilda, Míriam, and Lia Hime could fulfill their vows. The banner sewn by the Himes, and the promises they made and fulfilled religiously, made up for the annual or biennial parties, once in life and again in death. Dona Chiquitota’s ­house was the one that opened itself up most to parties— or soirées, as they w ­ ere called. It was enough for Botafogo to get a win. The Himes would pay their promises, light candles, and decorate their images of 20  Chapter One

saints, and Dona Chiquitota would throw a party. In the after­noon would be the victory of Botafogo; in the eve­ning of that same day, a party at Dona Chiquitota’s place. It would be a party among f­ amily. Dona Chiquitota had a piano in the visiting room, so they just had to move the furniture, leaving the piano where it was, and line up the Austrian chairs with round, stuffed seats along the wall, for the ­mothers and for the grand­mothers, like Dona Chiquitota herself. Scattered around the floor of the soirée, waxed already in anticipation of the victory, would be cinnamon leaves, which when stepped on—­smashed up by the feet of the c­ ouples—­would spill a lovely scent throughout the h ­ ouse. And they would send for Isaac, who knew how to play slow waltzes and bouncy polkas. If not Isaac, it would be Aurélio, a pianist who played exclusively for parties in f­amily homes. They each charged fifty mil réis to play for the w ­ hole night; the pianist was paid by whoever was hosting the party. ­There was also Dona Serafina, a ­widow who played piano very well. Dona Serafina played more often in the Baron of Werneck’s home; Isaac, in Dona Chiquitota’s. Both of t­ hese homes had a small hall where the c­ ouples who ­weren’t dancing could stand close together and lean on the windowsill, to breathe in the so-­called fresh night air and to see the gathering outside. The Baron of Werneck’s h ­ ouse was a mansion with a large dance hall, so no ­matter how many ­people ­were dancing ­there was always more room. The ­couples, more distant from one another, felt less at home than at Dona Chiquitota’s h ­ ouse, more like visitors. Every­thing was specific to a par­tic­u­lar ­house, a par­tic­u­lar ­family, but whoever went to one party would go to the other. Despite all this, t­ hose who ­were on the rowing team looked down on ­those involved in soccer, judging themselves to be superior, finer. Soccer did not awaken the enthusiasm that rowing did. On a regatta day on the Botafogo shoreline, which always took place in the after­noon, at the same time soccer was played, ­there would be no game. No club, not Fluminense or Botafogo, would dare to schedule a game on the same day as a regatta. Although the fans without collar and tie might go, it was almost certain that the grandstand would be empty—at least of young ­women. The seawall of Botafogo Beach would be full, every­thing decorated, on land and on sea; the boats from Cantareira, rented by the clubs, would be almost sinking from the weight of so many p ­ eople. And t­ here would be a parade on Beira-­Mar Ave­nue—of victorias, landaulets, double phaetons, cabriolets, and tilburies. Only horse-­drawn carriages ­were included, the ­horses spooked by the fireworks. The rockets would rise up, whistling far above the stationary boats, floating in the m ­ iddle of the shoreline. Nostalgic Beginnings  21

And the young w ­ omen would stand up for a moment, holding their enormous hats festooned with flowers, fruits, and feathers, to look. They would see the boats and banners everywhere, a ­human anthill, up and down the shore. They thought they could hear the ­music, each boat having its own band, an improvised dance floor. Many young ladies ­were on the boats, tugboats, and launches. It looked like a Venetian festival. The clubs would all be trying their utmost, each one seeking to be the most beautiful. The one that was holding the regatta, then, would cover e­ very post and tree with banners, from the Guanabara Rowing Club’s shed to Vitória Hill. One regatta had to have more rockets than the next; more boats, more tugboats, and more launches; and more carriages in the parade. Soccer d ­ idn’t have any of this. Plus, the scene of the regatta was also dif­ fer­ent: the bay; Sugarloaf Mountain; the white, sandy beach; Beira-­Mar Ave­ nue full of trees, like a forest. And the yoles seemed to fly on the sky-­blue sea, carried by the wings of oars, moving up and down, and the rowers with their muscles gleaming in the sun. Upon seeing ­t hose muscles, ­t hose athletic bodies, poet Olavo Bilac was transported to Greece. He was so inspired he could not contain himself. Muscles like that had won the ­battle of Salamis.10 Yet presented with a soccer player in cleats, with socks of thick wool and shorts reaching to the knee, with long-­sleeved shirts and almost every­thing covered, the poet of “Milky Way” would turn cold. The newspapers covered rowing more than soccer. They would dedicate an entire page to rowing on a regatta day. On that day, t­ here would be no place for the soccer news, always scarcer and condensed in one column, with no headlines, editorials, or photo­graphs. When photog­raphers for Revista da Semana or Careta went to a soccer field, it was to snap a picture of a group of young ­women. Of the team, it was only to order, like a graduation photo­graph. Edwin Hime is the one who took the trou­ble to photo­graph the team, taking a camera to the field. The players arranged themselves, very serious, without moving. In t­ hose days it was a lot of work to take a photo­graph, Hime hidden ­behind a black cloth, adjusting the machine. It required a lot of love for Botafogo, for soccer, and for the photographic art. It had become rather shocking, this absence of photo­graphs of soccer matches, especially when one saw how many Rio de Janeiro newspaper and magazine photog­raphers showed up at any l­ittle regatta. On the following day the newspapers would come out decorated with photos of the winning teams, of aspects of the Botafogo shoreline, and of the banner-­covered boats, many with Sugarloaf Mountain in the background, a true postcard shot. 22  Chapter One

How could soccer compete with rowing? The rowing teams ­didn’t need to worry about soccer games. It was the soccer clubs, indeed, that needed to concern themselves with the regattas, particularly with trying to find out, in advance, the dates of the regattas, in order to ­free up that time for the teams and their fans. One could schedule a regatta on the day of a soccer game, but never a soccer game on the day of a regatta. Whoever was involved in rowing thus had their reasons for looking down from on high upon ­those involved in soccer, especially ­because they considered rowing more masculine. The expression “soccer is a man’s game” had not yet been born. The man’s game at the time was rowing. It sufficed to take a look at a rower dressed, in the street. In this environment, he stood out even more. Every­one e­ lse looked out of shape, while he was bursting with strength: large shoulders, slim waist, his coat barely able to close around his broad chest. One could see right away he was a rower. The soccer player would pass by almost unnoticed, a young man like any other, w ­ hether he was from Fluminense, from Botafogo do Paissandu, from a good ­family, like a rower from Flamengo, Guanabara, or Botafogo. Even when spending more time at parties, more among young ladies—­they w ­ ere still less manly. The rowers lived the life of student republics.11 Young w ­ omen would not go anywhere near a garage, as a nearly nude rower might appear at any moment, long haired, like a faun. He might be from a good ­family, but he ­didn’t look it. He just enjoyed crude jokes. Strength was celebrated above weakness. For this reason, the rowing clubs barely hosted any parties. Theirs was a club for men only. The soccer club was more social, more for families. But this did not stop the young ­women from liking the regattas a lot. They would go crazy when the starting pistol was fired. They could hardly hold their binoculars—­t heir binoculars for the Lírico Theater, for the opera—­ because they ­were so ner­vous. The young w ­ omen’s attraction to regattas, stronger than that for soccer matches, was perhaps one of the reasons why so many players pulled the oar. They wanted to have their muscles jumping at the slightest contraction; to have large backs and broad chests, stretching their jackets at the front, and slim waists, like the rowers; to be able to go to a shirt vendor and order a size 44 collar. Soccer rowing clubs began to appear. The four-­man yole of Botafogo was made up entirely of soccer players: Lulu Rocha, Flávio Ramos, Álvaro Werneck, and Mário Pereira da Cunha. They ­were undefeated for over a year, winning the South American trial for ju­niors and the Botanical Garden trial for se­niors, breaking a rec­ord: 7'45". Nostalgic Beginnings  23

In one regatta, Lulu Rocha, Botafogo’s center-­half, won three races: canoe, two-­man yole, and four-­man yole. In Botafogo, this was seen as a victory for soccer. While it is true that many rowers also appeared on the soccer field—to take their shots and to kick the shins of ­others—­they did so jokingly, as a lark. Soccer players who de­cided to row had to have taken the ­thing seriously; other­ wise, they would never have gone out in a boat. It was with distrust that a rower would watch a soccer player enter a garage. For the rower, soccer had the delicacy of a ballet: players r­ unning a­ fter a ball, lifting their feet, making l­ ittle leaps. The blows, two feet shooting the ball at once, the long strides that would propel a player far, the kicks, the kneeing, the celebrated “penny” (a knee in the back)—­none of t­ hese made them change their minds. Not even the f­ aces of the players when the game ended, more dead than alive, having played their hearts out. It was b ­ ecause they ran too much, jumped too much. To the rower, ­running and jumping seemed liked childish activities. That was the reason ­children liked soccer so much. The streets would turn into soccer fields. In the fancy neighborhoods, the ball was made of kidskin, a colorful bud, while in the streets of the poor neighborhoods, the ball was made of stockings. The c­ hildren would work old stockings of a married s­ ister or m ­ other, and paper bunched up and tied with string, ­until they took the shape of a ball. Certain boys—­principally the street urchins, the black boys, the sons of cooks—­k new how to make balls out of stockings that ­were nice and round and could bounce. You could do what­ever you wanted with t­ hose balls, even break win­dows. They ­were better than the kidskin balls of the boys from the wealthy families, which w ­ ere very light, like balloons of tissue paper, g­ oing up with any ­little kick. The stocking balls would stay on the ground more, almost attached to the foot, perfecting in street urchins what one would ­later call ball control—­ referring to the “sphere of leather” discussed by certain columnists who did not want to write, in print, that utterly common word: “ball.” This also made t­ hose who ­were rowers look down on the soccer players. Soccer was becoming vulgarized, spreading like the plague. Any street urchin, any black kid, could play soccer: in the m ­ iddle of streets; in empty lots, where ­people would throw trash; in the grass. It sufficed to supply a ball made of stockings, rubber, or leather and to manufacture a goal out of two high school bags, two well-­folded coats, two street tiles, or two pieces of wood. On ­every corner t­ here was a club: of boys, of street urchins, of workers, of fine p ­ eople. In rowing, the danger of too many clubs did not exist. T ­ here ­were 24  Chapter One

half a dozen clubs: the clubs of Botafogo and Flamengo; the clubs of Santa Luzia; the clubs from the other side of the bay, from Gragoatá Beach and Icaraí Beach. And nothing more. The popularity of rowing, greater than that of soccer, did not affect the sport. It remained pure, intact—­especially b ­ ecause the enthusiasm that it awoke was dif­fer­ent, preserving the appropriate re­spect of the common man for the rower. When the regatta was over, the fans would not go home wishing to join a rowing club. Rowing was for the privileged ones, for the superior beings; not for just anybody, like soccer. Even during a soccer match, the fans would be taking their shots. A player would shoot, ­there on the field, and the fan, out t­ here, would also shoot. And when he ­wasn’t shooting, he would move with self-­control, intimately imitating what the player was ­doing, thinking he was capable of ­doing the same. When the game was over, ­there was no orange peel, no piece of wood, no pebble in the street, that w ­ ouldn’t receive a kick. This was the popularity of soccer, the vocation of all for it—­a vocation that revealed itself at first sight, like love. Sometimes it revealed itself too late, the fan already getting old, a ­father or grand­father contenting himself only with rooting for his sons, his grand­sons, a sign that, if he w ­ ere a young man, he, too, would contribute to the story. The old ones had to be satisfied with just watching, with playing vicariously, with nostalgia for the old days. The young men, however, full of life, could not content themselves with just watching. They had to play, joining a club, founding another, in what­ever way: on a real field, in a friendly game, in a schoolyard, in the ­middle of the street, the street urchins mixing together with the boys of respected families. How would that all end? It is enough to look at Bangu, where the En­ glishmen ­were forced out, bit by bit. T ­ here ­were more workers on the team, less masters; blacks replaced whites. Was this not the destiny of soccer? Soccer was becoming too Brazilian. Not Brazilian like rowing. Rowing was Brazilian in its own way. Brazilian, but white. Fluminense and Botafogo did not see any danger in this vulgarization of soccer. The grandstand would remain on one side, the general admission on the other. Every­thing was separate. It was not enough to know how to play soccer to join clubs like Fluminense and Botafogo; it was necessary to be from a good f­ amily. The young boys who played soccer in the streets, in empty lots, did not dream of wearing the shirts of Fluminense or Botafogo. Every­one knew where they had to go: the street urchins to the small clubs, the boys of good families Nostalgic Beginnings  25

to the big clubs. For this reason, ­there was Rio Soccer Club, an offshoot of Fluminense, and Carioca Soccer Club, an offshoot of Botafogo. Every­one knew where they had to go, and they did not take the wrong path. Rio’s shirt was tricolored: white, purple, and black. The shirt was white, with a black, purple, and white shield, topped with a sash and a cap. Carioca’s shirt was white, the shield a blue star. Carioca’s cap, on the other hand, was blue with a white star. ­These ­were boys’ clubs, but as if for adults, with their own headquarters—­R io’s at the Coxes’ ­house, Carioca’s at the Sodrés’—­ and their own banners, even with their own directorships. Oscar Cox, president of Fluminense, took charge of Rio, interested in its pro­gress. Rolando Delamare, already on the first team of Botafogo, did the same for Carioca. The boys would pay a monthly fee and raise money to buy a ball. The Rio boys went so far as to order shirts from ­England. When Oscar Cox went to buy Fluminense’s shirts, he took money with him to buy Rio’s shirts. Oscar Cox returned in a ship of the Mala Real line, and the Rio boys went as a group to greet him on board. This was done as a pretext not to pay customs fees, as Rio was eating up all their money. (They ­were paying 10 mil réis a month to rent Fluminense’s field, where they could train on Wednesdays and play on Sunday mornings.) On the ship, each boy would receive his shirt, his thick woolen socks, and his cap, then conceal them ­under his clothes. The boys went up the stairs of the ship thin and came back down fat, with big bellies. They w ­ ere also a bit fearful, seeing customs guards everywhere. The boys of Carioca ­didn’t manage to order shirts from ­England, since nobody from Botafogo had a trip scheduled to Eu­rope. But they dressed well, like the boys of Rio, and they had a field: the Conde de Irajá Street field, an empty lot next to the Sodrés’ ­house, where the washerwomen sun-­bleached clothing. For this reason, the field was called the “field of soap.” It was slippery, like a well-­waxed floor. The players had to run carefully in order not to fall over. This had been the second field of Botafogo. Still t­ here, as a souvenir of the Botafogo days, stood the pole on which, on Sundays, they would raise the banner of white and black silk, embroidered by the Himes. The Carioca boys would not forget to raise their banner on Sundays, which was also made entirely of silk, this time blue and white. The raised banner would be the signal for a game. Old Lauro Sodré would appear on one of his balconies. The Sodré ­house had two balconies facing the field, which served as the grandstands of Carioca. Lauro Sodré was not both­ered by the broken win­dows, as almost ­every training session, almost e­ very game, resulted in a broken win­dow. It would be Mimi, Lauro, his sons, or Abelardo Delamare, Paulo and Silva, Mário Fon26  Chapter One

tenele, Antônio Dutra, a friend of his sons, at home. Old Lauro Sodré would just throw his body out of the way or duck his head, so the ball w ­ ouldn’t hit him. The two balconies ­were always full of ­people. The visitors who arrived included club parents, like him, to see their sons, or young girls, like Orminda, to see their b ­ rothers. Old Lauro Sodré liked soccer; he felt younger leaning over his balcony, following with his eyes the boys ­running ­after the ball, fighting for victory. He just ­didn’t like it very much when the boys would go out at night through the streets, carry­ing a standard to announce the next day’s game, always on a Saturday night. Every­one moved together, one carry­ing Carioca’s standard, like a standard of a Brazilian Carnival group. He ­didn’t like it, but he w ­ ouldn’t get angry. What harm could ­there be in this? The boys would go through the nearby streets, the streets where their young friends lived, boys and girls. Every­one interested would learn that ­t here would be a match on the next day, at the Conde de Irajá Street field, the “field of soap.” The field was no longer soapy, however, ­because the boys had prohibited the washerwomen from hanging their clothes over the field, which was already looking more like a grass field, which they would pull weeds from once a month. The washerwomen ­were from familiar homes—­that is, the homes of the Carioca players themselves. They had to sun-­bleach the clothes somewhere ­else, so as not to mess up the field. And ­there ­were high schools, each one with its own team. Latin American High, from the Leme hillside, wanted to be more than the ­others. The club put themselves forward to play in a championship alongside other real clubs in the league—in the second division, of course. The role of the high schools was dif­fer­ent: farm teams of players for the clubs. For schools like the Military High School, the National Gymnasium, Alfredo Gomes High, Abílio High, and Anglo-­Brazilian High, soccer was practically a requirement. At the São Vicente de Paulo High School in Petrópolis, which was attended as a boarding school by many boys from Rio, lads of the best families, it was required. ­Father Manuel Gonzales was proud of having brought soccer to Brazil. Before him, Charles Miller, the inventor of the famous Charles kick, was already at it in Santos, shooting balls made of number five tires. But when ­Father Manuel Gonzales arrived in Rio, on the way to the São Vicente de Paulo High School, he d ­ idn’t even find one ball. It was 1896, just a year ­after Oscar Cox had returned from Switzerland. F ­ ather Manuel Gonzales had to manufacture a ball from raw leather, badly cut, the ox hairs not wanting to be pulled Nostalgic Beginnings  27

out, no m ­ atter how hard he tried. It was that ball that became famous at São Vicente de Paulo High, known as “Hairy” among the students. Hairy solved all the prob­lems of the recreational hour, including the most serious: the l­ ittle groups of students that would gather to converse on the patio, the priests not included, not hearing anything. When a priest approached, the conversation would end. While playing soccer, nobody could converse. For this reason, during the recreational hour in the after­noon, ­after classes, the students had to play soccer, forming teams of thirty or forty players, with the priests among them, cassocks rolled up, d ­ oing their kicks, receiving other kicks in the shin. ­Those who remained out, making excuses not to play, ­wouldn’t last; they ended up leaving the high school. Take the case of Gastão Cruls, for example. Gastão Cruls ­didn’t even have time to s­ ettle in. He enrolled in April with other classmates from the Fluminense Gymnasium, and ­after the June holidays, he d ­ idn’t come back. It had immediately become clear that soccer w ­ asn’t for him. He also had an in-­grown toenail, so he could only take one shot. He would take that one shot, then leave the game hopping on just one foot. The priests w ­ ere soon suspicious, not ­really believing the story of the in-­grown toenail. They believed it was the spirit of the gymnasium that was manifesting itself. Gastão Cruls made his ­father write a letter, requesting that the priests excuse him from soccer, at least as long as he had an in-­grown toenail. The toenail did not show signs of growing out as the weeks went by, and Gastão Cruls sat out of soccer, setting a bad example. The priests tolerated it ­until an article came out in the Jornal do Brasil against the soccer at São Vicente de Paulo High School. According to Gastão Cruls, it was something written by the ­father of a student who had taken a strong kick to the shin. To the priests, it was written by Gastão Cruls. Who would the priests suspect more? Every­one at São Vicente liked soccer except for Gastão Cruls. When the recreational hour arrived, the o ­ thers went r­ unning through the patio, not even waiting for the priests to roll up their cassocks. And Gastão Cruls was out ­every day, repeating the same excuse about the in-­grown toenail. A ­ fter the Jornal do Brasil article, the priests came down on him and w ­ ouldn’t leave him in peace. If Gastão Cruls remained at the high school, always complaining, never playing soccer, he would end up tearing down years of the work begun by ­Father Manuel Gonzales with Hairy. Fortunately for Gastão Cruls, the June holidays ­were close. If not, he would have had to play soccer with an in-­grown toenail. The Gastão Crulses ­were rare, true exceptions. ­Every year, wave upon wave of players, coming from the high schools, would head for the clubs. Thus, the 28  Chapter One

clubs needed less and less to scout players; they could form individual teams.12 Some even allowed themselves the luxury of having two teams. The time had passed when the president of the club needed to come on the field to fill a hole in the lineup. This could be bad, as in the case of Zamite of Haddock Lobo. If Zamite had been like Félix Frias of Fluminense, ­there would have been no prob­lem. Félix Frias, before being president, had played on Fluminense’s first team. Zamite had no such experience; he had never taken a shot, nor was he young anymore. Yet in t­hose moments he would have to play; if not, Haddock Lobo would not come off well, handing the points to Mangueira. On that Haddock Lobo second team, a second team of players was assembled at the last minute, almost every­body at the same level as Zamite. The keeper was a mulatto man named Augusto Mendes, known as Dudu. Dudu, a retail worker, ­didn’t even know how to catch the ball, but on the staff of the Velo movie theater, he was a fine young man. Luiz Carneiro de Mendonça remained ­behind the net at São Cristóvão field, calling the game. He would advise Dudu as to when to come out from the goal, when to give a punch, how to get his foot on the ball what­ever way he could. When Luiz Carneiro de Mendonça was able to remain b ­ ehind the net, the score stayed at zero to zero. But with twenty minutes left in the match, Luiz Carneiro de Mendonça had to leave his post in order to change his clothes. When he returned, the match was ending: Mangueira six, Haddock Lobo zero. But that time was now past, and ­there was no shortage of players.

4. The vulgarization of soccer—­every­one wanting to take his shot, play on a team—­had not done any harm, not even to clubs like Fluminense or Botafogo, ­those of high society. Fluminense and Botafogo ­were getting finer, more aristocratic, ­every day. The differences between the clubs, between neighborhoods, became accentuated. T ­ hose of the Southern Zone w ­ ere still more well-­off than t­ hose of the Northern Zone. The social distances, with all their gradations, w ­ ere maintained religiously: from Fluminense, with its field; its grandstand with three towers; its headquarters; its skating rink, which transformed into a dance floor on party nights, to the club without a name, with nothing but poor boys playing friendly games in the street. The common trait, however, was a passion for soccer. This was what frightened the rowing club, so much so that it was a strug­gle to convince Flamengo to get involved in soccer. When Flamengo had sixty members, if that many, without a rowing championship, it imposed conditions, d ­ oing every­thing it Nostalgic Beginnings  29

could to avoid becoming a soccer club, including not immediately accepting as a gift a complete championship team, which had vacated Fluminense. Of t­ hese champions of 1911, only two remained faithful to Fluminense: Osvaldo Gomes and Calvert. The o ­ thers—­Baena, Píndaro and Neri, Lawrence, Amarante and Galo, Baiano, Alberto Borghert, and Gustavo de Carvalho—­ some from the Rio boys’ club, raised by Fluminense, ­were ready to go to Flamengo, bringing members along with them, fans who Flamengo needed. Flamengo hesitated but ultimately agreed, but just as an experiment. If soccer did not fit with rowing, nothing d ­ oing. And how could it not fit? The soccer team came on the field wearing a shirt quite dif­fer­ent from the rowing one. ­There ­were two jerseys, almost two clubs, living together, one of rowing, the other of soccer. The soccer shirt was horrendous, with black and red squares, a shirt that soon earned the nickname “Cheap Parakeet,” with its huge squares, like sections of an enormous chess board. The players w ­ ere ill at ease in that shirt. Píndaro de Carvalho went so far as to say that Flamengo was losing b ­ ecause of that shirt. A shirt like that, a “cheap parakeet,” could only bring bad luck. Flamengo changed its shirt, yet it was still the same story: no mixing of rowing with soccer. The shirt with thick horizontal stripes, black and red, belonged to rowing; that of soccer ended up being of horizontal stripes, black and red, but with a white stripe separating them, distinguishing rowing from soccer. The new shirt also earned a nickname: “Coral Snake.” ­Because they ­were shirts with long sleeves, worn outside the shorts and reaching down almost to the mid-­thigh, the thin players looked even skinnier. As a result, the arms looked like snakes. The players had to suffer the nickname, though it c­ ouldn’t be said that the new shirt was bad luck. With it, they won two championships, the first to be won by Flamengo. But World War I came, and German submarines ­were sinking Brazilian ships, and the ­people went out in the streets to hunt Germans in order not to go crazy, wanting to see blood. This was when a similarity was noticed between the Flamengo soccer jersey and the German flag. The German flag was red, black, and white, the exact colors of the Flamengo jersey. The white stripe, placed between the red and the black stripes to distinguish rowing from soccer, messed every­thing up. B ­ ecause of it, Flamengo was looked at with distrust. And Flamengo had German members who liked to go out early in a boat, who liked to row. All the German members w ­ ere kicked out, and the white stripe that separated red from black on the soccer team jersey was removed. Rowing and soccer had also already intermixed. Flamengo was no longer two clubs that lived together, one of rowing, the other of soccer; it was just 30  Chapter One

one club, with even more laurels in soccer than in rowing. Only ­after lifting two championship cups for soccer did Flamengo lift one for rowing. Soccer had made Flamengo stronger in every­thing, even in rowing. Like Fluminense, Flamengo had its skating rink. ­After matches on Sundays, they would dance ­there. Young ladies could now enter Flamengo’s club without fear. The soccer players wished to make a Fluminense out of Flamengo. They had danced at Fluminense, held in their arms many a beautiful young w ­ oman. They could not appreciate the shindig, at which men danced with men. It’s true, however, that the Botafogo players did like the shindig, an influence from rowing. The Botafogo soccer players w ­ ere meeting in garages, rowing, winning races, d ­ oing every­thing the rowers w ­ ere d ­ oing, even dancing with men at a shindig. Botafogo did not have a skating rink like Fluminense, a place to receive young ladies. What it had, on its Voluntários da Pátria field, was a shed, similar to a garage. In the shed, they could have only shindigs. And ­people took notice of this, especially at Fluminense. Fluminense took pride in never having lowered themselves to the point of hosting a shindig. Not even if they w ­ ere invited would they attend a shindig. If anyone from Fluminense went, it was the wardrobe man­ag­er, José, a Portuguese, who wished to change the name of the Botafogo club to the Botafogo Sporting Club. The Fluminense wardrobe man­ag­er would be greeted and thanked by Joaquim, the Botafogo wardrobe man­ag­er. Joaquim would invariably begin by correcting José, a bit angry with the attempt to change the name of the Botafogo Soccer Club, which was the name it had had since its founding, and which no one could take from it. The shindig was good for the Botafogo players, but not for the Fluminense players. The Flamengo shindig was, for them, a true shock. Some thought they would never grow accustomed to a club without parties, b ­ ecause a shindig was not considered a party at all: a keg of Brahma beer, a chorinho band from Fluminense Park, and that shameless show of men dancing with men. Young ­women had ­every reason not to walk along Flamengo’s sidewalk on the night of a shindig. They would come along arm in arm, and about three ­houses before the garage they would turn away their ­faces, very dignified, and go back the other way, quickening their pace, almost fleeing. And the players had to deal with it. They pretended they liked it. They had to make a ­really big effort to bring the garage closer to the field, in order to make a soccer club out of Flamengo. And gradually they made some pro­gress. The guys in the garage came out and went to the ­middle of the street to or­ga­nize a carnivalesque march. Like something from Carnival, the shindig would pass by. Nostalgic Beginnings  31

As the group marched by, the young ladies could watch without blushing, without needing to look away. Mr. Esgadanha, well known from a magazine of the Largo do Rócio, led the way in coattails and white pants, with the ­others marching ­behind. ­Behind them the chorinho band played without stopping. The sidewalks would fill up, ­people would run out to see, win­dows would open. And every­ body was having fun. The street urchins would join in the group, as Carnival was theirs, like soccer, and they would accompany the shindig to the Largo do Machado. At the Largo do Machado, right in front of Lamas Bar, the group would do circles, Mr. Esgadanha breaking every­thing down into swinging dance moves. Whoever was in Lamas Bar would leave b ­ ehind their plates of scrambled eggs with ham and their pool sticks, and if they ­were for Flamengo, they would join in the shindig. And a Sunday night like any other became a Carnival night. Flamengo had won, and if the opponent was Fluminense, the score would be written up on a mirror at Lamas Bar, right at the entrance. A rower would remain ­there guarding the mirror, the score painted in white lead. And nobody was g­ oing to mess around trying to erase the two numbers separated by an “X.” The garage was t­ here to guarantee the score for a week. So the shindig, which had been an advertisement against Flamengo, became an advertisement for it. Soccer was bringing the club close to the p ­ eople, gaining it more fans—­people who would join the shindig march, who would come to see Flamengo in training. Flamengo was without a field and did not want to borrow one from Fluminense, so they had to go train near Russell Beach. ­There was a grass field next to Russell Beach, the same one that is t­ here ­today,13 where the boys would form teams and play soccer. It had been set up by the city government precisely for this reason, to see if the boys (and men) would stop playing in the m ­ iddle of the street. Flamengo would train t­ here, as it was close by. The players would go out in their uniforms, walking down Flamengo Beach, to Glória, then to Russell. Their cleats would scrape along the sidewalk, accompanied by the sound of the ball bouncing on the ground. Flamengo was g­ oing to train—­boys of good families and street urchins alike would pass the news from ear to ear. When the Flamengo players arrived at Russell, they would find a group of boys already waiting for them. Shortly the field would be full of vagrant boys. When the ball went out, ­there was a big race. Ten or twenty boys wanted to get to the ball first. It ­didn’t look like much, but ­those boys from Russell Beach—­some from good families, well shod, dressed in after­noon clothes; o ­ thers from poor fam32  Chapter One

ilies, pants ripped in the back, barefoot—­were becoming Flamengo, showing up at the soccer fields to root for the club, in the grandstands, in general admission, on the hills. Quickly they learned the names of all the players. The goalkeeper was Baena. The backs ­were Píndaro and Néri. The halfbacks (“alfos,” as the boys called them) ­were Lawrence, Amarante, and Galo. And the forwards, or “ fórvados,” w ­ ere Baiano, Riemer, Borghert, Gustavinho, and Arnaldo. It was no longer just rowers, with a few members who had left Fluminense, who would clap for Flamengo; the fans ­were already wearing straw hats with Flamengo ribbons. This was one of the t­ hings that Joaquim Guimarães found most strange ­after leaving Fluminense: having to wear a black ribbon on a straw hat. The ribbon with the colors of the club distinguished the serious fan, somehow giving them more of a right to root for the team than ­those without hats or without ribbons on their hats. For this reason, fans—­including Joaquim Guimarães—­waited anxiously for their ribbons with the Flamengo colors to arrive from E ­ ngland, which could take a while.14 The p ­ eople from the garage did not sympathize much with this idea. They thought, instead, that a rower with a ribbon on his hat was not fitting; thus, the rowers w ­ ere reluctant to wear a straw hat with a ribbon on it. However, t­here ­were “flamengos” who did not row, who longed, like Joaquim Guimarães, for ribbons on their hats.15 And the red and black ribbons came from E ­ ngland, on order, like t­ hose of Fluminense. When they fi­nally appeared in the grandstands, Joaquim Guimarães ­stopped, as if by miracle, missing Fluminense. All at once, he felt himself a flamengo. Now he could go to a soccer match without feeling humiliated, equal to the ­others—to the fans who ­were, more and more, coming from all over the place. During certain games fans could hardly move in the grandstand. The grandstand was losing that air of a ­family reunion in a visiting room, yet this ­didn’t mean that t­ here ­were fewer young w ­ omen. On the contrary, the young ladies of society w ­ ouldn’t miss a game, donning their best dresses, putting on their best hats, to attend a match. The social columnists could speak of a parade of elegance in referring to a soccer meeting in Fluminense or Botafogo, for instance—­even when, on the same after­noon, t­ here was a regatta. ­These days, the regatta was no longer an issue.16 Many young ladies preferred to see a soccer match over a regatta. Soccer clubs, for that reason, no longer needed to know in advance when t­ here would be a regatta so they could reschedule a game. Nostalgic Beginnings  33

The rowing clubs, on the other hand, needed to know the soccer schedule. A good soccer match would ruin a regatta, with empty areas along the seawall of Botafogo Beach. On that day, t­ here would be no parade. The ships would still remain in the m ­ iddle of the shoreline, covered in banners and setting off rockets, but it ­wouldn’t be the same. It was only the same when the Metropolitan League did not have a good soccer game scheduled. Then rowing could maintain the illusion that nothing had changed. And to preserve this illusion for a while longer, the rowing clubs took the trou­ble to study the league ­table of the soccer championship. No way would they pit rowing against soccer. If they did, even on a day of a regatta and a Flamengo game, the fans of Flamengo would go to Fluminense’s field, to Botafogo’s; they ­wouldn’t be in the tugboats, in the boats, on the seawall at the beach, to root for Flamengo. It was useless to fight against soccer, which had taken over every­thing—­ even the newspapers, which had previously been so miserly with soccer. They ­were opening up pages to the matches and even went so far as to count ­people in the grandstands: five thousand ­people attended yesterday’s meeting. They ­were referring to soccer games, not rowing meets. And this popularity did not affect in the least the finer clubs. On the contrary, it sufficed to see players in tuxedos, at banquets in the Jockey Club, like that time when Palmeiras of São Paulo came to Rio. Fluminense had offered a banquet, and on the invitation was written “formal wear.” And not one player from Palmeiras missed it, nor one from Fluminense, e­ very one of them impeccably dressed in a tuxedo. While the waiters in black pants and white jackets came and went, stepping lightly, carry­ing plates, the orchestra—­a piano, two violins, and a bass—­ played selected songs: first the “Hymn of Palmeiras” by Cantu, then the “Hymn of Fluminense” by Cardoso de Menezes Filho. During the hors d’oeuvres, they played the “Promenade” of Engleman; between the hors d’oeuvres and the oxtail consommé, a waltz, “Gypsy Love” by Franz Lear. Thereafter, they played what was referred to as a characteristic tango, “Batuque” by H. Mesquita. The filet de sole frite. Sc. Tartar had arrived, and one heard a one-­step—­“Humpeirok” by Lestrange—­and then an Argentine tango: “La Seferina” by Arriga. Now it was time for the mousse de foie gras en gellé and also the “Count of Luxembourg” by Franz Lehar. The roast chicken was made tastier with the sound of a waltz: “Dreaming” by Joyce. The waiters served French wines, and the orchestra played a ragtime, “Switchback” by Auracher. And the salad seemed to call for a tango and then a waltz: first “Apollo” by Bevilacqua, then “Princess of Dollars” by Franz Lehar. The banquet was coming to an end. Pear melba was accompanied by “Row, Row, Row,” a lively one-­step; but even livelier was a Brazilian tango, “Cacique” by Naza34  Chapter One

reth. Coffee, liqueurs, and cigars ­were taken against the backdrop of the “Birdseller” by Zeller. The orchestra s­ topped, as it was time for toasts. A player stood, champagne glass in hand, and gave a small speech. In response came “Hip, hip, hurrah!” a Fluminense cry, and then “Aleguá!” a Palmeiras shout. And the orchestra, which seemed to be awaiting precisely this moment, closed the banquet with the “March of the Baron of Rio Branco” by Francisco Braga. And t­ here was the menu card, a typographic work of art, with the word “Menu” in bas-­relief within a silver shield. The silver shield was up high, and suspended from it on ­either side ­were the ribbons with the colors of the clubs: the black and white of Palmeiras, and the green, white, and red of Fluminense. It managed to recall a coat of arms. ­There was enough space remaining for all the guests to write, in pencil, their names on the menu cards. The cards with the names of the cariocas went to the paulistas, while the cards with the names of the paulistas went to the cariocas. Whoever went to one of t­ hese banquets would make a point of keeping his autographed menu card in his pocket, treating it with the same care as a young lady for her dance card. The fan with the ribbon in his hat could be proud of the players who wore the tricolor jersey, as could any fan, even t­ hose without a ribbon and t­ hose from general admission. Perhaps the latter felt even more proud of the Fluminense players. The ribbon fans did not see anything extraordinary in a tuxedo, but the poor fans thought the tuxedos w ­ ere of the utmost importance. In a certain way, they ­were Fluminense fans for that reason; they had chosen the finest club to root for, and also to fight for. The elegance of Marcos de Mendonça fascinated them—­for instance, Marcos de Mendonça in a mousseline shirt with a purple stripe, shining like silk, and his cleats all tied up. Marcos de Mendonça, purple ribbon, was sung in the streets. Soccer inspired songs that all the boys knew by heart. The referee whistles. The line starts to advance. Against Fluminense they d ­ on’t stand a chance. The fans without collar and tie—­white, poor, mulatto, and black—­preferred Fluminense, Botafogo, or Flamengo to Bangu, Mangueira, or Andaraí, being more for the clubs of fine ­people than the clubs of factory workers. Fluminense, Botafogo, and Flamengo all had a place for ­these fans: general admission. From t­ here they could see the grandstand, full of beautiful young w ­ omen in light-­colored dresses and flowery hats, every­thing as it should be, with no mixing. It was worth it to be with Fluminense, Botafogo, and Flamengo, the clubs of whites. If a mulatto appeared on one of the teams, even Nostalgic Beginnings  35

if disguised, the poor whites, mulattoes, and blacks of general admission would be the first to notice. Carlos Alberto of Fluminense was one such case. He had come from América with the Mendonças, Marcos and Luís. While he was with América, playing on the second team, hardly anyone noticed that he was a mulatto. And neither did Carlos Alberto, on América, wish to pass as white. On Fluminense he was placed on the first team and thus was immediately in the spotlight. He would have to run onto the field, to the place most full of young ladies in the grandstand, stop for a moment, then lift his arm and let out a “Hip, hip, hurrah!” This was the moment that Carlos Alberto feared the most. He prepared himself for it, carefully covering his face with rice powder, becoming almost gray. He ­didn’t fool anyone; in fact, it even drew more attention to him. His stepped haircut became even more stepped, framing his face, gray from so much rice powder. When Fluminense went to play América, the fans at Campos Sales field came down hard on Carlos Alberto, shouting, “Rice powder! Rice powder!” The Fluminense fans tried to forget that Carlos Alberto was mulatto, as he was a good young man, a fine fellow. His ­father had something arranged to take high school graduation photos, and the classes that graduated e­ very year preferred the photo­graphs of Carlos Alberto Se­nior. That was how his son entered into good circles. He knew how to captivate with that softness of a mulatto, that delicacy almost of a young lady; he did not need to cover his face with rice powder. All he had to do was come on the field, and the shouts from the general admission fans of “Rice powder” would begin. Carlos Alberto would act as if he h ­ adn’t been found out, as if they ­weren’t yelling at him, as if it ­were directed at Fluminense. As it would turn out, the taunt indeed ended up passing from him to Fluminense. One time when Carlos Alberto ­d idn’t play, the Fluminense team came out on the field, and the cries of “Rice powder” came from general admission in the same way. In this interpretation, Fluminense was rice powder—­very full of themselves, wanting to be more than ­others, chicer, more elegant, more aristocratic. “Rice powder” caught on like wildfire. When a red-­and-­black player wanted to offend a tricolor, he would come out with a “Rice powder,” and the tricolor would be left unsure how to respond, having to buy into being superior, being rice powder. Rice powder was a fine ­thing, fragrant. Fluminense was not ashamed of being fine, of smelling good. Nevertheless, they tried to be more careful, to not put any more 36  Chapter One

mulattoes on the team—­especially a mulatto who wished to pass as white, like Carlos Alberto and Arthur Friedenreich. The green-­eyed Friedenreich had a light olive tone to his brown face; he could have passed if not for his hair, which was full, hard, and rebellious. Friedenreich would spend at least half an hour taming his hair. First he would oil his hair with brilliantine. Next, with a comb, he would pull his hair back. The hair would not obey the comb, not wanting to lie down flat on his head, instead wanting to stand up. Friedenreich would have to pull the hair backwards with force, and with his f­ree hand hold the hair down. Other­wise, it would not stay stuck to his head, like a cap. The comb and the hand, however, w ­ ere not enough. It was necessary to secure a towel to his head, to shape the towel into a turban and push it down into his head, then sit and wait for the hair to flatten out. All this would take time. Although he began the ritual while the second team was playing, it lasted ­until the first team was just about to go out. The referee would be impatient, threatening to start the game without Friedenreich, Friedenreich t­ here in the changing room, with the towel secured to his head, waiting, still unsure as to ­whether the time had come to remove his turban. He was always the last to come onto the field. When he fi­nally arrived, the crowd would applaud him more loudly. He was always the most applauded player, the advantage of coming out last.

5. ­ ater on, many players would try to do the same, but for other reasons, natuL rally. Friedenreich himself would have liked to enter the field with the ­others, to call less attention to himself. In the ­middle of the ­others, maybe no one would notice anything—­especially b ­ ecause of his ­father, old Friedenreich, a good German with a wispy beard. Old Friedenreich would not miss one off his son’s matches, and he made a point of telling every­one he was the ­father—­the ­father of Arthur, the “golden foot”; of “that one right ­there, with fine legs,” covered in woolen socks, and shorts hanging to below the knees. Whoever was with old Friedenreich would not dally very long looking at the fine legs of Arthur. They would look at the legs, raise their eyes, and stop at the head. Arthur’s hair, quite black, pulled back, shining in the sun. It d ­ idn’t look like his hair; it looked more like fake hair, glued to the scalp with gum arabic. He could head the ball, and his hair would not fall; it would remain where it was, without a hair out of place. It ­wasn’t fake hair; it was “­can’t deny Nostalgic Beginnings  37

it” hair, revealing the mulatto Friedenreich, just as the rice powder revealed the mulatto Carlos Alberto. Other mulattoes had played soccer before, both mulattoes and blacks. They had played and they ­were still playing, more than before—­before, when nobody worried about color. Color did not m ­ atter; what mattered was the group. ­Wasn’t Friedenreich part of the group at Ipiranga? ­Wasn’t Carlos Alberto part of the group at Fluminense? Fluminense ­didn’t even pay attention to Carlos Alberto’s color, nor to his stepped hair. Carlos Alberto, however, when he joined Fluminense, felt himself to be more mulatto. The only mulatto on a team of whites. América was a club of white players, but they did not hold parties. This was a difference between a Southern Zone and a Northern Zone team, between Fluminense and América. At América, the families went to see the game, meeting once a week in the grandstand. At Fluminense, they lived in the club. Every­one had to be equal, even in color, according to Carlos Alberto. ­Every Sunday, ­after the game, t­ here was a dance at the skating rink, the players dancing with young w ­ omen—­the same young w ­ omen from the ten ­o’clock mass at the Matriz da Glória, the same young ­women of the grandstand. To be in a club like this, to play for a club like this, only while wearing rice powder. Ceasing with being a mulatto. A mulatto or black person could root for Fluminense. ­There was room, in general admission, for a mulatto or a black fan, as well as a poor white one. But the poor whites, the mulattoes, and the blacks who rooted for Fluminense sought to “be” Fluminense, distinguishing themselves from the fans of other teams, taking pains in the way they dressed, wearing their Sunday clothes. One example is Chico Guanabara, who saved, for Fluminense game day, his best handkerchief to wrap around his neck, his best pair of clogs, his best hustler shirt.17 Another is Ovídio Dionísio, the big black man who would ­later become famous ­under the nickname “Johnson,” who ­wouldn’t come to see Fluminense without having his shoes polished, without having his white slacks ironed. For Chico Guanabara and Ovídio Dionísio, a Fluminense match was a party, although it would often end in a fight, a brawl. It was enough for someone to insult a Fluminense player, or to refer to a Fluminense fan as rice powder. Chico Guanabara and Ovídio Dionísio, who before g­ oing to the field had paid a visit to the barbershop, who had perhaps put, a­ fter a shave, a ­little rice powder on their f­ aces, did not miss the opportunity to prove that Fluminense was not rice powder. Chico Guanabara would slide a foot back, bend his knees, and pull out a switchblade. Ovídio Dionísio would throw a punch. It was enough, as the fan from the other club would already have a black-­and-­blue eye and not be able to see a t­ hing anymore. 38  Chapter One

If nobody messed with Fluminense, they would stay quiet, seeming as if they w ­ eren’t fighters. Chico Guanabara would be leaning on the fence, his well-­cut straw hat perched high on his head, and Ovídio Dionísio, standing ­behind the ­others. Ovídio Dionísio did not wish to mess up anyone’s vision, but it w ­ asn’t just for this reason that he wanted a place in the back. It was to not spoil the crease in his slacks. With the amount of ­people up against the fence, pressing together, ­there was no crease that could survive eighty minutes of that. Ovídio would only forget the crease in the slacks of his Sunday best when the signal came from the grandstand. Somebody from Fluminense, jumping onto the field—­almost always Corrêa Dutra or Coelho Neto—­would already know: that game had to be annulled. And to annul a game, it was necessary that a brawl on the field last five minutes.18 The Ovídio Dionísios would also jump onto the field, to fight beside the whites of the grandstand. Black with black, white with white—or, better yet, ­people from general admission with p ­ eople from general admission, p ­ eople from the grandstand with ­people from the grandstand. A black man could fight with a white man if the white man was from general admission; he ­wouldn’t touch a white man from the grandstand. It seemed as if it would be s­ imple to spend five minutes fighting, but five minutes was a long time. T ­ here ­were t­ hose who c­ ouldn’t take it and tried to return to their seats. ­There ­were ­people who, feeling weaker, just wanted to know one ­thing: how much longer ­until the five minutes ­were up? ­There ­were ­people who stayed till the end, however long ­those five minutes ­were—­people like Ovídio Dionísio, Corrêa Dutra, and Coelho Neto. The brawl would bring poor whites, mulattoes, and blacks onto the field. It ­wouldn’t, however, bring them onto the grandstand. The low grandstand fence, like that of general admission, made of wood and wire, continued to separate ­those who ­were “fluminenses” from ­those who ­were “of Fluminense.” ­Those who ­were “fluminenses” remained outside; ­those who ­were “of Fluminense,” inside. Fluminense could, for this reason, close itself off more, meaning it could whiten itself more, without offending mulattoes and blacks. Mulattoes and blacks, on the contrary, ­were thinking that Fluminense should be whiter, without Carlos Alberto. The experience of Carlos Alberto had given as much grief to the whites of the grandstand of Fluminense as it had to the mulattoes and blacks of general admission who rooted for Fluminense. B ­ ecause of the taunts of “Rice powder,” the tricolors of all colors, of all social conditions, ­were getting into fights. Nostalgic Beginnings  39

Having fun poked at oneself ­after a defeat was much less bothersome than having “Rice powder” thrown in the face of any tricolor. ­After a defeat, the Fluminense fan, with head low, “swollen” as they said, could take anything but the taunts of “Rice powder.” Poking fun was something ­else, something done between acquaintances. It was necessary to have some kind of intimacy in order to poke fun at someone. Sometimes the street urchins would await the losing team outside to yell, “Your head is swollen!” and run away, or hook old cans up to the back of the automobiles with their tops down, rented to transport the players. The players would come out and get in their cars, and when they left, the sound of the old cans was a kind of laughter, the laughter of street urchins. Against the teasing of ­these poor boys ­there was the recourse of jumping out of the car and chasing them. T ­ here was no recourse at all against teasing from colleagues, acquaintances, and friends. Many ­people avoided ­going to school or work, locking themselves away, getting sick all of a sudden with a swollen head. Whoever rooted for the team that had won would go around seeking out their friends who rooted for the losing team. Paulo Lira managed to perfect ­going to the Cruzeiro Galleria in a “Botafogo Victory” costume, a cardboard sign attached to his straw hat with the match score in very big numbers. He would go to the Cruzeiro Galleria and await the trams. He knew in which tram so-­and-so would arrive, and in which tram somebody e­ lse. He would hide himself b ­ ehind a column to appear when the friend—of Fluminense, of Flamengo—­got off the tram, already suspicious, looking around. Then Paulo Lira, pouncing, would come at them, and not let them leave without a lot of teasing, following them down to São José Street, only to return afterward in a hurry, ­because another tram was arriving—­from Flamengo, from Catete, from Laranjeiras, from Águas Férreas. ­People would gather to watch the teasing by Paulo Lira, who would do nothing e­ lse on Monday after­noons a­ fter a Botafogo victory. Conversely, when Botafogo lost, Paulo Lira would not appear anywhere. The o ­ thers, fans of Fluminense, of Flamengo, w ­ ere the ones who would seek him out. Nobody wanted to be made fun of. Thus, victory became more and more impor­tant, making the club depend on the team, the team becoming the club. Victory was salvation; only it would bring joy, the joy that took the shape of making fun, something quite Brazilian, like soccer itself. Soccer could no longer be called En­g lish. From En­g lish it had only its name—­the name that Paulo de Magalhães wished to change to “Pebol” and that Alcides d’Arcanchy wished to change to “Balípodo.”19 Yet the name continued to be futebol, which sounded like a Brazilian word, it had become so 40  Chapter One

familiar to the ears. It needed no translation, as it had already been translated, and every­body knew what it meant. That was what had scandalized old Cox. Old Cox understood the soccer of Oscar Cox but not the soccer of Edwin Cox. Both his sons ­were Brazilians. One, however, played the soccer that he had always seen played, in the En­ glish style. The other was playing a dif­fer­ent soccer, full of new ele­ments: a dribble h ­ ere, a dribble t­ here. Too many dribbles. Oscar Cox was heavy, slow, and meticulous; Edwin Cox was light, quick, and brilliant. T ­ hose in the grandstand liked Edwin more than Oscar. Old Cox saw that he could do nothing about it—­except to leave and never return. And that’s exactly what he did. He left the game all of a sudden, as if he had been insulted. And t­ hose who remained in the grandstand applauded Edwin Cox. For the Brazilian fans, soccer was best played the way Edwin Cox played it, a showier, more beautiful, more Brazilian soccer. Old Cox ended up alone, as a unique example of offended British pride. The other En­glishmen, ­those who played soccer, tried to become Brazilian, making letters and re-­creating the Charles kick. The utterly Brazilian Charles kick was in­ven­ted by an Englishman—­ without wanting to, naturally. Charles Miller introduced soccer to Brazil, bringing three balls from ­England, forming teams, and founding clubs and leagues. As an En­g lishman, Miller respected soccer—­t he soccer played in ­England, that is. The original game, without the Charles. The Charles, however, saved him once. During that game, Charles Miller saw ­things wrongly, calculating the ball direction badly, and had to pull back his foot to kick with his heel. An error corrected by the Charles. Nobody had ever seen a play like that, but every­body shouted right away, “Charles! Right on, Charles!” From that point, the name of Charles Miller was the name of the play. Charles Miller appreciated the applause and tried to remember what he had done, then repeated it. He did this to receive applause and to not forget it. That’s how it was with the Charles; it was an infallible r­ ecipe for applause. A player who wished to be applauded need do nothing more; a Charles was enough. And who ­didn’t like applause? The En­glishman would forget, for a moment, that he was En­glish, to experience that delicious t­ hing, applause. He was playing for the grandstand, which also happened with the ­others. Any new play would be a success, even a kick. The kick “a la Maranhão” was named ­after Raul de Albuquerque Maranhão, who had kicked the ball up, making the fans crane their necks to see the tiny ball. The Barroso kick was another. It was not Magno Barroso who had in­ven­ted it, but the name of Nostalgic Beginnings  41

this sideways kick stuck. T ­ here was no other to take credit, and Magno Barroso did kick like that. Regardless, a Brazilian name was better than an En­glish one. For that reason, the Charles lost its “s.” It was pedantic to pronounce the “s,” and “Charle” was more Brazilian—­though not as Brazilian as the “Leave it,” which demonstrated the Brazilian trait of wanting to be more knowledgeable than ­others. A player would yell, “Leave it,” and the other person would leave it, and the player would end up with a ball that w ­ asn’t his, scoring a goal with his hand without anyone seeing. “Anyone” h ­ ere refers to the referee, since t­ here was always someone who saw. The keeper inevitably saw and would run a­ fter the referee, protesting, “It was with the hand; it was with the hand!” The referee, often En­glish, would resolve the issue by requesting the player’s word of honor—­not that of the keeper but that of the forward. The smart forward would give his word of honor, the ­matter would be settled, and the ball would come back to the center. It’s true that t­ here ­were forwards who would go weak in the knees, confessing that they had scored a hand goal, like En­glishmen. The En­glishmen would only confess if asked in that way: with the referee appealing to their honor. But they would put their hands on the ball; if they ­couldn’t score a goal correctly, they would do it wrongly, to see if they could get away with it. Brazilians themselves e­ ither never confessed or would confess very quickly, like Mimi Sodré. Mimi Sodré did not put his hand on the ball; it was the ball that touched his hand. He would also stop instantly when it happened, not taking another step. And sometimes he was three steps away from the goal; all he needed to do was push the ball. The referee h ­ adn’t seen anything; if the ball entered the goal, he would just point to the ­middle of the field. Mimi Sodré ­didn’t want anything to do with it. The ball had hit his hand, so it w ­ ouldn’t count. The players of Botafogo, however, wished to change Mimi Sodré’s attitude, pointing to the example of ­others. But Mimi Sodré wanted nothing to do with the ­others, not even the En­glishmen: he was Brazilian. And he was Brazilian in ­every way, even in the gesture of a boy asking his teacher for permission to leave the classroom. For this reason, the fans truly loved Mimi Sodré, the “Golden Boy” of Botafogo. But this was true of Botafogo alone, not of Brazilian soccer as a ­whole. When Mimi Sodré raised his fin­ger, it was as if he had scored a goal. The young ladies would let out cries of enthusiasm. The grandstand would practically collapse, with so many fans stomping their feet. 42  Chapter One

Occasionally that gesture would cost Botafogo a victory, the goal scored, the referee pointing to the center circle. But Mimi Sodré would come and ruin every­thing, raising his fin­ger. The gesture would become the only consolation for defeat. It was no use; whoever was for Botafogo had to bear the teasing of other clubs—­Fluminense, Flamengo, and América. From Fluminense and Flamengo, it was bearable; the worst was the teasing from América, a club from the Northern Zone, especially ­after Abelardo Delamare slapped Gabriel de Carvalho. The América players had to leave the field guarded by the police. When the schedule held a Botafogo versus América match, every­body expected another slap, another brawl. América and Botafogo would both make a point of winning, to mock the defeat of the other in order to avoid being mocked. The same was the case with Fluminense and Flamengo, almost a ­family issue. The first team of Fluminense had left for Flamengo, leaving Fluminense practically without players, with just their second team. If that second team beat the first, it was something to make fun of. With all due re­spect, Valentim, who took care of the Laranjeiras field, made fun of Alberto Borghert. He did so without saying anything, just looking at him, as if to ask, “See that?” A small club would not get involved in such ­things. They ­didn’t mock, nor ­were they mocked. The big clubs, much stronger, did not put much stock in the small clubs—­and likewise, other ­people. They d ­ idn’t meet except on the day of a game. And even then, the folks of the big club would be in the grandstand and ­those of the small one in general admission. Only ­t hose who ­were from a big club, from Fluminense, Botafogo, Flamengo, or América, could give themselves the luxury of mockery: of buying a straw hat three sizes too big to give to a friend with a swollen head; of sending a tele­gram expressing their condolences, “I understand the greatness of your suffering”; and the like. Of course the mockery had to end with the habit—­not Brazilian at all—of the common cele­bration, the winners inviting the losers to fraternize in a restaurant, eating, drinking, and singing together. But victory and defeat w ­ ere no longer united. They ­were separated, each one playing for his side, for his club, in joy and in sadness. The cele­bration dinners continued but for the victors alone. The victors would eat, drink, and sing alone. The greatest, most refined mockery was when the dinner t­ able had been reserved by the other team. The other team, certain of victory and not wishing to wait u ­ ntil the match was over, would reserve the t­ able beforehand. This happened with Fluminense once. A t­ able at Roma Restaurant, on Assembléia Nostalgic Beginnings  43

Street, was beautifully decked out, waiting for the team. The one that showed up, however, was América.20 This was a just punishment, as victory was only guaranteed when the game ended and the crowd invaded the field to carry the players off in triumph. Fluminense would no longer even think of reserving a dinner t­ able in advance. One could do that with a dinner, as the restaurant was always open, waiting for customers, the menu ready. One could not, however, do that with a marching band. How could anyone find a marching band on a Sunday a­ fter a match? Only if it was all scheduled in advance, by Saturday at the latest. The marching band would stay hidden, only to appear at the moment of victory. If victory did not come, the team would pay the band and send them packing, though not right away. First someone would go outside to make sure the street was empty, to see if anyone was out t­ here. Sometimes the band was required to wait hours at a time, hidden or locked up. Fluminense and Flamengo ­were neighbors, and in match-­ups between the two, when Flamengo won, their fans would not exit Fluminense’s gates. When Fluminense won, Paissandu Street would fill up with tricolors waiting to see the band leave—­the musicians with their heads down, defeated, their instruments well wrapped in newspapers—­because every­body knew that Flamengo always had a marching band awaiting their victories. When victory came, it was Carnival, announced to one and all by the marching band, who played the march from Aída. It was a Carnival without masks, without costumes, without serpentines; without squirting w ­ ater or perfume bombs; but with its brass band, its parade of automobiles with the tops down, its Carnival groups in the m ­ iddle of the street with the flags of Flamengo, when it was Flamengo’s turn, and of Fluminense, when it was Fluminense’s turn, serving as standards. It was Carnival, with the same joy, the same delirium, but a Carnival for just one club. One club holding its Carnival, ­going out; the other staying at home, its doors locked, as if in mourning. In mourning on a Carnival day. That’s why the hearts of every­one in the grandstand, every­one in general admission, ­were beating fast when the game was about to start, trembling on the inside. ­There ­were t­ hose who c­ ouldn’t even watch the game, who, a­ fter hearing the referee’s whistle, turned their ­faces away. The game was beginning, and the happiness or disgrace of the fans lay at the feet of the players, on a good defense, depending on the club. ­Every fan felt that de­pen­dency, especially the fans of a big club, of Fluminense, Botafogo, América, or Flamengo. The fans of a small club ­were already a bit resigned to disgrace, almost accustomed to defeat. 44  Chapter One

­Those who won the championships ­were always the big clubs, the clubs of the whites. Whites played better soccer than did blacks—­the proof was t­ here. Soccer was not just played with the feet; it was also played with the head. How could a black man, who could barely sign his name, compete with a law or medical student? The result was evident in the Flamengo champions, a team composed predominantly of medical students, nine to be exact: Píndaro de Carvalho, Emanuel Néri, Ângelo Pinheiro Machado, Miguel Coutinho, Raul Vieira de Carvalho, Ricardo Riemer, Alberto Borghert, Gumercindo Othero, and Arnaldo Machado Guimarães. Only two of the fourteen Flamengo players w ­ ere not g­ oing to be doctors: Baena, who was studying to be a l­awyer, and Galo, who w ­ asn’t studying for anything. Galo’s ­family, however, was a good one. If it ­hadn’t been, he ­wouldn’t have played for Fluminense, and he w ­ ouldn’t have been on the Flamengo team among ­those ­future doctors. Even so, one noted the difference: Galo would fool around on the field, grabbing shorts and pulling on the shirts of the opposing players. Soccer did not change the order of t­ hings, on the contrary. Where could one find a better demonstration that every­t hing was as it should be? The whites w ­ ere superior to the blacks; the idols of soccer ­were mostly all white, with perhaps some brown. Black players entered the lineup only once in a blue moon, when a white player who should have been playing was out sick or had something impor­ tant to do. At that point the black player could come in and, like Monteiro of Andaraí, change positions and fill holes. ­Every spot in the lineup had an own­er: white, from a good f­amily. The lineup showed the superiority of race, of the white race over the black race; and the superiority of class, of the high class over the ­middle class, and the ­middle class over the lower class. The low w ­ ere down low, and the high w ­ ere up high, winning and taking championships. The fans from general admission did well to stick with their big clubs, with Fluminense, Botafogo, Flamengo, and América. ­Whether they ­were poor white, mulatto, or black fans, the ones they ­were rooting for ­were the white players of the big clubs. They would go to their place in general admission, and would leave that place only when the game ended, to carry in triumph a Marcos Mendonça, a Mimi Sodré, a Néri, a Belfort Duarte. ­There could not be a greater consecration than this: to be carried in triumph on the shoulders of poor whites, mulattoes, and blacks from general admission. Nostalgic Beginnings  45

The ­people would reach the fence of the grandstand, then would stop. The player would continue on, to fall into the arms of his ­people: the ­people with the ribbon in their hats. A mulatto, however, Arthur Friedenreich, would become the greatest idol of Brazilian soccer. Not ­because, as many ­people think, he had scored the winning goal of 1919. That goal was less his than it was Neco’s. Neco is the one who brought the ball from midfield, all the way to the corner line, and passed it to Friedenreich. Friedenreich just touched the ball with his foot. The ball rolled in softly, and that was the game.21 Neco stayed over on the side while the crowd ran to Friedenreich and carried him in triumph. No other Brazilian player had ever known such popularity. Friedenreich’s cleats, still dirty with mud, ­were put on display in the win­dow of Oscar Machado Jewelers, with the most expensive jewels. And pictures of him w ­ ere in the newspapers and on ­people’s walls: the head of Friedenreich, Friedenreich’s w ­ hole body, the foot of Friedenreich, or the foot of “golt,” as old Friedenreich called it. The popularity of Friedenreich perhaps owed itself more to the fact that he was mulatto, although he did not wish to be mulatto, than it did to the fact that he had scored the winning goal for the Brazilians. All of a sudden, it seemed that the ­people ­were discovering that soccer should be of all colors: soccer without classes, all mixed together, quite Brazilian.22 Friedenreich’s shot opened the door to the democ­ratization of Brazilian soccer, a democ­ratization that would come slowly but that would never stop despite every­thing, including the opposition of the big clubs, which intended to be whiter than ever. This applied especially to the big clubs of the Southern Zone—­Fluminense, Flamengo, and Botafogo—­which made concessions only to whites. Poor whites could wear the tricolor, the red-­and-­black, or the white-­and-­black jersey. They may have been poor, but they ­were still white. The big club of the Northern Zone was already less demanding, focusing more on the player. América put Manteiga, a black man and a sailor, on the team just ­because he played soccer. In fact, he played quite well, better than many whites. A pass from him seemed like it was made with butter—­thus, the nickname.23 Manteiga on the team meant victory, the championship. The rest—­his color or condition—­did not ­matter. It’s true, however, that t­ here was a strug­gle, a real schism, within América: América fans refusing to root for a Manteiga, and América players refusing to play beside a Manteiga, preferring instead to leave the team, the club, to join Fluminense, bastion of whiteness. Many ­people from América went to Fluminense—­good p ­ eople, who had been for América their w ­ hole lives, such as the Curtys and the Borgeses. T ­ hese 46  Chapter One

­ eople quit América so that they w p ­ ouldn’t have to depend on a Manteiga— on the field or in the grandstand; playing with a Manteiga or rooting for a Manteiga. In their eyes, América with Manteiga was no longer América; soccer with Manteiga was no longer soccer. Thus began the nostalgia for soccer’s beginnings. Emerging from this past ­there arose a golden age of soccer, the age in which the Fluminense grandstand looked more like a bouquet of flowers than anything ­else. T ­ here was no other way of putting it: a bouquet of flowers, as the columnists put it. This was an era in which soccer was a fancy ­thing, when the players came from the best families and ­were almost always students who would ­later become doctors, ­lawyers, engineers, or officers in the army and navy. It ­didn’t hurt to depend on t­ hese ­people, the same p ­ eople of the grandstand. The fan with the ribbon on his straw hat depended on ­these white men, but not just any white men—­those who ­were equal to him but who played better than any black man.

Nostalgic Beginnings  47

Chapter 2

The Grass Field and the Empty Lot

1. In terms of ability, the white player was, for quite a while, superior to the black one. When black men started learning how to play, whites ­were already soccer gradu­ates. The big clubs ­were a kind of university; every­one who was a professor of soccer would go ­there. En­glishmen, Brazilians who had studied in Eu­rope, every­one with their soccer course. It was they who brought soccer to Brazil, who passed it on, forming clubs. And ­those who began early had a special advantage, as in the case of Fluminense. When a league was made—­with a certain amount of clubs, Fluminense, Paissandu, Rio Cricket, Bangu, Botafogo, América, Riachuelo, Football Athletic Association, Latino-­Americano, some competing only in second-­team games—­the championship was won by Fluminense. Which had begun e­ arlier. Facing the players of Fluminense, the Botafogo players felt themselves to be boys, almost boys in short pants. It was not just their chronological age—­with their peach fuzz and lack of mustaches, which w ­ ere almost a f­ amily trait among the Fluminense players—­that made them feel like that, but also their soccer age. The Fluminense players had been playing much longer and therefore knew a lot more. Their knowledge, however, passed from the mature men of Fluminense to the young lads of Botafogo during e­ very game. The Botafogo team would be playing against Fluminense, losing many goals to zero but learning all the while. The black players c­ ouldn’t learn this way, only by playing on the Bangu team, as a worker for the Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil. Bangu allowed black players on the team, not making an issue of color, of race, but not overdoing it. In this way, teammates helped one another. So the black player, when he was learning, was almost in isolation. The doors of the big clubs, the academies, w ­ ere closed to him. The expression “academies,” where they did in fact teach soccer, was born in general admission, not the grandstand. The poor white, the mulatto, and the black established the difference between the big and the small club; the acad­emy and the public school; the fenced-in field, with its grandstand, and the field without grass—or not exactly a field, as it was called in the newspapers, but the ground, or the street.

One of well-­clipped grass, a soft green carpet; the other of dirt, of stone. The white man of the green fields had a professor, a team captain yelling without stop, in En­glish. The black man of the pickup games, of the streets, had no one. The only ­thing that helped him was his intuition, the certainty of a vocation, which made him make a ball out of stockings. To play, to learn, to remember what he had seen. Imitating the ­g reats, his memory serving as a mirror, though not always a faithful one, sometimes misrepresenting plays—­ the catch “a la Marcos de Mendonça,” for example. Marcos de Mendonça had a unique play, his alone. He caught the ball somewhat sideways in the front, cushioning it. The ball, brought in by his right hand, would be guided into the crook of his left arm. Naturally this all happened very quickly—so quickly that many ­people ­didn’t see the pass from hand to arm, believing that the street urchins ­were imitating Marcos de Mendonça’s catch correctly, catching the ball with just the crook of the left arm. Beyond being complicated, what was believed to be Marcos de Mendonça’s catch was impish. It would suit well a Dionísio, a mulatto who played as a keeper and defended headers. Not a Marcos de Mendonça. For Marcos de Mendonça, soccer was a very serious t­ hing, a true science. Pure geometry. He discovered the a­ ngles related to the goal by chance, watching Charles William play ball on the Fluminense field. Charles William had become famous for a ­thing that perhaps he had never done: a shot from one side of the field to the other, keeper to keeper, the ball stopping only a­ fter it entered the other goal. Having managed (or not) this shot of 110 yards, Charles William impressed Marcos de Mendonça—­still on América, with no dreams of g­ oing to Fluminense—by means of some of his catches out of goal. The t­ hing that Marcos de Mendonça noticed was that e­ very time Charles William left the goal, the a­ ngle on the goal got smaller. T ­ here was the secret. The keeper could, when advancing, place himself more this way, more that way, to reduce or close the a­ ngle on the goal. The forward would shoot, and it would go above the keeper. Marcos experimented with this in training and in games, completing his studies to become a goalkeeper.1 The final touch was the happy coincidence of him being at Fluminense field while Charles William was playing ball. At this point, Marcos de Mendonça had nothing more to learn; his knowledge was the sum of the knowledge of other keepers, including Hugo, the g­ reat keeper of São Paulo—­considered at the time the best in Brazil—­and Otto Baena, the ­great keeper of Rio. He had managed to follow the entire evolution of the keeper in Brazilian soccer, which included t­ hose of Rio and São Paulo: Hugo Waterman, Coggins, Baby Alvarenga, and Baena, each one bringing a new contribution to the thorny position of goalkeeper. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  49

Hugo Waterman did not catch the ball. The ball would come, and though he could have grasped it calmly, he preferred to give it a punch. He would form a fist, bring back his arm, and slam the ball hard with a direct hit. The ball would go almost to midfield. If the ball came in low, he would ­either kick it like a fullback or come out with it, dribbling. The punches, the fullback kicks, the dribbles—­all w ­ ere performed with perfection, indisputably consecrating Hugo Waterman as the greatest Brazilian goalkeeper. It was a spectacle to see him play. Waterman would catch the ball and crouch down to defend it with his hand. He was very meticulous—­perhaps too meticulous, to the point of being cold. This was not ­because he was En­glish. Coggins, who was also En­ glish, had a lightness about him, an elegance—­“souplesse,” to use a term from the sports columns of the day.2 Baby Alvarenga was even better than Coggins, more complete. The most complete of all, however, was Otto Baena, despite not having the physique of a goalkeeper. In the goal—­seven meters and thirty-­two centimeters by two meters and forty-­four centimeters—he looked tiny, almost invisible. Marcos de Mendonça, on the other hand, filled the goal indeed. He was very tall, with long legs and arms. Add to that his theory of the goal ­angle, of the mathe­matics of soccer that he had advanced, and he considered himself invulnerable. A ball kicked the way it was supposed to be kicked could not enter the goal of Marcos de Mendonça; only a badly kicked ball could—­hitting the foot wrong, intending the ball to go to one corner but sending it to the other. Marcos de Mendonça was prepared for the proper kick but was surprised by the errant kick, which was outside all his calculations. A player like Marcos de Mendonça, preoccupied with the geometry of soccer, could not have been the creator of the catch that entered history with his name. It was a street urchin t­ hing, without any ill intent, on the contrary. The poor boys w ­ ere breaking their heads trying to reproduce what they had seen Marcos de Mendonça do. All they remembered was the ball fitting into the crook of his arm. And the other arm? For the street urchin, the other arm was ­behind him. They did acrobatics to imitate Marcos de Mendonça, putting one arm back, twisting their bodies to reach the ball, which should already be rolled into the crook of the other arm. Difficult as the dev­i l; more difficult than the Charles or the one-­t ime kick. So it was the street urchins, barefoot, who did this. Indeed, they did it so well that they managed to dub this catch “a la Marcos de Mendonça”—­a catch that came to be, in pickup soccer matches, a kind of identity card for goal50  Chapter Two

keepers. When forming teams, players who identified themselves as keepers had to show that they knew how to do the catch “a la Marcos de Mendonça.” The player could be standing between two street tiles, two pieces of clothing, two empty cans of lard, or two pieces of wood serving as goalposts. If he ­didn’t know how to do the catch, he ­wasn’t a keeper at all. The catch “a la Marcos de Mendonça” was proof of the ability of the street urchin, of the vocation he had for soccer. Only the school, the field, was lacking. The Fluminense field was open to the boys of Rio but closed to the street urchins of Retiro da Guanabara. The poor boys would gather at the fence with big eyes, waiting for a ball to go out. This generally happened only when watching a training session; on the day of a game, when general admission cost ten pennies, they had to remain on the hill, from where the players down below looked tiny. The most daring would go down, ready to do anything to enter—to beg, to jump the wall. The wall w ­ asn’t r­ eally that tall. ­There was always a big black man on the sidewalk, selling a push over the wall and into the field for 400 réis. ­Those who wished to save themselves 600 réis would put their foot into the stirrup of the black man’s hands, as he stood on a chair, and receive a boost to reach the top of the wall. The black man would sometimes help a street urchin without charging anything. He also ­didn’t go too far; he might toss five customers into the field, and with two mil réis in his pocket, he’d be satisfied. When no one ­else was coming, and the time for the game approaching, he would climb up on the wall and jump down into the field. The street urchins would also make stairs: one would bend over as if to play leapfrog, another would climb on his back and do the same, then o ­ thers ­until they could stretch their arms and scramble up onto the wall. Meanwhile, the boys of Rio ­were in the grandstand, never missing a game. Each player of Fluminense was a professor to them: “It’s not like that, it’s like this.” They could kick the ball around in the field. The tire-­rubber ball, which the poor boys could kick only when it went out, and even then, just one boy—­the swiftest, the bravest—­could help them. ­Every Wednesday the boys of Rio trained on the field of Guanabara Street. Just like the Fluminense players did, they came with their bags, their cleats, their woolen socks, and their jerseys. The street urchins of Retiro da Guanabara did not have any of this—­ not the field or the ball; not the cleats, socks, or jerseys. Instead, they played in the street, barefoot, with a ball made of stockings. When they grew up and joined a small club of poor ­people, they found the ball and the cleats strange. To them, the ball was enormous, hard, and too full and heavy from all the mud in the empty lots, which would seep through the leather and not come out. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  51

For each game on the fields, the ball was brand new, smelling of leather and shining, as if it ­were varnished. Used balls w ­ ere only for training. A ball like that could be kicked without fear of dislocating one’s big toe—­something that commonly happened on the empty lots. Almost all the players chose to play barefoot, putting their cleats aside, since they ­weren’t used to them. They thought they ­were good for walking on the sidewalk, however, to make scraping sounds on the cement—­a lovely scraping sound, which made the players of the empty lots swing their bodies to the rhythm. The disadvantage of the poor boys was enormous, but that ball of stockings—­small, jumping around like rubber—­would make many a poor boy a virtuoso of soccer. The boys would pass the stocking ball back and forth between their feet all day long, betting who could keep it up the longest without letting it fall on the ground. ­There ­were street urchins who did this their ­whole lives, suspending the ball, passing it from one foot to the other fifty, one hundred, two hundred times. They woke up with the stocking ball and the street was their field. They formed pickup teams and played u ­ ntil they could play no more; the morning, after­noon, and night w ­ ere theirs. They ­didn’t go to high school. They stayed in the street, making the boys of good families envious when they passed by on their way to Alfredo Gomes or Abílio High, or the National Gymnasium. Boys who s­ topped, wanting to skip class and play soccer, too. Some could not resist, loaning their school bag, containing books and their lunch—­some bread, a thick slice of guava preserves, and three bananas—to serve as a goalpost. In ­these interactions between field and empty lot, the barefoot street urchins impressed the boys of the good families, who would bring the news to the high school that t­ here was a l­ittle black kid who would become a g­ reat soccer player, just from seeing the ball control that he had. But as he grew up, the ­little black kid did not go the field; he went to the empty lot to impress at informal games, which ­were also called “stump-­ pullers,” as the players would swing their feet with all their force and sometimes not hit the ball but catch a stump—an a­ ctual stump, with roots and every­thing. But not the boy from a good ­family. He would grow up and have a guaranteed spot on Fluminense, Botafogo, or América. Ever since he was small, he had been accustomed to cleats and tire-­r ubber balls. Not to disparage the stocking ball, although a tennis ball was even better than a stocking ball for training reflexes. Marcos de Mendonça trained with a tennis ball in the backyard of his h ­ ouse on Santa Alexandrina. Luís and Fábio, his b ­ rothers, would throw the tennis 52  Chapter Two

ball, for Marcos de Mendonça to defend. Alternatively, they would use an orange, the same size as a stocking ball, with the advantage that it would oblige Marcos de Mendonça to take the utmost care in order not to hit it. When an orange got hit, it was b ­ ecause the defense was not well done. A well-­done defense left the orange looking just as it had when it came from the grocer. Luís and Fábio would throw the orange with all their strength, and Marcos de Mendonça would cushion the orange, bringing it to his chest, a ­little to the side—­a true catch “a la Marcos de Mendonça.” The tennis ball was a way to exercise the reflexes, t­ hose of a keeper like Marcos de Mendonça or a center-­forward like Alberto Borghert. Alberto Borghert also liked to train in his backyard, though he would do it alone, kicking a tennis ball against a wall. Each time the ball returned, he would need to adjust his kick—­something Abelardo Delamare perfected with the rubber ball. Abelardo Delamare would go early to Botafogo field, the Voluntários da Pátria field, summoning all the poor boys he found in the ­middle of the street. The boys already knew what was in store. They accompanied Abelardo Delamare, happy and satisfied with life ­because they ­were g­ oing to earn a penny. And, what is more, they would be able to hold a ball of a­ ctual tire rubber and give it a few kicks. Abelardo Delamare would change his clothes, grab all of Botafogo’s used training balls—­about five of them—­and throw them into the field. Each street urchin had to grab a ball, then wait for the signal from Abelardo Delamare to place himself fifteen or twenty steps from the goal. Then the training would begin. The boys would throw the balls one ­after the other, sometimes even two at once, for Abelardo Delamare to shoot. The boys could not delay. Some threw from the field, close to Abelardo Delamare; o ­ thers ­were b ­ ehind the goal, so they could grab the balls and return them immediately. As each ball came, Abelardo would adjust his shot in what­ever way necessary to reach the goal, without waiting for the ball to hit the ground. He only ­stopped shooting at night, when he c­ ouldn’t see the ball anymore. The street urchins would be exhausted, having worked their hearts out, and Abelardo was tired as well, but his shots kept getting better and better. The poor boys would receive their recompense: the penny paid by Abelardo Delamare. And then ­there was the ­free entry on the day of a match. Next to the Voluntários da Pátria field was a grassy meadow, Sapucaia de Botafogo, where all of Botafogo’s trash would be thrown, flying out an open door in the wall just for this purpose. When the Botafogo banner and that of any other team ­were flying on the mast, the street urchins would set themselves up early in the meadow, waiting for the trash door to open. The door would open and close quickly, and the boys would enter and place themselves b ­ ehind the goal. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  53

During the week they lent their ser­vices to Abelardo Delamare, throwing balls for him to shoot, but on Sundays they helped Botafogo. The fence was almost up against the goal, where the net ended. When the game was difficult, the boys would curse the keeper of the opposing team, giving him a rude tongue lashing. Even if he wished to disregard it—­a nd who would pay any attention to street urchins?—­the keeper of the other team still heard them. He would get irritated, losing his calm, losing control. He would end up committing an error. The ­thing was, the place where the street urchins had settled themselves, ­behind the goal, was the grandstand, not general admission. General admission was on the other side, opposite the grandstand, separated from the grandstand by the field. ­Behind the goal was the shed where the players of both teams changed their clothes. Many of the fans with the ribbons in their hats liked to watch the game from b ­ ehind the goal, so that they could see the ball entering, shaking the net; to yell “Goal” before the ball entered; to root for the team more freely. Just like the street urchins, though without all that looking around to see if young ladies ­were nearby. The grandstand fan, with a swear word on the tip of his tongue, would have to swallow it. The best was r­ eally to be with the street urchins themselves, t­ hose poor boys who ­didn’t pay for entrance, who entered by way of the trash door. One would look, and the door would be closed, always closed, but the boys would be inside, leaning on the fence. Other clubs would let the poor boys come in when ­there ­were only a few ­people in general admission, the team without supporters. Luís de Mendonça, when on Haddock Lobo and América, would not bring in the street urchins right away. He would take a look around, to see if he needed them or not. If he needed them, he would bring in about ten or twenty and put them in general admission. The boys would yell till their throats w ­ ere sore—­for Haddock Lobo, for América, for Luís de Mendonça, the player who had gotten them f­ ree entry. Even when the field was full, and Haddock Lobo and América did not need supporters, the poor boys could watch the game from the barrier. América’s barrier was better than Fluminense’s hill, as it was closer, taking in the ­whole field. The barrier brought the empty lot closer to the field, allowing any poor boy to essentially take a soccer class, to learn by watching. The poor boys, however, had no field of their own. This field belonged to Haddock Lobo and América; besides being theirs, it was Oriental’s. Oriental 54  Chapter Two

had encircled the field with barbed wire and planted the goalposts at e­ ither end. When a ball went out, it was dangerous. The player, ­running a­ fter the ball, would often forget the barbed wire and badly injure himself. Oriental played ­there, trained ­there, as did Haddock Lobo. Haddock Lobo had their eye on that field; if Oriental ­were to close, Haddock Lobo would end up with the field. Doctor Sattamini, professor of physics of the College of Medicine, owner of the land, rented the field to Haddock Lobo. The field, which belonged to all, ended up just belonging to one. The team raised a wall, closing the field to the street urchins. And l­ ater, the players from good families had a lot more time to train. They ­were almost always students, who spent their time studying and playing soccer—­perhaps playing more soccer than studying. For this reason, the grown men, now with responsibilities, ­were quickly disappearing from the fields. Mustache soccer was ending; the good players now had no mustaches, barely even peach fuzz, getting on their first team at the age of sixteen. A representative example of this was Marcos de Mendonça, who had the ­whole day at his disposal. Not only did he have the money to buy tire-­rubber balls, rubber balls, tennis balls, and oranges; he also had time. He even gave himself the luxury of having his own stocking ball, competing with the street urchins. He chose a silk stocking and clean newspapers to manufacture a better stocking ball, one that bounced more than t­ hose of the poor boys. The worries of work life never came close to entering his head. Old Mendonça, an old-­fashioned ­father, thought that his son should not work ­u ntil ­after he graduated. Before, it was almost a dishonor to the f­ amily. ­Unless, of course, his son became wayward and did not want to study, to make something of his life. In that case, work might fix ­things. Now, a son who since he was a boy had had his c­ areer path marked out, who would be a ­lawyer, a doctor, or an engineer, what he had to do was study and practice his sport. For this reason, the older players, twenty-­five or thirty years old, c­ ouldn’t take it. They w ­ ere departing, making room for the boys of sixteen, the young men eigh­teen or twenty years old. If they r­ eally loved soccer, they would go to the second team to assuage their nostalgia. ­Until they ­were shooed out by other young men, other boys. The heirs of soccer. The generation of Rio and Carioca. Many p ­ eople did not wish to see this, insisting on the mustachioed players, the grown men. They wanted the older players on the first team, the younger ones on the second. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  55

But it d ­ idn’t r­ eally m ­ atter; when the second team of Botafogo played the second team of Fluminense, every­body would go early to Voluntários da Pátria field or to Laranjeiras to see Carioca and Rio play, now in dif­fer­ent jerseys. The boys of Carioca and Rio had grown; they played like adults. They had also trained, and that was no joke. It sufficed to look at Chico Loup’s left leg, much thicker than his right one. His right leg was useful for walking, getting on the tram, dancing—­and for holding him upright when he was kicking with his left leg. He would only shoot left-­footed. He did every­thing left-­footed: passed, shot, and dribbled. For that reason, his left leg had thickened. Only young lads, particularly students, could train like that. They had stayed out, growing, so that they could enter their clubs. The origin of Carioca began with a disagreement over membership. Mimi Sodré wanted to go to Botafogo, but Flávio Ramos, president of the club despite his sixteen years, would not let him. ­There was almost a crisis. Emanuel Sodré thought that Flávio Ramos wanted to be more royalist than the king. At the end of the day, Botafogo had been founded by ­people like Mimi Sodré; the difference between Mimi Sodré and Flávio Ramos was not so large. One was still in short pants, the other one had only just debuted in long pants. Flávio Ramos did not give in for this reason: Botafogo needed to be more manly, like Fluminense. Mimi Sodré and the other boys, who could not join Botafogo, founded Carioca. The young lads did not forget the slight of the big clubs, and they prepared for vengeance, taking it directly. The second team of Botafogo walloped the first team. On Thursdays, the field of Voluntários da Pátria would receive its flood of fans, many in their straw hats with ribbons, many street urchins, the latter to root for the second team. The players on the first team had to run harder on the field, soaking their shirts through, in order not to lose. When they lost, they would not acknowledge it, coming up with the excuse that it had been a training, not a match. The second team of Botafogo soon replaced the first, winning the championship. Nobody could deceive themselves anymore. It was the victory of the student, of the good life; work did not mix with soccer. Even players like Waterman, a ­great keeper, did not last. He gave up his spot to Baena, who ­didn’t actually have the physique to play in goal. Baena was short and skinny, getting lost in the seven meters and thirty-­two centimeters by two meters and forty-­four centimeters of the goalposts. Still he replaced Waterman, training with three or four balls at a time. What Abelardo Delamare was d ­ oing to shoot any ball, Baena was d ­ oing to defend any ball. 56  Chapter Two

Baiano, Arnaldo, Borghert, Gustavo de Carvalho, and Chico Loup would come together in the box, and they would begin to shoot at the same time. Baena would barely have defended one ball, when he had to throw himself to defend another. The forwards would vary their shots, shooting to the corners when Baena was in the ­middle of the goal, and to the ­middle when he was in a corner. Sometimes Baena would catch two balls at once. Waterman, who was still in g­ reat shape, keeper of the Rio de Janeiro side, did not even try to resist. He liked soccer, like a good En­glishman, but not that much. But even if he had liked soccer that much, it ­wouldn’t have helped. He had to work, to live his life. Baena was a law student—he was f­ ree e­ very morning, ­every after­noon, or at the latest by four o ­ ’clock. The case of Botafogo in 1910 repeated itself throughout the clubs. Fluminense won the 1911 championship with ­people like this, who ­didn’t work. And it would be the same t­ hing for many years thereafter, with just one interruption: that of 1912. That year, Paissandu, with its team of En­glishmen, was the champion, all of its players workers and not able to train like Botafogo of 1910 or Fluminense of 1911. But they knew how to take advantage of a unique situation, which would not occur again. Botafogo was still out of the league, and the Fluminense team was at Flamengo, a rowing club without a field, just venturing into soccer.3 They had to train at Russell field in the ­middle of the street urchins. This was an open field, like an empty lot. All the advantages of being a student dis­appeared. To give an idea: Flamengo even lost to Fluminense’s second team, playing as its first, ­because t­ here was no other. Every­thing was wrong. In 1913, however, ­things returned to their proper places. The championship went to América. Marcos de Mendonça was ­doing his preparatory coursework for medical school and did not work. The same was true for Luís de Mendonça, a law student; Mendes, a cadet, already with a star; Ojeda, in the School of Agronomy;4 and Osmar and Aleluia, in the Military School.5 The only ones who worked w ­ ere Lincoln, in commissions and consignments, who had ­free time; Vitti, owner of an envelope factory; and Gabriel de Carvalho and Belfort Duarte, both with Light.6 For Belfort Duarte, however, América was above every­t hing. Whoever wanted to play had to train, to show up on the field at the appointed time. He was always the first to arrive. He would only excuse the absence of Marcos de Mendonça, ­because he knew that Marcos de Mendonça trained at home, with his tennis balls and his oranges. But still, on Thursdays, Marcos de Mendonça had to show up. Belfort Duarte directed the training sessions, yelling about anything he d ­ idn’t like. For The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  57

a bad pass or an errant shot, he wanted to kick the player off the field. No one could calm him down. He also set an example by killing himself on the field. It was hard to imagine that he worked or that he was twenty-­eight years old—­except for his big thighs, getting bigger all the time, becoming ­those of a matron. This was the reason the poor boys called him “the Madame.” It did not help that Belfort Duarte wore shorts that ­were like a skirt; this made him actually look the part of the Madame. And on top of that, ­there was the manner he had of a h ­ ouse­w ife, managing the club, taking care of every­thing, not allowing any mischief. Whoever w ­ asn’t satisfied was told to leave. Players ­were getting chewed out on the field, shamed in front of every­one, the ­others turning away in order not to see, thinking that Belfort Duarte should not yell so much, should be less of a Madame, less a h ­ ouse­wife, but keeping their traps shut, protesting on the inside. Some w ­ ere worried they would be chewed out, too, and tried to obey even more quickly, telling themselves it was not obeying Belfort Duarte but América. It was, however, the same t­ hing. One player created the red banner of América, the denim jersey of old blood, reflecting Belfort Duarte’s jersey. Only through the eleven players listening to and obeying Belfort Duarte did América win, become the champion. The players wanted to be América like him, some g­ oing to the point of extremes, like Vitti. The training session would end, almost at nightfall; the players would go to change their clothes, sweaty and tired, but Vitti, owner of the envelope factory, would run lap a­ fter lap along the boundary line of the field. Belfort Duarte would need to appear on the field, dressed and ready to return to his home near the club, to call Vitti in. Other­wise, he would continue on through the night with his fitness training. Whoever worked and wished to keep playing, fighting for the victory of his club to the last minute, like the students, like t­ hose living the good life, without “hammering in the nail,” without burying his team, had to do that or something like it in order to not be left ­behind. At least on América, Fluminense, Botafogo, and Flamengo—­the only teams that could think about winning championships.

2. On Botafogo’s 1910 championship team, only three players worked: the goalkeeper Coggin, the fullback Edward Pullen, and the halfback Lefreve. Coggin and Pullen, twenty-­four years of age, w ­ ere the oldest of all. They both worked at En­glish import firms, Coggin at Edward Aswert, Pullen at David58  Chapter Two

son & Pullen. For them, soccer had its time and place, without conflicting with work. First work, then soccer. ­These older players had more responsibilities, forcing many to work less or to abandon soccer. Lefreve, the other player who worked, was younger, freer. Lefreve was a broker. The banks would close at three ­o’clock, ­after which he could go to Voluntários da Pátria field. The rest w ­ ere all students: Lulu Rocha, Emanuel Sodré, and Lauro Sodré ­were law students; Rolando Delamare and Décio Vicares ­were medical students; Dinorah de Assis and Mimi Sodré w ­ ere students of the Brazilian Naval School; Abelardo Delamare was still at Abílio High School, finishing his preparatory courses. He was seventeen years old like Mimi Sodré, the babies of the team. Dinorah de Assis was eigh­teen or so, the rest about twenty-­one. Whoever studied more trained less. Emanuel Sodré made a point of getting high marks in e­ very subject, while not neglecting his shots on goal. It seemed as if the schedule of the Law College had been made for soccer players.7 Students had no more than two subjects a day: one class from two to three, the other from three to four. One had time to go from the National Gymnasium on Larga Street, where the college operated, to Cruzeiro Galleria in order to catch the tram that went along Voluntários da Pátria Street, right up to Botafogo’s door. And afterward, one could train at the school, where they would bet on races on the patio. ­There was even a trial race, the Maurício de Lacerda trial, for the freshmen. The freshmen who won the trial would immediately receive the title of honorary upperclassmen, meaning they w ­ ouldn’t be subject to hazing. Emanuel Sodré and Flávio Ramos, used to r­ unning a­ fter a ball on the soccer fields, won the Maurício de Lacerda trial and w ­ ere promoted to honorary upperclassmen. If they did not win the trial, they would have to walk through the streets of the city in clothes turned inside out, holding signs that read “Freshmen are ­idiots.” This was the advantage of playing soccer, combined with the advantage of being a student. However much he studied, Emanuel de Sodré had more time to train than ­those who ­were working—­and Emanuel Sodré was an exception. The other students on Botafogo trained e­ very day, to the point of impressing Joaquim Guimarães. The Soares h ­ ouse had a l­ ittle balcony looking out over Voluntários da Pátria field. Joaquim Guimarães would arrive early in the after­noon, wearing his straw hat with a Fluminense ribbon around it. He would go up to the balcony and watch the Botafogo training session. The poor boys w ­ ere throwing balls for Abelardo Delamare to shoot. Lauro Sodré was making l­ ittle runs in the field with the ball at his feet. Lulu Rocha The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  59

and Rolando Delamare ­were passing the ball back and forth. Dinorah de Assis never s­ topped playing the ball. To Joaquim Guimarães, ­those p ­ eople did nothing else—­they ­were living soccer. If he ­hadn’t spent his after­noons on the balcony of the Soares h ­ ouse, facing the Botafogo field, if he had gone to Fluminense instead, he would have seen the same ­thing—­the only difference being that the players who trained ­every day on Fluminense ­were on the second team. Fluminense still had its team of grown men, all with responsibilities—­a team that only trained on Thursdays and thus would lose the championship. A club that wished to win the championship had to imitate Botafogo and put students on the team, ­people who had time to train. Fluminense won the championship in 1911 just ­because of this. Although it was true that Abelardo Delamare slapped Gabriel de Carvalho, ­after which the league suspended Abelardo Delamare for a year, and Botafogo left the league, leaving Fluminense alone with its team containing eight students. Like the Botafogo of 1910, the Fluminense of 1911 had only three players who worked: Lawrence, Osvaldo Gomes, and Calvert. Osvaldo Gomes could be considered an older student, as he was a teacher. When classes ended for his students, they also ended for him. He never missed a training session; in fact, nobody missed a training session. ­Every day, individual training started early in the morning, so the workers would not miss it. Each player had to run with the ball at his feet, not in a straight line, outwitting shadows; the more zigzags, the better. Afterward, the attack would practice passing from one end of the field to the other without stopping the ball. Charles William then ordered the players to do sprints, short runs at full speed. Training ended with a lap around the field. The students wanted more. Some of them would show up in the after­noon for a kick-­around—­not every­one, just the “addicts,” as they ­were called. However early they arrived, they would find Galo already t­ here. Galo could never just see a ball, wherever he might be. Often on the way to Fluminense he would meet boys playing soccer in the ­middle of the street. He would ask right away if t­ here was a spot for him, roll up his pants, and go ­after the ball, like a kid or a street urchin. The other clubs did not even dream of something like this. They ­were too good for them, the small teams of players who worked. Especially the clubs of the factories, Bangu, Andaraí, and Carioca—­despite the perks that the factories ­were already giving to the workers on the team. A worker who played soccer well, who was guaranteed a spot on the first team, would be sent right away to the fabric room, which was lighter work. 60  Chapter Two

On a training day, the worker-­player would receive a ticket to pre­sent at the gate, in order to leave without losing work hours. The fabric room was an extension of the field; whoever entered the fabric room would find players from the first team folding cloth—­slowly, in order not to tire, reserving their energy for training. ­There ­were two training sessions a week at Bangu: one on Tuesdays, the other on Thursdays. They began at three thirty, ­earlier than in the city. Night would arrive early in Bangu, the sky filled with smoke from the factory. The workers in the fabric room needed to stop work at three ­o’clock. The field was close, next to the factory. All they had to do was walk fifty meters, if that, to change their clothes, and the ball would be waiting for them on the very green lawn, the pride of Bangu. ­There was no other field like that in the city, composed entirely of En­glish grass. The workers from the factory would always wait a bit for the o ­ thers, t­ hose who did not work. The factory, the club, could demand nothing from the students of Bangu. For this reason, they tried to recruit more workers who played soccer, more players for the fabric room. It was not difficult. The boys who played in the church square knew that when they grew up, if they w ­ ere good soccer players, they would have guaranteed jobs at the factory. This gave them a good pretext to do nothing but spend the ­whole day ­after a stocking ball, a rubber ball, or even a real tire-­rubber ball, almost always stolen. Or perhaps “stolen” was not the correct term. It was very common for a ball to fall in the m ­ iddle of the street during a training session or a game of Bangu. The player just had to kick a bit high, and the ball would go over the wall, to the street, to the station. A boy would leave r­ unning with it u ­ nder his arm, and the ball would dis­ appear,8 only to reappear days l­ater in the church square. When playing with a tire-­rubber ball, the boys would try even harder. They would have the illusion that it was a real match, although they ­were all barefoot and t­ here was neither a referee with a whistle in his mouth nor goalposts. But it would be on a Sunday, and on the way to church many p ­ eople would stop to watch the boys’ game for a bit. The one person who d ­ idn’t like soccer in the church square much was ­Father Frota Pessoa. When the boys ­were playing ­behind the church, he ­hadn’t said a ­thing. Soccer seemed an innocent pastime for ­children. The priest could say his mass with no danger of the ball entering the church, bouncing around and startling every­one who was praying. In the back of the church was a tall wall; the ball would hit the wall and return. But then a h ­ ouse was built b ­ ehind the church, and the boys ended up not being able to play ­t here; thus, they would play in the square instead. On a The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  61

weekday it ­wasn’t a prob­lem, but on Sundays, it was disrespectful. Often, the priest would have to stop saying mass b ­ ecause a ball had entered the church. The priest would go to the door of the church and curse the dev­ilish boys who did not re­spect the ­house of God. The curse of F ­ ather Frota Pessoa was not enough. It was necessary to send someone to call Alfredo China. A ­ fter hearing the shout “­Here comes Alfredo China,” the boys would disband. Alfredo China, a mulatto with squinty eyes, was the factory guard. He would show up with a stick and beat any poor boys whom he found in the vicinity, without sorting out who was playing soccer and who w ­ asn’t, beginning with his son, Chico China. Chico China played his soccer in the church square, living in the m ­ iddle of the boys who vexed the life of ­Father Frota Pessoa. The ­others could escape the stick of Alfredo China, but Chico China never did. He would flee, hide in the woods, then go to the Pedra bridge to skinny dip with the other boys, or sometimes go even farther, to Usina Street, which had a big drainage pit, so it was always full of excess w ­ ater, a true swimming pool. Chico China would spend a long time at the Pedra bridge or Usina Street, but the time would come when he had to return home, where his ­father would be waiting for him, stick in hand. Nobody messed around with Alfredo China. Even ­today in Bangu, anyone who wishes to end a soccer game in the ­middle of the street—­the church square now a garden, no longer serving as a field—­simply has to yell “­Here comes Alfredo China.” Unlike the bogeyman, who never existed, Alfredo China most certainly existed, and many a boy in Bangu took a thrashing from him, marked by the blow of a stick for the rest of their lives. Despite the curses of ­Father Frota Pessoa, Alfredo China’s beatings, and every­t hing ­else, soccer continued through the years in the Bangu church square. As time went on, the priest would only stop the mass when the ball jumped into the church, and Alfredo China would only appear ­after the boys had played for a while. Not ­because he was changing, but ­because he wanted the boys to get used to his absence, thinking he w ­ asn’t coming, so that he could arrive suddenly, without warning. Even if he d ­ idn’t catch the boys, he would catch the ball. And then Alfredo China would take his vengeance on it, pulling out his knife and cutting it into pieces, what­ever kind of ball it might be—­stocking, rubber, or tire rubber. He enjoyed sticking the knife into a tire-­rubber ball most of all, the blast of air escaping seeming as if it ­were blood spraying out. ­After a while, ­there would be no balls left, Alfredo China ripping some to shreds and ­Father Frota Pessoa making ­others dis­appear. A ball that entered 62  Chapter Two

the church would never return; the priest would keep it, hiding it where no one could find it. At the same time, the balls that fell in the ­middle of the street, jumping over the wall of Bangu, continued to dis­appear, reaching a point of concern for Bangu, which ordered the construction of a wire fence b ­ ehind the goal and placed ­people outside it to grab balls. But however many balls dis­appeared, it was all the better for Bangu. In exchange for the missing balls, more players for the team would come, more workers for the factory—­workers who, before demonstrating that they knew how to work, would demonstrate that they knew how to play soccer, putting themselves up quickly as candidates for the fabric room. Only in this way was Bangu able to function without players from outside, to count on its own ­people—­people who learned to play soccer for this reason: to defend Bangu and stay in the factory. Though not p ­ eople like Heráclito, a black sailor, who played in the goal. Heráclito was not from the factory, nor from Bangu. To get to training, he had to take an hour-­long train ­ride; he always arrived late. He was a good keeper, t­ here was no doubt—­when he w ­ asn’t drunk, that is. When a training session was over, Heráclito would go to a bar. He would drink his two fin­gers of cachaça and get a taste for it, not wishing to leave the bar, only leaving when he was carried out. Sometimes he would act the tough, throwing over t­ ables; other times he would get sentimental, throwing his arms around the neck of whoever had come looking for him, and begin to cry. Then he would leave for home like an obedient boy. On Saturdays, Bangu would send someone to search the bars for him, but no one would find him. He had gone home; maybe he was already in bed. Heráclito went to bed early when ­there was a game the next day. The key was not to set a drink in front of him. Every­thing would be fine then; he would even forget about drinking. But if he laid his eyes on a ­bottle of cachaça, he would lose his head. Even when it was time to go onto the field. The utmost care was necessary, especially ­because every­body knew the story. Thus, t­ here was no shortage of ­people who could give a ­bottle of cachaça to Heráclito, particularly p ­ eople from the other clubs—­clubs that ­were g­ oing to play Bangu. All that was needed was to put a ­bottle of good cane liquor in Heráclito’s hands and the results w ­ ere guaranteed: Heráclito would find a way to drink it, and e­ very shot taken would go in. That was how Flamengo actually got tired of scoring goals on Bangu. Heráclito had emptied a b ­ ottle of cachaça right before entering the field. The ­people of Bangu only realized it ­after it was too late.9 The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  63

And Heráclito had signed the score sheet just fine. He had taken a ­little extra time, it’s true, but he always wrote slowly, perfecting his letters. The cachaça was still taking effect. What called the attention of Guilherme Pastor was the way Heráclito was walking. Heráclito was standing erect, stiff, and walking slowly, full of the dignity that only a big bender could lend. Guilherme Pastor was getting suspicious. But Heráclito c­ ouldn’t be drunk. How could he be? He had woken up without a drop of alcohol in his stomach, and he had even done the breath test, opening his mouth and blowing into Guilherme Pastor’s nose. ­There had not been the vaguest reminiscence of cachaça. Heráclito arrived in the goal and then began to swing like a pendulum. The last doubt Guilherme Pastor had was gone. Heráclito was drunk, and he was ­going to swallow ­every ball. Guilherme ordered that he be brought a b ­ ottle of ammonia immediately. The game began, no b ­ ottle of ammonia arrived, and the first ball on the target went in. Heráclito wished to defend it with a punch—he squinted, punched in the air, lost his balance, and fell. It was hard for him to get up; he had to use the goalpost for support. And he stayed t­ here, hugging the goalpost, for quite a while. Only ­after the second goal, a repeat of the first, did the b ­ ottle of ammonia arrive. Guilherme Pastor went ­behind the goal and took advantage of ­every ball out of bounds to make Heráclito smell the ­bottle of ammonia. Heráclito would vigorously and quickly sniff the b ­ ottle; he could not dally, as he had to get back to the m ­ iddle of the goal. Heráclito was a bit better, but he was still drunk, still seeing double, two balls instead of one—­and always wanting to catch the other ball, the one that ­didn’t exist. The p ­ eople of the grandstand, who already thought that soccer was a white ­thing, w ­ ere now convinced. H ­ ere was the proof, in Heráclito. This was what happened when one put a black man on a team. Poor Heráclito! Many a white player before him had come onto the field drunk; crying drunk, including Charles Hill. Just like Heráclito of Bangu but white. Before entering the field, Charles Hill would go religiously to the bar—­not just him but all the En­glishmen of Bangu. If the game was against Paissandu, then the En­glishmen from that team and t­ hose from Bangu all lost the notion of time. The fans would have to wait, watching an empty field, while the players drank. One time, even the referee, Andrew Procter, had forgotten the game. Only when they came to ask him w ­ hether the game would start or not was 64  Chapter Two

when he, very serious, majestic even, directed himself to the field, with the players following b ­ ehind. No one looked drunk. Procter threw a coin in the air, Paissandu chose the goal in the shade, and the game began. A bit l­ater, Charles Hill got the ball and went off, making dribble ­after dribble, and all of a sudden found himself in front of Cruickshank, the Paissandu keeper. Without rhyme or reason, Andrew Procter blew the whistle for offside, just as the goal was scored. Charles Hill was transformed into a ­little boy. He kicked his foot and sat down on top of the ball, covering his face with his hands as his shoulders began to shake. Andrew Procter went over to Hill, and as he got closer, he could not bear it and started crying, too. So t­ here they w ­ ere, Charles Hill sitting on top of the ball and Andrew Procter standing, the two crying ceaselessly. And the players of Paissandu and Bangu w ­ ere all patting one another on the back. The game was halted for more than half an hour for this, an En­ glishman ­thing. Nobody said anything—­every­one found it amusing. It’s true that it was another time, a time when players would drink up ­until at least fifteen minutes before a match, then return to the bar at halftime. But they w ­ ouldn’t drink cachaça. The whites drank bock ale, nice and cold, and good whiskey; the blacks drank cachaça. This was the difference between Charles Hill and Heráclito. One white, a factory master; the other black, a sailor. The ­great fault of Heráclito was being black. Bangu knew this and could have taken advantage of the occasion to whiten the team a bit, but the club preferred to leave Heráclito in goal for a while longer, ­until another keeper appeared, black or white. Preferably white. It was always good, even for a factory club, to have more whites on a team than blacks. The blacks w ­ ere very closely watched on the field; they had to play very clean, very decent soccer, respecting the whites. When a black player kicked a white player, t­ here would be an uproar for sure. Every­one would think that the black man should be kicked out of the game, the fan base of the white clubs all the more so. When Bangu went to play against Fluminense, Botafogo, Flamengo, and América, they hardly brought anyone: just the team and half a dozen fans. The fans of Bangu would lose themselves in general admission and the grandstand, never opening their mouths. The black fans had to behave themselves or they would get beaten up; even the other black fans in general admission, who rooted for the big club, would quickly become offended by a “dirty black.” The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  65

For this reason, many black players behaved like ladies on the field, taking the ball from the foot of a white player with a delicacy that you had to see to believe, or letting the white player pass by. But ­t hings ­were dif­fer­ent when the game was in Bangu. Playing ­t here, Bangu regretted not having more black players on the team, as the black players would kick and take the ball from white players with brute force. ­Whether they w ­ ere playing Fluminense, Botafogo, América, or Flamengo, the team that was in command t­ here was Bangu. No m ­ atter how many p ­ eople the club would bring with it, to back the team, it was no use; ­there ­were always more ­people from Bangu. ­People went to general admission, to the grandstand, ready for anything. In Bangu, the roles ­were reversed: the white team was the one that c­ ouldn’t do anything. But then the time would come for Bangu to go down the hill again, and at ­those times, the fewer blacks they had on the team the better. And ­those black players had to be very good and from the factory—­a worker striving for a position in the fabric room. Naturally it was not just anyone who would be assigned to the fabric room. Many players remained at the looms, leaving work only a­ fter the whistle at four ­o’clock, having to run to catch the train. It was not enough to play soccer to have a guaranteed spot in the factory; one had to work. The fabric room was a prize for players like Antenor Corrêa and Luís Antônio. They started out with heavy work at the looms; if t­ here was no vacant spot at the looms, some ­were sent to the dye room, an apron and Dutch clogs covering their feet. Once in a while the dye would spray out, and if it landed on your foot, it would burn, as it was mixed with chemicals. At the looms, the masters did not distinguish a common worker from a soccer player. The distinction was made in the fabric room. Only a­ fter working a lot and playing a lot would a worker-­player win the prize of the fabric room. And if he continued to earn the trust of the factory and of Bangu it could get even better: he could be moved to the office, with even easier work than the fabric room and a larger salary. The factory and Bangu would pay attention to both the work and the play. When a player came from the church square, he would almost always be a good worker, a good player, ­because that is what he had been training for. He had one ambition in life: to wear the Bangu jersey and work in the factory; to merit a place in the fabric room, spending the day folding cloth, and maybe even get as far as the office. It had happened before; it could happen again. For example, anyone could guess that Antenor Corrêa—­a light-­skinned mulatto, almost a blond—­and Luís Antônio, a black man with straightened hair, would end up in the office. They had already made it to the fabric room. 66  Chapter Two

The two had learned to play soccer in the street b ­ ehind the church. While ­ thers went to school, they stayed ­behind the church, kicking the ball around. o And e­ very day they ­were improving, playing more soccer, passing through Esperança, through Brasil, waiting for the day when they had the size and the game to enter the factory on the Bangu team. Every­thing turned out the way they had dreamed it: Antenor Corrêa, from Esperança to Bangu; Luís Antônio, from Brasil to Bangu. And to the factory. Inside the factory they did not seem like soccer players. They worked like any other worker. They would leave at four ­o’clock and go to the field to train. Often the field would be empty except for t­ hose training. This caught their attention, especially that of Luís Antônio. He never knew what position he would play in, from one side to the other, always changing. Bangu needed a half, a back, and he ­wouldn’t question it. He played ­running in the field, sweating his jersey through. He was more than a player—he was the club. One time Bangu was losing to Flamengo with a score of six to zero. ­There was one minute left in the game, and t­ here was a corner against Flamengo. Luís Antônio came r­ unning from ­behind, calling the entire team of Bangu to the entrance of Flamengo’s goal. ­There was no time to lose; it was their last chance. Luís Antônio kicked a perfect corner, which resulted in a goal. He almost went crazy from joy, jumping and shouting like a child. Although Bangu lost the game, they had not lost with zero goals; Luís Antônio had scored the goal of honor. Luís Antônio was not a unique case. ­There ­were black players as good as him with that same love for—­and dedication to—­the club. Andaraí had one: Monteiro, a tall mulatto with an impressive pallor. Monteiro even did more than Luís Antônio. Also, Andaraí was not Bangu. Bangu was a club of the factory; Andaraí, a factory club.10 The difference in syntax between “club of the factory” and “factory club” may seem small, but it i­sn’t. Bangu was an extension of the Industrial Pro­ gress Com­pany of Brazil, the factory disguising itself as a club. Even the Jacinto Alcides public school, named a­ fter the teacher, was beneath Bangu headquarters. The headquarters had been provided by the factory, with its dance hall and stage in the back. This amateur theater also belonged to the factory, to the club. The field was attached to the factory’s garden. One ­didn’t know where the factory ended and the club began. The Cruzeiro Factory, of América Fabril, did not want to be confused with the club. It helped out Andaraí, was interested in its growth, but it preferred not to do so as the factory, instead taking the form of an Afonso Bebiano, of a Commander Alfredo Coelho da Rocha. It was not the factory that donated the field. It was old Coelho da Rocha, at Afonso Bebiano’s request. The factory The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  67

had nothing to do with it, although it belonged to the Bebianos, the Coelhos da Rocha, the Mendes Campos. The rental contract for the field, about 100 mil réis a month, which Andaraí never paid, was not between the club and the factory; it was between the club and old Coelho da Rocha. The land in Barão de São Francisco Filho Street was a swamp, and it needed to be filled. The factory provided the landfill, and every­one from Andaraí—­from the president to the general admission fans—­ pushed a wheelbarrow full of earth. The entire Andaraí, from the top to the bottom, transformed that swamp into a soccer field. Once the grass had been planted and it seemed that Andaraí had a field, the swamp began reappearing in certain areas, opening holes. So ­there was more landfill, the wheelbarrows coming and ­going again, every­one working for f­ ree u ­ ntil the field was ready on behalf of Andaraí. The field represented the colors of the club: the green lawn and the fence painted white—­like the goals, on one side and the other. The factory ordered the field to be walled in and a grandstand to be built; it also opened a bank account for Andaraí. Thereafter they hired a financial officer for the club: Edmundo Grangê, a kind of perpetual trea­surer for Andaraí. The president was chosen by popu­ lar demand, preferably a master to arrange jobs for the good players at the looms and in the fabric room. But the trea­surer had to be Edmundo Grangê; it was better for the factory, better for the club. Edmundo Grangê was very serious; a meticulous man with the soul of an accountant, who made a point of putting every­thing in order. Every­thing to do with Andaraí’s account—­t he money for monthly payments, the money from the games—­passed through his hands. If ­there was a penny remaining, that penny went to the factory. True, ­there never was a penny left over, but Edmundo Grangê always found a way: paying the factory t­ oday to borrow from it tomorrow. Sometimes the same amount, sometimes more. In other areas, Andaraí could live its own life. The factory remained close, liking, naturally, to have a club, a kind of amusement park for its workers. But it ­didn’t demonstrate the kind of paternal care that the Industrial Pro­ gress Com­pany of Brazil did for Bangu. In Bangu, a ­little interior city within the capital of the republic, life revolved around the factory, the club. The club needed the factory, and the factory needed the club. For Andaraí, it was dif­fer­ent. Near the city, connected with other neighborhoods, mixing together with them. The case of Plaza Sete. Was it Andaraí or Vila Isabel? Without the isolation of Bangu, the factory of Andaraí never felt the same need for a club, the need brought to Bangu by the En­glish masters. This helps 68  Chapter Two

to explain the difference between Bangu and Andaraí, a difference of formation. The Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil was a factory transported from ­England to Brazil, along with its cricket team, its soccer team. The Cruzeiro factory was built in pieces, l­ittle by ­little. The En­glish masters came afterward, wanting their cricket, their soccer, but they had other clubs to go to—­more En­glish, less Brazilian, clubs. The masters who joined Andaraí w ­ ere all Brazilian. Some sacrificed themselves, like Diógenes de Andrade Nunes. The pub at Plaza Sete had a standing order from him to serve café au lait and bread and butter to any player from Andaraí. The night when Diógenes de Andrade Nunes did not go to Plaza Sete was rare. He would sit on a bench, ­under a tree, the players all around him: whites like Otto Bandusch, Vilela, Badu, De Maria, and Gilabert; mulattoes like Americano, Monteiro, Anacleto, and Valdemar; blacks like Betinho and Francisquinho. Only Chiquinho, black as well, would not go to Plaza Sete. ­After a training session or a game, he would discreetly get dressed, not getting nude in front of the o ­ thers; say “See you tomorrow”; and dis­appear. He d ­ idn’t want anything to do with eve­ning outings. The ­others, however, rarely missed a chance to go to the plaza and the pub. Even Monteiro from Andaraí, though he ­didn’t drink or smoke. When it was almost midnight, Diógenes de Andrade Nunes—­tired of hearing the tall tales of the players—­would transfer the general assembly of Andaraí to the pub. Monteiro would keep drinking his café au lait with bread and butter while the o ­ thers drank their ­little beers, filling the pub with cigarette smoke. This environment was enough to encourage Monteiro to open his mouth. And when he spoke, whoever was drinking or smoking would stop drinking or smoking to listen to Monteiro—­even Diógenes de Andrade Nunes, who respected Monteiro as if he w ­ ere a player, not as if he w ­ ere president of the club.11 This was Andaraí at night: conversation in the plaza, café au lait, bread and butter, a l­ ittle beer in the pub. A lot of talk and a l­ ittle food. Afterward, every­ one went their own way—­some home, ­others to the club. Sometimes even ­those who had a home, a bed with a mattress, preferred to sleep at the club—­the club with no dormitory. The bar served as a dormitory, with two benches and a concrete floor, cold, even in the summer. T ­ hose who arrived first lay down on the benches; the ­others slept on the floor. In the summer it was all right, even refreshing, with the night air entering the bar. In the winter, however, with the cold pressing in, the players would look for materials to make mattresses and pillows. They covered themselves The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  69

with old newspapers supplied by the pub, and the players would fight over the Jornal do Commercio, which had the biggest pages and the thickest paper. The bar was not, however, sealed up. Beneath the ­counter the wind would enter, sometimes whistling it was so strong. No newspaper could remain still on top of the players. The pages would fly around, lifted by the wind, and hit the shelves. The players gathered themselves together all the closer, dressed as they had been at the pub, some with boots and woolen socks, wearing their club sweaters, green and white. Despite every­thing, they w ­ ouldn’t miss it—­some out of necessity, b ­ ecause they had no home; o ­ thers ­because they just liked it. Every­body liked to wake up nice and early, to drink scalding hot coffee out of a tin cup and eat bread, straight out of the oven. The baker’s cart passed right in front of the door of Andaraí, as did the milk cart. Once in a while, the milkman would bring three f­ ree b ­ ottles of milk for the players, almost always on a Monday, following an Andaraí victory. The players did well a­ fter a win. Diógenes de Andrade Nunes, feeling more generous, would order the rations to be increased. Not a pub but a fine dining establishment. The night would end, as usual, in the pub, when ­there was no invite from Kananga in Japan.12 In that case, every­one—­except Chiquinho, who ­didn’t even stick around for the fine dining—­would go to the dance. The orchestra, warned in advance, would stop suddenly, and the c­ ouples, also warned, would separate in order to applaud, right at the moment when the first player of Andaraí appeared in the hall. Monteiro was never the first; he stayed back, pushing the ­others forward. Nevertheless, he received no less applause. The ladies of Kananga—­mulattoes with ribbons on their heads, black ­women with their lips painted—­would surround Monteiro, the hero of the after­noon. Each player chose his partner, and the orchestra resumed playing. Diógenes de Andrade Nunes would be t­ here at the bar, in front of a few ­bottles of beer, watching the dance. He would stay with the players till the end, prolonging, as much as he could, the joy of victory. From Kananga he would often take the players to the market, already early in the morning. Monteiro did not sleep; he would return to Andaraí when the factory opened. Diógenes de Andrade requested he be allowed an absence, but the factory would not approve it. So Monteiro would go, unwilling to forgo his responsibilities or accept charity from the factory or anyone e­ lse. If he took the café au laits with bread and butter without paying, it was ­because he, like the ­others, had been invited to do so by Diógenes de Andrade Nunes. If not, Monteiro would make a point of paying. He even wanted to pay the club’s account. 70  Chapter Two

Edmundo Grangê would have to say that he ­couldn’t find the receipt, that he would have to send another, and ask Monteiro to wait a few days. Sometimes he would get so ashamed, seeing Monteiro with the money for the receipt in his hand, that he would take the money. Afterward he would repent, as if he had done a bad t­ hing. Yet Monteiro still thought he h ­ adn’t done much. He worked in the factory and d ­ idn’t want special treatment; he left work only a­ fter the whistle. The factory was close to the club, so it was just a l­ ittle ­after four o ­ ’clock that he would show up. He had also quickened his pace, as if he w ­ ere trying to catch a train. Once he arrived, the training would not begin u ­ ntil he had changed clothes, formed the two sides, and given the signal; only then would the referee blow the whistle to begin. If he was the last to arrive in the after­noon, he was the first to wake up in the morning, so he could run around the field and kick the ball around a bit. Vilela, on the other hand, did not have to go to the factory. He, like Gilabert and Americano, did not have anything ­else to do. Monteiro did not want to end up ­behind, so he had to wake up ­earlier. When he went to the factory, he would leave the o ­ thers on the field. Vilela was addicted to strengthening his leg muscles; Anacleto was addicted to r­ unning. The last t­ hing that Monteiro would see, upon leaving, would be Vilela squatting on tiptoes and Anacleto ­running. And then Monteiro would head to the factory, getting paler and thinner by the day. Only someone who had seen him when he first started playing would have noticed the difference. That lifestyle was finishing Monteiro; he was on his way out. João Gomes de Assunção, an enormous black man who looked like a master of ceremonies for a dance club, blamed the rations. Players ­were living on café au lait with bread and butter, eating better only ­after a victory, perhaps once a week, and getting thinner like Monteiro. When he took over Andaraí, João Gomes de Assunção transformed his own ­house into a mess hall for the players. The more players he saw around his ample ­table, the more satisfied João Gomes de Assunção was. The players ­were eating good food of the best quality. In his mind, they needed to fatten up in order to sweat through their jerseys on Sunday, to run from the first to the last minute without failing the team. For this reason, João Gomes de Assunção would invite the players to lunch and dinner at his ­house. Almost all of them would show up and enter without knocking. The gate was always open, as was the door to the dining room, with a set t­ able. The time of plenty had arrived—­though not for a few ­others, like Monteiro. Monteiro went to the ­house one Sunday, then another, and then ­stopped The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  71

g­ oing. He liked João Gomes de Assunção, a man with open hands, but also pitied him. He knew that continuing in that manner, providing banquets for the players of Andaraí, João Gomes de Assunção would end up without a nickel, in utter poverty. And Monteiro did not wish to contribute to the ruin of João Gomes de Assunção. Monteiro would wait for the o ­ thers at Plaza Sete for the chat session, for the café au lait with bread and butter at the pub. ­Because, despite the lunches and dinners of João Gomes de Assunção, the café au lait with bread and butter did not end. Diógenes de Andrade Nunes, no longer president of the club, made fewer appearances, but he still showed up now and again. When he ­didn’t, the chauffeurs of Plaza Sete w ­ ere t­ here for Andaraí, paying for the players’ café au lait, lending five or ten mil réis to one, to another. At night, during pub time, they would leave their cars b ­ ehind at the taxi stops and join the players. What­ever the players wanted, they would provide. Cars with the tops down for plea­sure rides, for parades along Vinte e Oito de Setembro Boulevard, passing more than once in front of Vila Isabel’s headquarters. They ­didn’t charge anything, not even to snatch a player from Bangu.13 The case of Bráulio is a good example. Bangu, forewarned, was ready to receive Andaraí’s caravan with bullets. The chauffeurs armed themselves. In their cars, only the tough guys of Andaraí went, their revolvers and knives at the ready. In the end, they came back with Bráulio, a black man who played center-­half for Bangu, who at Andaraí ended up not playing anything. This would happen a lot. A black player would be brought from the suburbs; he would arrive, then relearn even how to walk on the field. Even at Andaraí. Andaraí had its mulatto and black players, but they w ­ ere refined. They entered the field in green blazers, bordered in white, Monteiro with a chauffeur’s cap on his head, all the players well dressed; Andaraí did not want to make a bad impression. A player who was not used to such ­things would get timid. Many returned to the suburbs, to the empty lots, never wanting to hear about changing clubs again. And all the work of the chauffeurs of Plaza Sete would be lost, of no use. Nor did they complain. On the contrary: they would give their lives to snatch a player from another club, even from Bangu, the end of the earth. It took more than an hour to get ­there, stepping on it, and more than an hour to get back. The pub was open, and the players w ­ ere sitting at the t­ ables, drinking beer and waiting. Monteiro was looking at his watch, worried, not drinking or eat72  Chapter Two

ing anything. The plaza was ­silent; once in a while one could hear the sound of the Botanical Garden tram or the whistle of a guard. Suddenly Monteiro got up and went to the door. The taxis ­were coming, the chauffeurs shooting in the air as if they w ­ ere setting off rockets, to announce that every­thing had gone well. Bráulio got out of a car, frightened, more dead than alive. He had to drink; every­body had to drink, except Monteiro. The chauffeurs did not have the courage to offer anything to Monteiro, and their w ­ ill was not lacking. Not to offer two fin­gers of cachaça, since they knew he did not drink, but rather a very strong eggnog. If Monteiro was not careful, he would not last long. Living like that, playing like he played, it could not be any other way. Where did he find the energy to do what he did on the field? He would not stop, ­running from one side to the other, “killing himself,” as they said in general admission, in the grandstand. The fans had their reasons for using the verb “kill himself” when they referred to certain players. Players like Monteiro, who gave every­thing for the victory of his club. Even when t­here was not even the slightest hope of victory. When Andaraí was losing by a lot, Monteiro would be giving more effort, sweating his shirt through all the more. He had to end the way he did, with tuberculosis. And he played right up ­until the end, on the eve of his death. As long as he could bear to stand up, he did not stop ­going to the club. He began appearing less in the plaza, in the pub; he ­didn’t sleep in the bar anymore, neither on the bench nor on the cement, on a bed of sticks with old newspapers serving as a blanket. His ­sisters had a l­ittle h ­ ouse close to the club. Monteiro moved in with them, took medicine, and received treatment. The work in the fabric room was not hard, but he had to train on Thursdays and play on Sundays. And he had barely enough money for his medicine. Often, without a penny for the tram, he would walk home, slowly, in order not to get tired out. He would arrive home, put on his pajamas, lie down, and remain t­ here with the lights out. He did not sleep well. He would start to fall asleep, then the cough would come, shaking him from side to side. At that point it took a while for sleep to come again. And the days and nights continued like this: from home to the factory; from the factory to the club; from the club home, to bed. ­Until Sunday arrived. On Sundays, Monteiro showed up at Andaraí, dressed himself like a soccer player, and went on the field. When they reached halftime, he would fall onto a bench in the changing room, and it seemed he would die right ­there. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  73

Every­body was telling him to go home, to take care of himself. How could he be properly treated in the ­middle of a championship, when Andaraí had one game ­after the next? Andaraí needed him. When he d ­ idn’t play, the team would lose; it w ­ asn’t the same without him. The players would run onto the field with no enthusiasm. They ­were accustomed to hearing Monteiro’s voice during the game, cheering them on. He had to play, even if it was at keeper. He had played in goal on other occasions; in fact, he had played in e­ very position, from goalie to right winger. For Monteiro, who was sick and feeling weaker all the time, the keeper position was good. He would go u ­ nder the three bars, with a chauffeur’s cap on his head; Andaraí would start losing, and he ­couldn’t take it. He would call someone ­else to goal and take an attacking position. If the game was against Vila Isabel, ­there would be no question, as ­there was a long-­standing rivalry. But with a Sunday game approaching between Andaraí and Vila, Monteiro was not g­ oing to be able to play u ­ nless he wished to die. Doctor Rocha Braga went by his h ­ ouse ­every day, bringing medicine. Rather than giving it to Monteiro, he would hand it to one of his ­sisters, ­because Monteiro was apt to refuse it. Dr. Rocha Braga would meet the other players at the Plaza Sete pub and give them news about Monteiro. This time, t­ here was no more hope; Monteiro would die any day. He might not even make it to Sunday, the day of the game with Vila. When Sunday arrived, Monteiro got up, almost dragging himself to the field. Andaraí field was close, but nobody expected Monteiro to show up. When he did, what they saw was a shadow of what he had once been. The players w ­ ere changing their clothes when Monteiro entered the changing room. No one had the courage to say anything to him; instead, they just stood t­here, staring at him, at his bare chest, skin on bones, all his ribs showing. The only one who could possibly talk him out of it was Dr. Rocha Braga. Monteiro listened to Dr. Rocha Braga, all the while continuing to get dressed as a soccer player. And Dr. Rocha Braga lost his nerve, not knowing what e­ lse he could do. Prohibiting him would be of no use; nothing would be of any use. So Dr. Rocha Braga shut his mouth and helped Monteiro put on his cleats. Monteiro was ­going to die, and if his last wish was to play in this game, then no one on Andaraí had the right to refuse him. And Monteiro played, like that, a match against Vila. Dr. Rocha Braga stood at the fence, crying; many players on Andaraí ­were sobbing as well, on the field, as they ran a­ fter the ball. For all they knew, it was Monteiro’s last farewell. And Monteiro was surviving; d ­ ying was out of the question. Dr. Rocha Braga ­stopped crying, as did all the other players on Andaraí. Monteiro was 74  Chapter Two

playing against Vila. He would spend the next fifteen days in bed; another game against Vila would soon follow. And so Monteiro would continue, resting fifteen days, resting twenty days, between games, so he could feel a l­ ittle better. A ­ fter Vila, ­there was América. But he was not better; he was much worse. He could not even sign his name correctly. The pen was heavy, and his hand would ­tremble. The name of Monteiro, José Monteiro, which appears in the three final score sheets he signed, is like the scratch of a ­dying man, the letters dancing. When the game with América ended, he was carried to the changing room, blood flowing from his mouth. He never again left his bed.14 He would not be the last player of Andaraí to die of tuberculosis. Many died that way—­more blacks, more mulattoes, than whites. The whites almost always managed it somehow. They had f­amily; they could go home. Otto Bandusch, Vilela, De Maria, Gilabert. If they slept at the club many times, it was part of a bender. And ­these benders cost some whites dearly, like Tim and Badu. The black and mulatto players who lived at the club did so out of necessity, even Betinho, who had a ­family, but his ­family lived in the suburbs, far away, and was poor. As a result, he kept getting weaker. It was that life—in the plaza and the pub, players surviving on café au lait with bread and butter, sleeping practically in the open in the bar of the club. The rations improved during the time of João Gomes de Assunção, but that ­didn’t last long, and João Gomes de Assunção ending up with nothing. The ­houses close to the Andaraí field had chicken coops. Many of the chickens found a way out, jumped the wall, and went to scratch in the green lawn of Andaraí. The players who spent the morning at the club, not knowing what they would eat that day, would wring the neck of one or two chickens, then take the chickens, feathers already plucked, to the restaurant of Mr. Antônio nearby, on the corner of Plaza Sete. Mr. Antônio, a Portuguese, liked Andaraí. For this reason, he did not charge anything to prepare the chickens, adding sauce, rice, beans, though only once in a while, so they ­wouldn’t get used to it. Further, ­there ­were not always chickens. The chickens would be more and more locked up in their coops; the only ones released would be t­ hose with a green ribbon attached to their foot. Chickens with green ribbons ­were sacred to the players of Andaraí ­because they belonged to Madame Grangê’s chicken coop. Madame Grangê ordered that all the players be told that ­every chicken with a green ribbon attached to its foot was hers. The chickens with green ribbons kept multiplying. The players started to get suspicious as to ­whether many of ­these chickens ­really belonged to Madame The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  75

Grangê. But how could they distinguish t­ hose that w ­ ere hers from t­ hose that ­were not? Players like that could not compete with the high-­living folks of Flamengo, Fluminense, América, or Botafogo. They could, at the most, put a bump in the road for the big club, taking one or two points from it. For that reason, a lot of big clubs sought out Andaraí on the eve of certain games to convince Andaraí to win for them, like on the eve of Andaraí and Fluminense. The ­people of Flamengo showed up at Plaza Sete, went to the pub, and sat down with the players of Andaraí, promising them the world and more. Flamengo needed an Andaraí win, much more so than Andaraí. If Andaraí won, Flamengo would be the champion. So the players of Andaraí would need to run more on the field, to soak their shirts. If they won, they would not regret it; Flamengo would give to each of them this, that, and the other. The players of Andaraí promised to win the game for Flamengo, but on the day of the game, they lost by a mile. Otto Bandusch had swallowed a goal from midfield, and when the game ended, the Flamengo fans who had gone to Andaraí’s field wanted to rough him up. Otto Bandusch took a few punches and slaps, and then ran, while the Andaraí folks w ­ ere quiet, in both general admission and the grandstand. And Otto Bandusch was white. If he’d been black, the Flamengo folks would not have ­limited themselves to punches and slaps.15 This was the role that the big clubs wanted the small ones to fill, that of hired guns. Each big club chose a small club and made a friendship with it, so that the small club, at the right moment, did not forget them. Beyond this, ­there was nothing. The blacks of the small clubs might play well, like Luís Antônio, Monteiro, Epaminondas, and Chiquinho, but they ­didn’t end up on the Rio de Janeiro side. Only once in a long while, in the case of necessity, when t­ here was no other alternative. The best players had to be white, from good families. On a day when the Metropolitan League, without any other players to send to São Paulo, had to or­ga­nize a side with few whites and many mulattoes and blacks, every­body referred to that side as “had no ­family.” This game was on Christmas Day.16 The ­great players from the big clubs, the whites from good families, refused to play on Christmas Day, as they spent Christmas far from Rio, with their families. The way around this was to get the other players, players from São Cristóvão, Andaraí, Mangueira, and Vila Isabel. Botafogo and América would each give only one player. For Botafogo, it was Pollice, who was white but without a f­amily nearby. The ­family he had 76  Chapter Two

even spoke ill of him. For América, it was Lindinho, called “the Butterfly.” He had a f­ amily, a good f­ amily, but he went from one club to another, like a butterfly from flower to flower. The ­others ­were almost all mulatto and black: Monteiro, Bebeto, Vila, Anacleto, Valdemar. The “no f­ amily” side went to São Paulo, played the match to win the Hebe statue, and suffered the worst defeat ever suffered by a carioca side: nine to one. The only consolation of Rio’s fans was that that side was not the real one. The real one had f­ amily.

3. And perhaps ­there, in that excuse for a loss, was the explanation of every­thing, of the superiority of the players from the big clubs, players who had ­family. ­Family meant a good home and good food. The advantage of having a home, of eating well, was one ­thing, but t­ here was also the advantage of knowing how to read and write, which many ­people thought was much more impor­tant. The best players, r­ eally, w ­ ere students. And if they w ­ ere not students, they w ­ ere employed in business, set up well in life, all knowing how to read and write. When time came to sign the score sheet, one could see the difference right away. The medical students of Flamengo wrote their names quickly; the workers of Carioca took a lifetime to scribble their names. Some broke into a cold sweat, trembling, thinking that they would never be able to sign their names in front of every­one. And they had to sign their names more than a thousand times, from Friday through Sunday. E ­ very small club would arrange a teacher, but only to teach soccer players to sign their names. When a player in an empty lot or a club in the suburbs was discovered, he knew how to play soccer, but he did not know how to read and write. On Andaraí, Anacleto—­a mulatto player who knew his letters—­would take charge of the player, locking himself up with him. All the player had to do was sign his name, to accustom his hand to writing it by tracing the letters. Anacleto would write the player’s name, then have him trace it in pencil. The player would only pick up a pen when he had learned how to draw his name in pencil, from the first to the last letter. It was one ­t hing, however, to draw one’s name in a room, almost alone, Anacleto looking the other way, and another t­ hing entirely to sign the score sheet with many ­people around, watching closely. Locked up in a room with a player, one could err many times before getting it right; it ­didn’t ­matter if one made a ­mistake. If, however, one erred on The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  77

the score sheet, every­thing was lost. The club would lose points, and the league would call him in for an exam, giving him a primer to read. ­There ­were some players who could not sign that score sheet no m ­ atter what. It seemed they had learned, but in the moment they forgot, and the club would need to arrange for another to go on field. ­There ­were players who, in order to learn, had to change their names, as in the case of Pascoal. Horácio Werner, of Rio de Janeiro, saw Pascoal playing on Municipal’s field in Saúde.17 Municipal was the club of “Old Ironsides” Antônio, a club of the docks. They or­ga­nized players of the informal games in Saúde, sometimes good players, like Pascoal. Pascoal did nothing ­else. He spent the day with a ball at his feet, managing to draw a crowd to watch him playing with the ball. He would stop the ball on his foot, holding it, the ball trapped, as if it w ­ ere tied to his foot. Then he would move his foot up and down, the ball moving as well, without falling on the ground. It only fell when he got tired of it. Other­wise, he could stay like that all day, playing at not letting the ball fall on the ground. Horácio Werner did not need to know anything ­else. He grabbed Pascoal, took him to Rio de Janeiro, filled out a signing slip, then gave the slip to Pascoal to sign. It was then that Pascoal informed him that he did not know how to write. Horácio Werner had to use the same pro­cess as Anacleto. He signed Pascoal’s name, simplifying the letters, and he ordered Pascoal to trace the name a thousand times. It d ­ idn’t work. Pascoal’s last name, that of an Italian fishmonger from Saúde, was Cinelli. The only way to have Pascoal successfully sign was to give him a more modest last name, more common, with fewer letters and no double letters to trip him up. Horácio Werner found nothing better than Silva. Pascoal remained Pascoal Silva from that moment on.18 With his true name, he would not have gone beyond a player in Saúde. From this, one can see the importance of knowing how to sign one’s name. This importance was exaggerated by the cult of the student. T ­ here was, naturally, a reason for this cult. Flamengo won two consecutive championships, ­those of 1914 and 1915, with a team made up almost entirely of medical students. The other big clubs, Fluminense, América, and Botafogo, had students, but not in such an overwhelming proportion: nine medical students and one law student. The more students on a team, the better. This seemed to prove that only students should play. ­Those who ­were no longer students thought immediately of abandoning soccer, as in the case of Borghert. He graduated at the end of 1914, and to play in 1915 was tough, when he was no longer a student. His ­family, which had never said anything about his playing before, began to say t­ hings, considering it a scandal that a doctor would go around r­ unning 78  Chapter Two

a­ fter a ball, as if he w ­ ere still a student. Alberto Borghert thus had to change his name ­because old Borghert, on Mondays, would read the sports pages of the newspapers attentively, to find out if his doctor son still allowed himself the plea­sure of playing soccer. ­There was always a name that deceived him in its first letters, Borges or Borja. The soccer columnists had answered Borghert’s appeal. They no longer wrote, in the lineup of Flamengo, ­either Alberto or Borghert. The readers who had gone to the match may not have even noticed the changed name. And if they did, they would put the blame on faulty editing. Borges and Borja w ­ ere printed only for one reader: old Borghert. Thus, Alberto Borghert could play the ­whole year of 1915 and become a champion again, prolonging his good times as a student, when he was so connected to soccer. When he knew he wanted to become a doctor, he would take the pulse of the players before and a­ fter the training sessions and games, just to check something. The players allowed him to do it as a joke, but they ­didn’t believe in it, despite the fact that they, too, w ­ ere studying to be doctors. Alberto Borghert ended up stopping in order not to seem pedantic. The study of medicine was of no help to the players of Flamengo. The college had merely the virtue of establishing between them the camaraderie that was so indispensable to a soccer team, almost all of them studying together. The college did not interrupt the life of the club; on the contrary, the college became an extension of the club—or the club of the college. Not a single player on Flamengo spent a day without meeting with the ­others, ­whether at the club, the College, or Lamas Restaurant. On some mornings they would take a boat trip, then take a dip in the sea. The swim was one more pretext to do a run, from the garage to the ­Hotel Central, then back. Nobody took any notice, as the Flamengo players looked like bathers, dressed similarly to every­one e­ lse, with tight shorts that reached to the knee. They ran early in the morning so as not to have to run in the after­noon at Russell, the field they rented. They w ­ ere ashamed to run on that field, which was not theirs. The shame only dis­appeared when Flamengo, in 1915, received its field on Paissandu Street. Then every­thing they did in ­there was fine, and nobody had a prob­ lem with it. In 1914 through the beginning of 1915, Russell Field was used only for kicking the ball around. They would have a kick-­around almost ­every day. ­After classes, the players would go to the club; from the club to Russell was just a hop, skip, and a jump. The street urchins at Russell field, already used to them, did not get in their way anymore. They emptied the field but stuck around to spy, to learn. In this way, time passed swiftly. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  79

On Wednesday after­noons, the Flamengo team did not show up at Russell. Instead, they would go to Campos Sales to train with América. ­People would be lined up all along the barrier, making it seem like a game day. Flamengo would always lose, so as not to put América’s goodwill to the test, who had been so genteel, showing such camaraderie to Flamengo. No club but América had remembered Flamengo, though all of them knew Flamengo had no field to train on. Training at Russell, on a ­little nothing field, was a good enough place for boys to play. Flamengo had lost two championships. For this reason, the team made a point of not beating América in the training sessions. And also to leave América with the sweet illusion that they would be the 1914 champions. At night, the meeting would be at Lamas Restaurant, for a l­ittle game of billiards, a chat, and the famous ham and eggs. Sometimes, to change ­things up, ­they’d have café au lait with bread and butter, the same café au lait with bread and butter as the Andaraí players in the Plaza Sete pub, the difference being that the Andaraí players practically lived off of that café au lait. That was not true of the Flamengo players, far from it. When they went to Lamas, they had already eaten lunch and dinner, and ­were all well fed. If they ate ham and eggs at Lamas or drank café au lait, it was only so they w ­ ere not eating nothing in a dining establishment. It was only to eat more. The truth is, they could not live separate, wherever they might be—at the club, the college, Lamas. ­There was still another meeting place: the Píndaro and Amarante boarding­house, a ­family establishment on Corrêa Dutra Street. The eve­nings at the boarding­house of Píndaro and Amarante—­called that ­because they lived ­there—­were special occasions, often on the eve of a game. The players would hear ­music in a pleasant atmosphere, as if they ­were at home. Antônio Fonseca would go to the piano, while Ângelo Pinheiro Machado plucked the violin. The players would distract themselves, surrounded by young ladies, each one wishing to flirt with one of them. The next day ­those young ladies would be in the grandstand, biting their lace handkerchiefs, letting out l­ ittle screams, rooting for the victory of Flamengo. Flamengo almost always won, which was, for the young ladies of the Píndaro and Amarante boarding­house, the natu­ral order of ­things. With a team like that, made up of nine medical students, one law student, plus Galo, any club would be used to winning, to lifting championship cups. The Flamengo players, however, knew the real reason for their wins. A bit of it had to do with what the young w ­ omen thought, b ­ ecause they w ­ ere lads of society, students. But it w ­ asn’t b ­ ecause they studied, b ­ ecause they w ­ ere doctors; it was ­because, being lads of society, they had every­thing: home, food, and clothes washed and starched. 80  Chapter Two

And time—­time to study, to play soccer, to live that life. Every­body together, as if they belonged to the same ­family, as if they w ­ ere b ­ rothers. The club was serving the role of a second home. The “of Flamengo,” “of América,” “of Fluminense” served as a common line of ancestry. The players ­were b ­ rothers; the members, cousins; the fans, distant relatives, but relatives still. At least they felt as if they w ­ ere. On weekdays, the club would gather together the closer relatives, the ­brothers and the cousins; on game days, the ­whole f­ amily. The rich relatives, ­doing well in life, would be in the grandstand; the poor relatives in general admission, even on the barrier. This was the secret of the clubs’ strength. For this reason, the clubs with championship ambitions wanted to be more than the second home of the players; they wanted to be the true home, the true f­amily. Even when they w ­ ere not, like Flamengo, they ­were an extension of the college, a meeting place for classmates. Consider the case of América in 1916, consisting of a medical student, Fe­ rreira; a linotypist at the Correio da Manhã, Paulino; a student in the Naval War School, De Paiva; three agronomists, Ademar, Oscar, and Ojeda, the only classmates studying together in Pinheiros; an industrialist, Vitti; an employee of the telegraph com­pany, Paula Ramos; an employee of the light com­pany, Gabriel de Carvalho; an employee of Gomes Galleria, commissioner of coffee, Álvaro; and a do-­nothing rich lad, Haroldo. Only a club could make a ­family out of t­ hese ­people. They would meet in the after­noon in América’s hall, beneath the grandstand—­the same grandstand built in 1911, with badly attached boards, opening up cracks through which one could see the legs of the young ladies on game days. Many players stretched their necks before they went to the changing room, in search of a well-­turned leg. The hall had wicker chairs. The players would sit down, pulling their chairs closer to Paula Ramos, the team captain. Paula Ramos almost always had a letter from Belfort Duarte. Belfort Duarte, in Rezende, never forgot América for even one day. It was like he was writing letters from a f­ ather to his sons. The players of América, at least, listened to the reading of the letters of Belfort Duarte with the attention of someone receiving fatherly advice. Belfort Duarte no longer yelled, could no longer throw players off the field. He had ceased being “Madame,” the h ­ ouse­w ife almost hysterical from so much work, r­ unning h ­ ere and t­ here, becoming a f­ather of c­ hildren already grown, with the care of an older ­brother. Once in a while he would come down from Rezende, on a training day or a game day. On a game day he would stay quiet for forty minutes, awaiting halftime to pay a visit to the changing room. He would tell them what he had The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  81

liked, what he ­hadn’t. On a training day, he would come on the field, stopping the training to give his advice. The player he was addressing would nod his head repeatedly. Every­one nodded their heads; what Belfort said was sacred to them. For that reason, ­every after­noon, when they arrived at América, they asked if ­there was a letter from Belfort Duarte. When ­there was no new letter, Paula Ramos would reread the last letter, always kept in his pocket, preserved like a relic. The re­spect for Belfort, his love for América, was a line of unity joining all of them, which was what made them go around together, to arrange pretexts to spend more time together, creating traditions, like dinner ­after training sessions at Filhos do Céu, a restaurant in Bandeira Plaza. On Wednesdays, Henrique “Chuckles” Santos would, before the training session, go by the Filhos do Céu restaurant and instruct them to join some ­tables together. The one who paid for dinner was him, not with his own money but with the club’s money. The players, tired from training, needed to eat well. Not that they ­didn’t eat well at home, but together, at dinner, conversing and drinking a l­ ittle beer, they ate even better. ­There would always be a bean soup and some h ­ orse­meat, with two eggs and French fries. For dessert, marmalade with cheese, oranges, pears, and apples. Or the coconut sweets of Filhos do Céu, famed in the neighborhood. The dinner would last a while, the players only leaving the t­ able around ten o ­ ’clock at night, well fed and relaxed. The club looked a­ fter its players, trying to make sure that they, a­ fter a hard training session or an even harder game, soaking their jerseys, d ­ idn’t let loose too much and start off on a bender. Gabriel de Carvalho, who usually did not eat at Filhos do Céu, would go dine with João Santos, as his home was close to the club, on Campos Sales as well. Gabriel de Carvalho would also emerge well fed and relaxed; América preferred, however, that every­one go to Filhos do Céu. It was impor­tant to them, staying together in t­ hese moments when they left off being every­thing ­else they w ­ ere—­students, business employees, engineers, industrialists—in order to be simply América players. Vitti did not want to stop ­doing laps on the field. Ojeda was kicking penalties, with the tips of his toes, aiming right in the m ­ iddle of the ball. The ball would leave his foot, carving a path in the earth. It would always enter the goal, shaking the net. The readings of Belfort Duarte’s letters in the after­noons, the nights in the hall, the dinners ­a fter training sessions and games, brought the players of América closer together, giving a familial physiognomy to the team. A photo­graph of a team like this seemed like a picture in a f­amily photo ­a lbum, the w ­ hole f­ amily posing together, nobody missing, each one in his place. 82  Chapter Two

Such w ­ ere the Flamengo of 1914 and 1915; the América of 1916; the Fluminense of 1917, 1918, and 1919. Marcos Vidal and Chico Neto, Laís, Osvaldo and Fortes, Mano, Zezé, Welfare, Machado and Bacchi—­these ­were names and ­faces that every­one saved. Memory never failed them. ­These ­were also the names that appeared in the papers, always the same, the f­aces that appeared in the team pictures, always the same. The picture of the team from one game serving for another. No one noticed any difference, ­unless it was by way of the background, sometimes the tower of Guanabara Palace, sometimes América’s barrier with loads of p ­ eople, sometimes the palm trees of Paissandu Street. The team was always arranged the same way, the defense in back, standing; the attack in front, kneeling. Fluminense, then, as champions three years in a row, was more than a second home to the players. The players lived ­there; Fluminense prepared a dormitory with beds for all of them. When construction began on the stadium, they rented a h ­ ouse close by, on Guanabara Street, for all of them, with a visiting room, a dining room, and bedrooms. It was a good ­house, perfectly suited to them, with the advantage that it was a Fluminense ­house. Early in the morning, the Fluminense players would wake up and go to the field to do something that the players from other clubs had never done: individual training. Fluminense had contracted a Mr. Taylor for this, to physically prepare the players. Arnaldo Guinle, president of the club—­a millionaire many times over—­set the example. He would wake up at the same time as the players, then be driven to the field in his all-­white Cunningham, with its soft springs and large seat in the back, like a cushioned sofa. Arriving at Fluminense he would wait for his chauffeur, in uniform and wearing gloves, to open the car door. He would jump out and join the players and do what­ever they ­were ­doing: Swedish gymnastics, sprints, hikes up the hill, each person—­Arnaldo Guinle included—­carrying his own sack of sand. ­A fter individual trainings, kick-­a rounds, and group trainings, and before games, the players would lie down on t­ ables appropriated for massage, ­because Fluminense also had what no other club had: a masseuse. Petersen loosened the muscles of the players, ending their leg swelling, so common in ­those who played soccer and did not get massages. Only Marcos de Mendonça did not show up in the morning at Fluminense field for individual training. He did his gymnastics at home and had a personal masseuse. The ­others left Fluminense only for classes and for work. Some players ­were not studying or working, like Fortes, or “Dadá.” His ­father, Agostinho Fortes, arranged a job for his son, but Dadá could not get used to life in a bank; the The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  83

life at Fluminense was much better. And his f­ ather, a fan of Fluminense, who admired his son more and more as a soccer player, had no other remedy; he allowed it, not getting too worried about the ­whole t­ hing. In fact, he increased Dadá’s monthly allowance, rewarded, like Machado, who received twenty mil réis from his u ­ ncle Bandeira ­every time he scored a goal. Like Zezé Guimarães, a fop. His b ­ elt tight and his collar soft, drowning his neck, wearing a bowtie, the ends of his shirt sticking out of the sleeves of his coat, always a bit short. His slacks narrowed as they went down, pinching at the ankle, and could only be put on before he had put on his shoes, which had pointy tips and looked like motorboats. Zezé Guimarães was not working, not d ­ oing anything, even joking about the ­others who worked. When Harry Welfare, ­after a training session and an eggnog, was preparing to leave for work, Zezé Guimarães could not resist yelling “Ya g­ oing already, slave?” And Welfare was not the only one who worked. T ­ here was also Mano, younger than Zezé, who was a functionary of the Court of Accounts; Osvaldo Gomes, a teacher who had always played soccer. And Laís, an assistant broker; Chico Neto, with a pharmacy degree, a sworn clerk of Notary Noêmio Xavier da Silveira making 700 mil réis—350 mil in salary and another 350 mil in expenses—­plenty of money at that time, even more so for someone who lived at the club; and Vidal, the “Baron,” who could live the good life of Zezé Guimarães with his position at the Caixa Econômica.19 Marcos de Mendonça had two jobs, one in the Queiroz plant, the other in the Locomotive and Construction Com­pany. He had enrolled in the Polytechnical School and was engaged to Ana Amélia; he was g­ oing to get married and be a f­ ather—­a ll in ­those years of the t­ riple championship. Since 1916, Marcos de Mendonça had been delaying the moment when he would leave soccer, letting the time roll by a bit longer, to win one championship, then another. Soccer had not yet given him what he wanted: the title of three-­time carioca champion, the title of South American champion, the medals that ­were missing from Ana Amélia’s bracelet. Also, soccer was not interfering with his life. He was still Marcos de Mendonça, the purple stripe, with special privileges, specifically that of remaining at home in the morning and not having to obey Mr. Taylor. Marcos de Mendonça showed up at Fluminense on Thursdays and Sundays only, on training days and game days. He did not go to Lamas for a 100-­point billiards game, much less to try the famous scrambled eggs and ham. He did not go to the eleven o ­ ’clock mass at the Matriz da Glória, something that even Welfare did—­not to hear the mass or to see the young ladies but to be with his teammates, with Vidal and Chico Neto, Laís and Fortes, Mano and Zezé, and Machado and Bacchi. 84  Chapter Two

The Fluminense players often mixed with the Flamengo players, forming lines down the staircases of the Matriz da Glória and forming groups at Lamas. On the day of a matchup between the clubs—­a Fla-­Flu—­they would sometimes go together, arm in arm, up Laranjeiras Street, yelling out hip-­hurrahs without rhyme or reason. Win­dows would open and close quickly; game time was approaching. Once in a while, one could see the teacher Osvaldo Gomes, taken by surprise, almost dragged. But never would they see Marcos de Mendonça. Not even at the home of Coelho Neto, where the Fluminense players gathered on Sundays ­after a game; not even on the nights of literary gatherings did Marcos de Mendonça remain close to the o ­ thers. Almost every­one e­ lse gathered in the dining room, and Marcos de Mendonça would go to the visiting room. Dona Gabi would sit down at the piano; sometimes she would sing, and Ana Amélia always recited verses.20 Marcos de Mendonça, with his back to the win­dow, would watch Ana Amélia. Few players would stay in the visiting room: Osvaldo Gomes; Vidal, “the Baron”; and Chico Neto. With his long poet’s hair, Chico Neto did not even look like a soccer player. Marcos de Mendonça would have a conversation with Vidal or Chico Neto in the visiting room of Coelho Neto or in the office of Arnaldo Guinle. Marcos de Mendonça would sink into a leather chair, cross his legs, and feel at home at Fluminense, as he understood Fluminense. He ­wasn’t interested in Lamas or the staircases of the Matriz da Glória; only Coelho Neto’s visiting room and Arnaldo Guinle’s office. Or, on special occasions, the second-­floor hall of the Sul América restaurant. Fluminense would win a game, and Arnaldo Guinle would have them prepare a good dinner at Sul América. Marcos would come and sing with the ­others. Every­one would sing, holding their glasses, marking the time with their nodding heads. ­There was no shortage of Fluminense songs. Some with lyr­ics by Ana Amélia, o ­ thers with lyr­ics by Luís de Mendonça. Fluminense, “oh Fluminense, glory belongs to thee,” written by Ana Amélia; “We are all Fluminense, and play with love, the tricolor jersey is only worn with love,” by Luís de Mendonça. T ­ here ­were more songs by Luís de Mendonça than by Ana Amélia: We always sing our victory for every­one to hear, for in Rio de Janeiro ­we’re champions each year— thus we players give this cheer! They would all be ­t here, no one missing, Marcos de Mendonça singing louder, encouraging the o ­ thers. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  85

Fluminense won when to win ­there was no way. Some saint performed a miracle, Who’s the saint of the day? St. Benedict, St. George St. John and St. Joe, What m ­ atters the saint? ­We’re champions, you know! To sing like that, a­ fter a victory dinner, was considered proper by Marcos de Mendonça, a good En­glish custom. It sufficed to look at Welfare, already a bit drunk, swinging his head; it seemed as if he w ­ ere in E ­ ngland. Every­thing had its time, its place; even the somersault of Vidal e­ very time Fluminense scored a goal. Marcos de Mendonça was not capable of ­doing something like that in front of every­one, but he felt the same t­ hing the o ­ thers felt when Vidal did a somersault: more w ­ ill to win. Without scandal, without ceasing to be who he was; he was Marcos de Mendonça at all times. And despite this, he to one side, the rest of the team to the other, it did not put them out of tune. On the contrary. One could not recite the Fluminense team without beginning with Marcos de Mendonça. One recited the Fluminense team like a sonnet, di-­dee-­dah, di-­dee-­dah, di-­dee-­dah. Perfect decasyllables, like “Listening to Stars,” by Bilac. The sonnet of Fluminense, working in form and meaning; beyond ready, with Marcos, Vidal and Chico Neto, Laís, Osvaldo and Fortes, Mano, Zezé, Welfare, Machado and Bacchi. One could not touch a syllable without ruining every­thing. The ear would immediately perceive the difference, in the dissonance of a broken foot—­ which is what happened when one tried to recite any other team that had not won championships. Each one with its broken foot, the name of a player who should not have been on the team. On Fluminense, ­there was no dissonance. Marcos, Vidal and Chico Neto, the so-­called golden trio. Marcos would go one way, Vidal another, Chico Neto still another, to get it right. This is how they understood one another. A similar case is that of Welfare and Fortes. Welfare, quite En­glish, taught mischief to Fortes, who was very Brazilian. When the two w ­ ere together, conversing, it seemed as if Fortes would never be able to understand Welfare. How could he, if Welfare did not speak Portuguese, and Fortes did not speak En­glish? But Fortes understood. He would go to the field and step on the foot of the player on the other team without anyone seeing; he would do every­thing that 86  Chapter Two

was prohibited without anyone seeing. The player on the other team would find it funny. Fortes, a white society lad—an enfant gâté, as the columnists would say—­could do what­ever he wanted on the field; no one would say anything. But if somebody e­ lse w ­ ere to do it, that would be something to see. For that very reason, Welfare taught Fortes more than the ­others. Mister Welfare knew ­things that o ­ thers would not even dream of learning to do; it was a kind of A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court situation. It was like Fluminense was using a banned weapon; the other clubs had swords, while Fluminense had a machine gun. A player like that, like Welfare, could not be an amateur—­a comment made by an En­glishman on Corinthians, when Welfare first started for Rio de Janeiro. In a corner against Corinthians, the En­glishman Snell was preparing to jump, but he did not; the one who jumped was Welfare, a­ fter stepping on Snell’s foot, to score a goal. Snell went to protest, not against the foul but against the presence of a professional on a Brazilian team. Only when they explained to him that Harry Welfare had just arrived from ­England, where he had played for Liverpool as an amateur, did Snell calm down. The player who had stepped on his foot had not been just any amateur; it had been a Liverpool player, from the first division of the En­glish League. That made sense to Snell, but not to the players of the other clubs. On the eve of a game against Fluminense, the players of the other clubs could not get Welfare off their minds. They knew it was necessary to keep the En­glishman from scoring a goal. ­There was only one way: to kick Welfare right in the knee. This was a ­recipe that Píndaro would use, to the letter, when he found himself in front of Gradim, a black man on the Uruguayan side. T ­ here ­were ten whites and one black, the black Gradim playing better soccer than many whites. Píndaro de Carvalho could not limit himself to swearing, like Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer did, calling Gradim something ugly. For that ­matter, Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer was not even playing against Gradim; he was training. And training upon request, to fill a hole. The Uruguayans telephoned from Fluminense’s field over to Botafogo’s; they needed three players in order to form two teams, and the three available ­were Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer, Celso de Sousa, and Décio Vicares, from the 1910 Botafogo team, who ­were out of shape, having not played soccer in a long time. Rivadávia Corrêa Meyer barely had the desire to touch the ball. He took an elbow, and Gradim got the ball. His vengeance was to call Gradim a “stinking black.” If Gradim heard, he pretended that he h ­ adn’t, like e­ very black man who played soccer. A black man could not get offended and fight on the field. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  87

Other­wise, he would get beaten up; ­people would jump out of general admission, out of the grandstand, with their canes raised, ready to thrash him. It was no use, therefore, to curse Gradim, much less so in a decisive match of the South American championship. The only ­thing that would work was a kick. When Gradim got the ball, the hearts of Brazilian players grew small. It seemed as if Gradim had the devil in his body. He took two shots, and ­there ­were suddenly two Uruguayan goals against the Brazilians. It had rained and the field was wet, and Marcos de Mendonça did not throw himself on the ground—in order not to get his jersey dirty, was what they kept saying. But Gradim did not do anything more, ­either. Píndaro de Carvalho, already a doctor, kicked Gradim, much more willingly than he had ever kicked Welfare. But Welfare was white, and Gradim was black. He actually took plea­sure in kicking a black man. The fans applauded, yelling, “­There you go, Píndaro!” They let Gradim get away from him, go back to the midfield, and keep his distance, which is what Gradim did. Píndaro de Carvalho was Brazilian; he was in his own land, and he could kick all he wanted. And the black Gradim dis­appeared from the box and did not score another goal; when he found himself with the ball at his feet, all he was thinking about was how to get rid of it as quickly as pos­si­ble, b ­ ecause Píndaro might be close. But he had scored two goals and was a g­ reat player; a black man could be a ­great player, like Gradim. ­There was a throng of Gradims in Brazil and beyond. ­Every black man who played a bit of soccer became a Gradim.

4. ­ ntil then, no big club thought of recruiting black players to win a champiU onship. Every­one was convinced that whites played much better than blacks. The proof was t­ here: only white teams w ­ ere champions: Fluminense, Flamengo, América, and Botafogo. They had not yet seen Gradim, but they had seen Welfare—­a player who practically fell from the heavens to Fluminense, knowing more soccer than the ­others. He could only be white. Thus, they went looking for more Welfares. América sent someone to seek out the Bertonis in São Paulo, Bertolão, and Bertolinho. They w ­ ere not En­ glish but Uruguayan, but they played real soccer. Belfort Duarte arranged good jobs for them in the Saltpeter Com­pany of Chile. The Bertonis w ­ ere not satisfied, however; they wanted more. They knew that América needed them, and they exploited this fact. On the eve of an impor­tant game, they would come up with a story about a good business deal awaiting them in São Paulo, but they c­ ouldn’t go since they had to play and 88  Chapter Two

­ ere thus losing money. Belfort Duarte ended up understanding what they w ­were up to, and he booted the Bertonis off of América. They would not do. Botafogo had not won a championship since 1910, instead watching Fluminense, Flamengo, and América win the titles. They tried to find their Welfares too, importing Monte and Beregaray. Monte was handsome and successful with the young ladies, and he had a hard time leaving the casinos. ­People would go to the Cassino Assírio just to see him dance an Argentine tango. Monte would spend his days and nights dancing, picking up young ladies, getting himself in trou­ble with ­women, and playing soccer; he had no time for anything e­ lse. In fact, the only time he showed up at Joaquim Delamare’s factory was to receive his salary. Joaquim Delamare was certain that Botafogo was operating the same way as Fluminense. Welfare had left Anglo-­Brazilian for Walter & Co. But anyone ­going to Walter & Co. during work hours would find Welfare. Just let someone go to Joaquim Delamare’s factory and try to find Monte. Monte would make stops at the Colombo Pastry Shop, at the Assírio, and at Botafogo. Even so, Botafogo continued without a championship win, leaving that for Flamengo, América, and Fluminense. More so for Fluminense, which had Welfare and every­thing ­else. The Fluminense players w ­ ere sleeping at the club. On Saturdays they left Lamas early, in order not to encourage him. If Welfare stayed out late, he would be apt to drink u ­ ntil he passed out. For this reason, and not just ­because of Welfare, Fluminense set the time for the players to go to bed, and the players went at the scheduled time. When they woke up, they had café au lait and bread, nice and hot. They could also have a plate of ham and eggs and a cup of eggnog. The better fed the players ­were, the better it was for Fluminense. Only very well-­fed players could stand the hard training sessions of Mr. Taylor. They ate a lot during the week, and on game day they ate less—­ and e­ arlier, before the eleven ­o’clock mass. Some just ate scrambled eggs. ­After the mass, they would lie down for a massage, the changing room filled with the odor of camphor. The tea would come right before the entrance of the teams on the field. This was another one of Welfare’s ­things. Before his arrival, the players drank coffee before the game. Coffee would excite them, while tea would calm them, and the players needed to have calm nerves. Sometimes the tea was not enough. Laís would drink the tea, bumping his chin all the while, his hand trembling. Only five minutes ­after playing would he stop trembling. All the players of Fluminense traded coffee for tea except for Osvaldo Gomes, the teacher, who demanded his cup of coffee. So it would be ten cups of tea, one cup of coffee. Osvaldo Gomes made a point of being dif­f er­ent. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  89

Fluminense thought of every­t hing, even the cup of coffee for Osvaldo Gomes. What other team did the same? Not any of the other big ones, let alone the small ones. ­There was one ­thing, however, that nobody had thought of: the growing importance of soccer.21 Even t­ hose not involved felt it, as in the case of Doctor Mario Rachê. For years, as a boss, then as a partner, he sought to convince Mário de Mendonça to abandon soccer. When he i­ magined a director of the Queiroz plant, of the Locomotive and Construction Com­pany, playing soccer, Doctor Mário Rachê was scandalized. One day in 1919, however, he went to see the tiebreaker match between Brazil and Uruguay. When Friedenreich scored the winning goal, Doctor Mário Rachê, crying, hugged an old En­glishman whom he had never seen in his life. And the most extraordinary t­ hing is that he kept crying and hugging that old En­glishman, with no shame whatsoever, jumping around like every­body ­else. The p ­ eople on the field carried Marcos de Mendonça in triumph. ­There was no radio; it was the train that carried the news of the victory. At all the stations from t­ here to Esperança, Doctor Mário Rachê yelling out the ­little win­dow that Brazil was the champion. A light had gone on for him: if he played soccer like Marcos de Mendonça, he would never abandon it, be he a director of a plant, a com­pany, what have you. But the same ­thing that made Doctor Mário Rachê think like that was what frightened Marcos de Mendonça. Soccer was becoming too impor­tant. Ever since Abelardo Delamare slapped Gabriel de Carvalho and Belfort Duarte started yelling at all the América players, even wishing to hit them, Marcos de Mendonça trained at home, far from the Belfort Duartes of the world. But he examined his knees ­every day. He knew that he was in shape ­because of two t­ hings: his skinned knees and his s­ ilent catch, the ball d ­ ying in his hands without a sound. But he was not blind. The time of soccer for the entertainment of the player had passed. The player no longer went to the field to have fun; the one who was d ­ oing that was the fan—­and only sometimes. If their team lost, the fans would demand more from the players—­that they kill themselves on the field. And it would just get worse and worse. Marcos de Mendonça was just waiting for 1919, when he would be three-­ time carioca champion and South American champion, and Ana Amélia’s bracelet would be full of medals. It would mark the end of his ­career, the end of an era: the era of the reign of whites in soccer. The popularity of Friedenreich was a warning. What the fans w ­ ere interested in now was the winning goal, the ball reaching the back of the net. ­Whether it was put ­there by a white, a mulatto, or a black hardly mattered. 90  Chapter Two

A mulatto player could be a Friedenreich; a black player could be a Gradim. Whoever might want to find a good player did not need to go far, just anywhere ­there was an empty lot. Brazil had many more mulattoes and blacks than Uruguay, and thus many more Friedenreiches and Gradims. Once in a while someone would show up at a big club with the news that he had seen a Gradim. Some clubs would go to see, while ­others would not, wishing to win championships with whites, no Gradims. And the fans would put the pressure on, “He’s a Gradim, he looks like a Gradim, he plays like a Gradim,” as in the case of Manteiga. Jaime Barcelos, director of soccer for América, was a frequenter of empty lots. When América w ­ asn’t playing, Jaime Barcelos would go to Saúde, to the docks, almost always in the com­pany of Fidelsino Leitão, one of the proprietors of Leitão House. If the player was a good fit, he would be employed at Leitão House. And he would not need to work much, as long as he played well. What Fidelsino Leitão most wanted was for him to play well, for América to win. The field of Mauá, a club of sailors, was by the docks. Manteiga played t­ here, and he seemed to play like a Friedenreich, a Gradim—­actually more Gradim than Friedenreich, though he was a mulatto. He would do; América could not find anyone better. Jamie Barcelos and Fidelsino Leitão started to follow Mauá, the Navy side, taking advantage of e­ very occasion to talk with Manteiga, tempting him with América, with a job at Leitão House. Every­thing was in secret; nobody at Campos Sales knew anything about it. When they found out, many p ­ eople w ­ ere not g­ oing to like the idea of a black man on América. But the Uruguayan side had a black man, and América was not better than the Uruguayan side. One catch was that the Metropolitan League did not allow ensigns or privates to play on any club.22 Manteiga was a sailor, an ensign, and so in order to play for América, he would have to request a discharge. But if Manteiga wanted it, Fidelsino Leitão would find a way. Leitão House had big business with the Brazilian Navy. If Leitão House was not enough to entice him, Mayrink Veiga would give it some effort, and Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro was ­there, with the best of ­wills, to help América when América needed it. Manteiga gradually accepted, saying that if he got discharged and Doctor Leitão arranged a job for him, he would play for América. Jaime Barcelos was hurrying Fidelsino Leitão, especially a­ fter Navy beat Andaraí by a lot, with Manteiga the greatest figure on the field. Several clubs had their eyes on him, though they w ­ ere the small clubs, who could not compete with América. The other big clubs still had an addiction to white players. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  91

With Manteiga on the team, Jaime Barcelos believed that América would be champion. Fidelsino Leitão did his magic, and one day the sailor Antônio Muniz received a discharge. He was no longer a sailor; he could play for América. It was time for the championship to begin. Manteiga showed up at Campos Sales to train, entered the changing room, and Ivo Borges left immediately. With a Manteiga he would not play. The other Borgeses and the Curtis left ­after him, followed by Paulo Viana, who was brown and had wavy hair that would make the young w ­ omen envious. With Manteiga on the team, maybe they would look more at his hair. For that reason, Paulo Viana left all the more quickly; he did not want any trou­ble. And then t­ here was Miranda, a player from Modesto de Quintino, and also a mulatto. The existence of Miranda was one more reason; as the Borgeses and the Curtis had said, one mulatto was enough. If América continued in this way, where would it stop? The Borgeses and the Curtis only wanted América to understand this—­ and if not América, then Manteiga himself. Like Americano. Americano had gone from Andaraí to Botafogo and ended up understanding. And he was someone with lighter skin, who, with his hair straightened, could almost pass for mestizo. And no one ­stopped greeting him at General Severiano. On the contrary: Paulo Cunha, known as the “­mother of Osni,” had a­ dopted Americano as well, traveling around with him in his red Fiat, the same Fiat that had brought Americano from Plaza Sete to General Severiano. The tough guys of Andaraí had been ready for anything, awaiting the tough guys of Botafogo, who ­were coming to look for Americano. First the red Fiat appeared, and Paulo Cunha jumped out. But he was not alone; he had brought the police with him. It was useless to pull out knives and revolvers, to wish to fight. Americano went to Botafogo in the red Fiat of Paulo Cunha. Even so, Americano failed at General Severiano. He had to feel disoriented, as his place was with Andaraí, in Plaza Sete, to which he returned, repentant. This is what Manteiga needed to do as soon as pos­si­ble: return to Mauá, to the field by the docks. The América jersey was for the Borgeses, for the Curtis, not for Manteiga. But it was no use: this was g­ oing to be. The Borgeses, the Curtis, and Paulo Viana did not greet Manteiga, but the ­others did. As a result, the Borgeses, the Curtis, and Paulo Viana left América, but the o ­ thers stayed. T ­ here was a moment when it seemed as if no one would stay. The most alarming rumors floated around Campos Sales. T ­ here was a petition put out among the three hundred members: e­ ither the Borgeses and the Curtis or Manteiga. ­Things ­were in­ven­ted to scare João Santos, the president of América. João Santos sorted every­thing out in an instant. His ­house was right near the club, 92  Chapter Two

on Campos Sales. He just had to cross the street. Perez was on América’s sidewalk, the o ­ thers inside in the hall, sitting in wicker chairs, conversing. First Perez, then Barata; then Avelar, Chiquinho, Ribas, and Osvaldinho. Twenty-­ four players responded that they would play with Manteiga.23 In the end, only nine members of América, all players—­some from the first team, ­others from the second and third teams—­resigned. Five Borgeses, three Curtis, and Paulo Viana. Djalma Côrtes, who was dating a Borges, did not resign. He distanced himself for a while from América, hoping that Manteiga would leave so he could return—­like Egas de Mendonça, fiancé of a Borges, and Matías Costa, married to a Borges. The Borges ­women ­were supporting their ­brothers, demanding their boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands to rally against Manteiga. Manteiga understood. He did not say anything, just stayed in his corner, in his place. He would enter the changing room and change his clothes quickly, only feeling comfortable on the field. The other players joked with him; Perez went so far as to slap him on the belly. They could take intimacies with him, but he would not take intimacies with anyone. He called every­one sir, removing his hat when anyone approached to speak with him. When a training session or game was over, Manteiga found a way to leave with almost no one noticing. Jaime Barcelos was the one who would go ­after him. ­There was ­going to be a dinner at Filhos do Céu, and he could not miss it. Manteiga promised he would attend. He would while away the time in Bandeira Plaza, looking at movie posters. The ­others ­were prob­ably already in the hall, conversing. That was one place Manteiga never entered: the hall of América. He would pass by it at a distance, never having the courage to look at it. If he did, someone might see him, and if someone saw him, he would have to enter, or invent an excuse for not entering. It must have been nice to sit in one of t­ hose wicker chairs and have a l­ ittle chat. Nice for the ­others, but not for him. Meanwhile, on the field, he had soaked his jersey for América, to show that América was winning a l­ittle bit ­because of him. The game would end, and the fans of general admission would enter the field to carry Manteiga in triumph. Every­one was yelling “América” and “Manteiga,” even the young ­women of the grandstand. When he changed his clothes, however, he lost that assuredness. He was dif­fer­ent in a suit jacket, with a straw hat on. For so many years he had worn a sailor’s uniform and the uniform of a soccer player. In street clothes he was uncomfortable, as if the clothes did not belong to him. He was soon filled with the desire to flee, to dis­appear. And no one on América wanted him to flee or dis­appear. João Santos went so far as to invite him to a cocktail party at his ­house, insisting that he come, The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  93

not excepting excuses, to show that he considered him to be just as worthy as the ­others. This was something that the Borgeses and the Curtis had always ­imagined as the greatest of absurdities: Manteiga at a cocktail party in João Santos’s ­house, at an elegant gathering with young ­women. For the Borgeses and the Curtis, the addition of Manteiga to the team should have brought an end to the cocktail parties, for if the other players went, why w ­ ouldn’t Manteiga go? But João Santos took the opportunity to invite Manteiga to his first cocktail party, and t­ here went Manteiga, in his white Sunday suit, to João Santos’s ­house, all lit up. It even seemed as if t­ here might be a dance, with the win­ dows open and adorned with young ladies. Outdoors ­t here was a group of América’s fans, ­people from the barrier, on the sidewalk, peeking in. Manteiga would have preferred to stay on the sidewalk, far away. João Santos’s ­house was for the other players, not for him. One could see that the other players had been ­there many times, looking like they felt at home. Manteiga did not lift his gentle, lamblike eyes from the design on the carpet. One ended up feeling pity for his shyness as he hid himself away, afraid of meeting a Borges or a Curti, or someone like a Borges or a Curti. Manteiga would never be comfortable at the cocktail parties at João Santos’s h ­ ouse. He would, however, grow accustomed to the dinners at Filhos do Céu a­ fter training sessions and games, the t­ ables pushed together, players of América all around, with no young w ­ omen or anything e­ lse. And then he would always sit at Miranda’s side. The two mulattoes, who actually looked quite a lot alike. Like Manteiga, Miranda wanted nothing to do with América’s hall or João Santos’s h ­ ouse. A ­ fter a training session or a game, Miranda would quickly dress himself and leave. Manteiga no longer left alone; he had found a good companion. He and Miranda understood each other well, as the two spoke the same language. The truth is that Manteiga felt like an intruder in América. It was no use for João Santos to invite him to his cocktail parties, for Perez to give him slaps on the belly. América was not for him; it was for the Borgeses, for the Curtis. Although it seemed as if he had won. América was at the top with him on its team, while Fluminense, with the Borgeses and the Curtis, was down at the bottom in last place. América was almost the champion. The Fluminense stadium was full to see the tiebreaker between América and Flamengo. Perhaps the Borgeses and the Curtis w ­ ere in the grandstand, or perhaps they w ­ ere not, in order not to see Manteiga win. Manteiga never played with more desire to win. But when the game ended, the América fans did not enter the field to carry Manteiga in triumph. Instead, the Flamengo fans arrived to carry Nonô in triumph. 94  Chapter Two

But Manteiga could have the satisfaction of seeing Fluminense, refuge of the Borgeses and the Curtis, fighting off relegation against Vila Isabel. Even Marcos de Mendonça had to return in a hurry to save Fluminense. It was no longer the team of 1919, despite having Marcos, Laís, Fortes, Welfare, and Machado. But Fluminense remained in the first division, and a­ fter the game, t­ here was a victory dinner—­a modest dinner, at Santo Antônio, an eatery at the back of a bodega in the Largo do Machado, paid for by the players. Fluminense had nothing to do with the cele­bration, nor did Marcos de Mendonça. Even so, the players sang. They w ­ ere not the songs of 1919, of Ana Amélia and Luís de Mendonça, but the songs of 1920, by Gerdal Boscoli: Fluminense has three teams, what colossal groups, three tasty bone soups, difficult to bite. A sweet fruity juice is the first team, the championship far more than a dream, like a divine offering. Second team, a Brazilian side, from whom all try to hide. Even Paulo Viana sang, banging his glass on the t­able, Manteiga forgotten. But the difference was vast—­between the South American championship and a fine restaurant with a banquet hall, and Santo Antônio, an eatery at the back of a bodega. The difference between 1919 and 1921. Although a team of whites had won the championship, as before, as always. The whites ­were still on top, showing that América could get by without mulattoes or blacks. ­There ­were not just mulattoes and blacks in the empty lots, in the small clubs. Flamengo had gone to seek out two players on Palmeiras, Nonô and Orlando, without “darkening” the team, keeping it white. But América had signed a mulatto, and had not contented themselves with one, seeking out another. With Nonô and Orlando, Flamengo was champion; with Miranda and Manteiga, América had lost. No one felt this more than Manteiga. América was still deluding itself, thinking that Manteiga would get used to the club. During the days that América spent in Salvador, right ­after the championship, Manteiga seemed like a new man. He lost his shyness and did not flee from anyone. For Mário Newton, it was proof that habit was every­thing.24 It was a good t­ hing for América, for Manteiga, that time in Bahia. Mário Newton The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  95

did not deny anything to Manteiga. Manteiga needed to know that América wanted the best for him. How could one not want the best for a player who gave them victories? Mário Newton had not even an inkling that Manteiga was preparing to stay in Bahia. The clubs of Bahia ­were all over him, and he was making comparisons, remembering América’s hall, João Santos’s h ­ ouse, which ­were both strange to him. He would spend most of his time practically fleeing, appearing only at the time of a training session or a game. In Bahia he was at home. It was also his home region, so wherever he went, he saw friends. And t­ here was not even the shadow of a Borges or a Curti. When América packed its bags, the Bahia season having ended, Manteiga asked Mário Newton to let him stay a few more days, as he had barely had time to see his ­mother, trapped in the ­hotel for the ­whole season. Mário Newton allowed it, and América left without Manteiga.

5. And Manteiga never again made an appearance for América. The Borgeses and the Curtis had won; they could return to Campos Sales. The president of América was no longer João Santos; it was Raul Reis. Manteiga wanted to stay in Bahia? Well, América would not send anyone to look for him. Raul Reis was even liking that ­things had turned out like this. Not that he had anything against mulattoes and blacks. Manteiga had gone, but Miranda had stayed, more alone now, without Manteiga. And ­there ­were certain days when he could not flee, having to sleep at the club. América had placed twenty beds in the hallway, transforming it into a dormitory. América was considering the advantages that Fluminense had in 1917, 1918, and 1919, and Flamengo in 1920 and 1921: the players sleeping at the club, waking up for individual training, eating breakfast before g­ oing to the field, eating a good steak and two fried eggs ­after the training session, Mr. Taylor at Fluminense and Platero at Flamengo. Although América had no Mr. Taylor or Platero, it did have Jaime Barcelos, Henrique “Chuckles” Santos, and Doctor Mota Rezende—­the “­Little Bat”—­each contributing his ideas. Jaime Barcelos suggested using the chairs for training. About ten of the chairs from América’s hall ­were put out in the field, and the players had to pass through them with the ball at their feet. If the ball hit a chair, the player lost. The w ­ hole training session would be a competition. Almost always the one who won was Osvaldinho. He only liked to train with the ball; it was tough to get him to do the gymnastics class, with Doctor Pimenta de Melo opening and closing his arms, twisting his torso with his legs apart, squatting, then rising. The players would not take their eyes off him; what he did, every­one 96  Chapter Two

had to copy. Osvaldinho would repeat Doctor Pimenta de Melo’s gestures one or two times and then stop, bored. Who had ever seen something like that? Soccer was played with the ball at one’s feet, and games with the ball ­were Osvaldinho’s ­thing. He could stay all day on the field, even without anyone ­else t­ here, kicking corners, calculating his kicks. He could shoot the ball wherever he wished. The poor boys with their mouths agape. Someone could say “Hit the bar,” and he would hit it; “Make it go in the corner,” and it would go t­ here. For Osvaldinho, individual training had only one good t­ hing besides the chair competition: leapfrog. The players would play leapfrog like high school kids. Whoever had just leapfrogged would bend down right away, so the next person could leap over him. A good frog to leap over was Chiquinho, who was a tiny ­little guy. Chiquinho barely bent over at all, just lowered his head. At the last moment he would leave his place, and the player who was preparing to leap, who had already calculated where he would place his hands, would fall over. Every­ one laughed at Chiquinho’s antics, and the time would pass more quickly. Individual training always ended at nine ­o’clock. ­After that, it was time for brunch. The players could choose, on the previous day, the brunch menu, varying the food, preferring at times a hot choco­late with toast. ­There was always a club member who would provide the food. Raul Reis, João Santos, Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro, Artur Leitão—­t here was no lack of wealthy members with the ­will to feed the América team well. Even Florentino, owner of the Afonso Pena Café. Often the players would be eating a brunch from Raul Reis or João Santos, when a waiter would arrive from Afonso Pena Café, whom Florentino had sent. Florentino’s specialties ­were h ­ orse steaks and scrambled eggs with ham. The players would eat every­thing; ­after an intense training session, ­there was no lack of appetite. It was t­ hese mornings when Miranda managed to forget that he was mulatto. He would laugh with the ­others at Chiquinho’s antics and enjoy his food as much as the ­others. But that forgetfulness was short lived, as he would remember when he left for work and passed by América’s hall. He continued not showing up ­there, even on the days when he had to sleep at the club. The ­others went to the hall and stayed t­ here chatting u ­ ntil bedtime, but not Miranda. Bedtime was at ten, and before ten, no one saw him. At ten, however, he was already in the dormitory, changing his clothes. He would put on his pajamas, lie down, and try to close his eyes right away. He remained Miranda, even more Miranda than before ­because he saw himself alone, with Manteiga in Bahia. When Manteiga played for América, Miranda did not wear a cap. Now he started to wear a cap to hide his bad hair. Not ­because of him but ­because of The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  97

América. With a cap he could pass as a bit browner than the o ­ thers, showing his ­little bit of race but without drawing much attention. He did not want to draw attention, which is why he put the cap on his head. Soccer had reverted to being as white as it had been 1919. The best whites had returned, so that what had happened in 1921 would not happen again—­ that is, allowing mulattoes and blacks to take their places. When one looked at the Fluminense team, it was almost that of 1919. Marcos, Vidal and Mota Maia, Lais, Bordalo, Fortes, Mano, Zezé, Welfare, Machado, and Bacchi. In order to compete with Fluminense, three-­time champions, and Flamengo, two-­t ime champions, some thought what was needed was a team of whites. Miranda ended up leaving the team, and América won the championship of 1922 with a team of whites. It ­didn’t m ­ atter that Miranda had played the ­whole first half of the season. The second-­half team is the one that won the championship, the one that was photographed as the “champion of the Centenary [of Brazilian in­de­pen­ dence].” This América team—­R ibas, Perez, Barata, Gonçalo, Osvaldo, Matoso, Justo, Gilberto, Chico, Simas, and Brilhante—­was captured in a big frame, to be hung in the hall, without Miranda or Manteiga. But this was proof that soccer was a game of whites. No club with a mulatto or a black player on the team had won a championship from 1906 to 1922—­just the Brazilian side, with Friedenreich. Friedenreich, however, had a German f­ ather and did not want to be a mulatto. Not even when whites w ­ ere separated from blacks in order to see who played better. A side of whites was formed, and a side of blacks and mulattoes, and Friedenreich was not picked by e­ ither of them—an homage paid to the author of the goal of Brazil’s victory in 1919, neither white nor black, without color, above t­ hose t­ hings. It’s true that it was recognized that mulattoes and blacks played just as well as whites. T ­ here ­were ­great players of color, much more than ever before. All one had to do was go to an empty lot or watch a small club game. And a black man could play on the Brazilian side, just as Gradim had played on the Uruguayan side. Tatu, South American champion of 1922, was not white; in fact, he was quite dark, with thick, curly hair. But the finer clubs did not even think of including them. At least Fluminense, Flamengo, and Botafogo. If América thought about them, it was b ­ ecause they ­were losing their patience with the years passing—1917 through 1920—­ with no third championship. And in the end, they ­were champions in 1922, with only white players. Mulatto and black players w ­ ere, in the eyes of the finer clubs, a kind of illegal arms, like a revolver or a switchblade. If no big club pulled out their switchblade, the o ­ thers could continue fighting with fencing foils. 98  Chapter Two

One second-­division club, however, ­rose to the first division. This club was called Vasco da Gama Regatta Club, and it brought with it mulatto and black players: Nelson Conceição, who had left Engenho de Dentro, mulatto; Ceci, from Vila Isabel, almost black; and Nicolino, from Andaraí, black. The other players ­were white, some barely knowing how to sign their names. Vasco, a club of the Portuguese community, was following the good Portuguese tradition of mixture. It had its issues in rowing, but in soccer it never did, mixing right away. Also, when Lusitânia merged with it, in order to enter the Metropolitan League, it brought two mulattoes with it: the Tavares ­brothers. And Lusitânia was even more Portuguese than Vasco was. Brazilians could join Vasco but not Lusitânia, which was strictly Portuguese. It was an influence of the visit of the Lisbon side to Rio. Soon three clubs emerged from the Portuguese community: Lusitânia Esporte Clube, Centro Português de Desportos, and Lusitano Futebol Clube. Lusitânia a­ dopted the jersey of the Lisbon side, a black cashmere shirt, on the shield the familial sphere and the arms of Portugal. Vasco’s jersey would be black louisine and white fustian, with the Cross of Malta as its shield, to be worn by Portuguese and Brazilians, both whites and blacks. The Tavares ­brothers, Antônio Marreteiro, Faria, Alfredo Godoi, Benedito Palhares, and Esquerdinha w ­ ere mulattoes and blacks who Vasco kept picking up from the empty lots and the small clubs, already mature players. Vasco did not produce black players; for a black player to join Vasco, he had to already be a good player. Between a white and a black player, the two of similar quality, Vasco would stick with the white one. Black players ­were recruited out of necessity, to help Vasco win. For this reason, the club went looking for Nelson “Chauffeur” Conceição at Engenho de Dentro, for Nicolini at Andaraí, for Ceci at Vila Isabel, and for Bolão at Bangu. Bolão was not from the fabric room; he did heavy work in the dye room, in his apron and tall boot-­like clogs. In Vasco, he could rise up the ranks, as ­there was no lack of Portuguese p ­ eople wishing to help Vasco players. From Bangu also came Leitão, a white man who had learned to play soccer in the church square. Many p ­ eople up t­ here still remembered the boy. His ­father had an oxcart, and Leitão would go in front, with a stick. All it took was for his f­ ather to get a l­ ittle distracted: Leitão would jump down from the cart and go r­ unning to kick the ball around with the other poor boys. Mingote, almost blond, had come from Pereira Passos, a club in Saúde. Pascoal, white, was from Rio do Janeiro. This was the same Pascoal who had only learned to sign his name when Horácio Werner arranged “Silva” for him, much easier than his original Italian surname. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  99

Antônio Campos paid for someone to teach him his ABCs, since he did not want any trou­ble, with the league making more and more demands, thinking that soccer players had to know how to read and write. Torteroli of Benfica was white, as was Lindinho, the “Butterfly,” of Botafogo and Negrito of Lapa. Vasco had only one player produced out of their own system: Artur. For this very reason, he was white. No one gave any importance to Vasco’s entry into the first division. What could a club from the second division do against an América, champion of the Centenary; against a Flamengo, two-­t ime champion; against a Fluminense, three-­time champion? Vasco could place as many mulattoes and blacks as they liked on their team. Every­thing would continue on as before, the whites winning championships, the mulattoes and blacks in their places, on the small clubs. Vasco was nothing dif­fer­ent, a club with a ­little field on Morais e Silva Street, which was not even sufficient for games of the first division. Meanwhile, Fluminense already had another stadium; América was building its own ­little stadium; Flamengo had its field on Paissandu Street, the shade of the palm trees lying across the lawn; and Botafogo had its General Severiano field. They had every­thing, whereas Vasco had nothing, just the l­ittle field on Morais e Silva Street, almost abandoned, a dormitory. When they woke up, the players would drink their café au lait, then go out for individual training—an individual session unlike any of the players of América, Flamengo, Fluminense, or Botafogo had done in all their lives. With Platero, cigar in mouth, setting the example, they would trot from the Morais e Silva Street field to Plaza Sete, then turn around and go back. Afterward, they would go to the field and have a kick-­around for hours and hours. Sometimes at night, if t­ here was a moon, one could see the Vasco players on the field, training. They did nothing ­else. Platero’s system was this: ball, ball, and more ball. The only exception was Nelson Conceição. Nelson Conceição could play at jumping up and down, on and off a chair, with his feet together—­a good exercise for a keeper. When Vasco entered the field for a game, the maximum the other team could last would be one half. Vasco did not get worried if they lost the first half. The more the other team ran and sweat through their jerseys, the better it was for Vasco. In the second half, the players on the other team would barely be able to stay on their feet, and the Vasco players seemed as if they ­hadn’t even begun to play. The more Vasco won, the more the fields filled up. Even Fluminense stadium was too small. ­People who had never attended a soccer match bought 100  Chapter Two

tickets to the grandstand—­a ll Portuguese, who ­were obliged to go wherever Vasco went. While Vasco had been in the second division, t­ here was none of this. Only the p ­ eople in the old guard followed the team: Sinhá, always with a cigar in his mouth, always wearing white, stuttering cries of goal. José Ribeiro da Paiva, who called Vasco “­little bearded one,” ­after Admiral Vasco da Gama, discoverer of the route to the Indies, who had an impressive beard; José Ribeiro da Paiva would give t­ hose around him a l­ ittle lesson in history. Narciso Bastos, the inventor of the goal whistle. He would blow his whistle before the referee, a dif­fer­ent whistle for each kind of stoppage of play. T ­ here was the whistle for a foul, for a hand ball, for out of bounds, for a corner, and for a penalty. The goal whistle was the most extravagant of all—­the twitter of a nightingale. And Pascoal Pontes, who invoked curses. And Vitorino Rezende da Silva, who s­ topped talking to anyone for at least three days e­ very time Vasco lost. And Paradanta, who would fight for Vasco at a game. And Antônio Campos, who always ended up crying, w ­ hether Vasco won or lost. ­These days, no one could discern the old guard in the grandstand. They ­were ­there, but they ­were lost in the ­middle of a crowd of Portuguese, a crowd that would grow each Sunday, with Portuguese all over the place. ­Because Vasco was winning. At first it was even funny, nobody expecting anything, when a fan of Fluminense, Flamengo, América, or Botafogo would say, in falsetto, “Come on in, Basco, my husband is a member!” Many ­people ­were laughing, as if the joke paid for the defeat. It did not. ­Those who had found it funny ­were not laughing by the time they left. And ­later, it seemed as if ­there ­were only Portuguese ­drivers in the plaza, as they drove around honking, announcing another victory for Vasco. Another t­ hing that announced a Vasco victory was the festive atmosphere at the breweries: Capela do Largo da Lapa and Cervejaria Vitória da Praça Onze. Only Vasco fans and team had the right to laugh and to beat their steins on the iron ­tables t­ here. The other clubs ­were thinking that this had to stop. It had become almost a question of national honor to defeat Vasco. Jacobinism in soccer, pitting Brazilians against Portuguese. The Portuguese w ­ ere at fault. L ­ ittle did it m ­ atter that the team of Vasco, with its whites, mulattoes, and blacks, was quintessentially Brazilian. The players of Morais e Silva had lost their nationality and become Portuguese—­ this so that nobody could say the big clubs w ­ ere against the small ones, against black players. They ­were against the Portuguese, who had altered the natu­ral order of t­ hings. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  101

The poor p ­ eople of the empty lots and of the small clubs—­whites, mulattoes, and blacks—­were having their way with the big clubs, which consisted only of whites, fine society ­people. It was ­because of the Portuguese. If not the Portuguese, then how could t­ hose players, who had never done a single ­thing, now do something? Many did not know how to read or write, could barely sign their names, and ­were without jobs, without anything. The Portuguese ­were the ones who gave them every­thing: a home, food, and laundry washed and starched. They ate well and often: eggs with ham and eggnog early in the morning, ­after individual training, then they lunched and dined at Filhos do Céu. And they did not allow themselves the extravagances of Flamengo and Fluminense, staying late at Lamar, playing billiards, smoking nonstop, only getting to bed ­earlier on Saturdays, when t­ here was a game on Sunday. The Vasco players remained at Morais e Silva, like eternal high school students. T ­ here was a time for every­body to go out together, and Platero, cigar in his mouth, would keep them in sight. The Portuguese thought that any precaution was worth it. Their tranquility depended on Nelson Conceição, Nicolino, Bolão, and Ceci. It was not good even to talk about a defeat of Vasco. If Vasco w ­ ere to lose, the Portuguese would feel badly; they ­wouldn’t even be able to walk down the street in public. For this very reason, beyond a home, food, and clothes washed and starched, the Portuguese would give money to the players of Morais e Silva. The money was called a “beast” b ­ ecause sometimes it was a dog, five mil réis; sometimes a rabbit, ten mil réis; other times a turkey, twenty mil réis; a rooster, fifty mil réis; or a cow, one hundred. But it did not stop ­there. ­There ­were cows with one or two legs, according to the game.25 Against América, champion of the Centenary; against Flamengo, two-­ time champion; against Fluminense, three-­time champion, a cow with one leg was too l­ ittle—­only one with two legs would do. The Portuguese did not meet a player on Vasco without putting their hands in their pockets. “Take it, Nelson Conceição, so you w ­ on’t swallow any goals. Take that t­ here, Bolão; it’s fair that you take yours, since you already gave me a lot of money by winning.” The Portuguese had won money on the Vasco team betting with the fans of Flamengo, Fluminense, América, and Botafogo. Admittedly, it had been some time since anyone bet against Vasco. To bet against Vasco was to lose money for sure, which did not prevent (quite the contrary) the vascaínos of the market from taking money from the other clubs, challenging every­one to put their hands in their pockets and pull out a leather wallet, within which one could find, in their entirety, the fauna of the National Trea­sury.26 102  Chapter Two

One had only to hold out a bill doubled over on the long side, and Portuguese would arrive on all sides, giving a goal advantage. The goal advantage served as bait. Many a fan of a big club fell b ­ ecause of a ­little goal advantage. But it was becoming ever harder to find someone willing to bet against Vasco. But all of a sudden, every­thing changed. ­People started appearing at the market to put down money, and without a goal advantage, just one to one. The Portuguese would twist their mustaches and say, “He who warns is a friend—­son, I ­don’t want your money.” “But I want your money, Manuel.” “OK, OK, but ­don’t regret it; ­don’t come back and cry tears at me.” It was the week of Vasco and Flamengo, transformed into an au­then­tic Portugal versus Brazil. E ­ very day the newspapers w ­ ere provoking Flamengo, as if Flamengo needed to be provoked. If someone from Vasco passed by Flamengo’s garage early in the morning on the day of the game, they would have noticed some strange movement. The newsstands had received some big ­orders for the Jornal do Brasil, all for Flamengo. In the back of the shed, the rowers wrapped up the oars in newspaper. Thus the utility of the Jornal do Brasil, the most voluminous paper of the era. The w ­ hole garage was working: Quadros, Haroldo Borges Leitão, César Luterbacker, Arnaldo Costa, Plácido Barbosa, Carlos Cruz, Everardo Cruz, Guilherme Gayer, Manuel Alvernaz, Paulo Nogueira, Anália, Fly, Jaguar, Choco­late, Moon Duster, Foot in the Bottom, and Bat, ready to take control of the strategic positions in Fluminense’s stadium, each one with his oar rolled in the Jornal do Brasil. Before the beginning of the game between the second teams, the police ordered that Fluminense’s gates be closed. Not even a needle could fit in general admission, in the grandstand, on the track. The grandstand had grown, extending down to the track, the track reaching to the edge of the field, encircled by iron bars. Even so, ­behind the goals ­there was a neat ­little crowd, fans lying, sitting, squatting, one not wishing to block the view of the other. Never before, not even for the South American Championship of 1919, had a soccer game awoken such interest. More than five thousand visitors came from dif­fer­ent states, almost all of them with the Vasco shield on their shirts. They would be seeing soccer for the first time. “Look ­there, it’s Nelson Conceição, man.” “Look t­ here, Torteroli. Basco’s coming in!” It was enough to make the Flamengo fans push the Vasco fans right away, itching for a fight. The rowers ­were holding their oars, still containing themselves, as the order was to hit the Portuguese over the heads with the oars only a­ fter the game had begun. The Vasco team formed a close row, every­one standing, looking at the photog­raphers. The only one who ­didn’t look at the photog­raphers was Nelson The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  103

Conceição, with the ball cradled to his chest, very close to the Maltese cross. Flamengo posed like the Brazilian side of 1919, with many p ­ eople saying it sufficed to see how the teams took photo­graphs to perceive, quickly, the differences between them, between Vasco and Flamengo, between a team of whites, mulattoes, and blacks, all mixed together, and a team of whites, of fine ­people from good families. And it was the team of mixture that was at the top of the championship, without a loss. They had to lose, at least once, somehow. Flamengo had prepared all week for no other reason. Training all day, ­going to bed early, putting the garage on a war footing. And when the game began, Flamengo took control—of the field, of the grandstand, of general admission, of every­thing. Flamengo one to zero, oars wrapped in the Jornal do Brasil beating the heads of vascaínos, Flamengo two to zero, again the oars rising and falling. Whoever was for Vasco did not have the right to open their mouths. When the half ended, many ­people ­were ­really loving the score, Flamengo two, Vasco zero—­that is, the p ­ eople from Flamengo, Fluminense, Botafogo, and América. Flamengo had ceased being a club, a team; that day it was all the clubs, all the teams, of Brazilian soccer. Every­thing was getting back on track. The best players ­were still white, the proof residing in that two to zero score; the black players had no answer. And the Flamengo folks began to sing, “Let us salute Mina Gerá, the ­giant of the deep.” ­There was not just one ­giant of the deep; Flamengo, too, was a ­giant of the deep, “Flamengo who makes me weep.” The ­people of Vasco ­were quiet, waiting for the turn. The first corn is for the chicks; just let Flamengo wait and see something. Sometimes Vasco would be getting creamed three to zero and then t­ hey’d make a comeback, g­ oing on to win the game four or five to three. That was the reason Platero took the players, ­every day, from Morais e Silva to Plaza Sete, ­there and back. The Flamengo team had killed itself on the field to score ­those two goals, while the team of Vasco allowed it, not getting worried, counting on the turn. The comeback had never failed, and it would not fail this time. It seemed that it would not fail, since the second half began with a goal from Vasco. And the vascaínos w ­ ere not able to yell, as a l­ittle shout would earn an oar to the head. Only Flamengo was shouting, and Flamengo ended up scoring another goal. And Vasco was still fighting. Flamengo three to one, Flamengo three to two; ­there was almost a tie. The ball entered, went out, and Carlito Rocha, the referee, was caught hesitating, did it enter or not, and the game continued. 104  Chapter Two

Then the vascaínos of general admission, of the grandstand, did not care anymore about the oars on their heads, what­ever might happen. Boos exploded ­here and ­there, like popcorn. Soldiers came out with their sabers bared, r­ unning back and forth, and the cavalry invaded the field. It was no use to fight; Flamengo was g­ oing to win, what­ever it cost. ­After the match, it was pitiful to see Fluminense’s field. The p ­ eople had broken the iron fence, and the cavalry had filled the lawn with holes. Fluminense made a detailed accounting of every­thing—­for the repair of the fence, for fixing up the field—­which came to the total of ten contos of réis.27 Vasco had to pay the ten contos of réis; if not, they would never be allowed to play again in Fluminense stadium. Despite ­there being no radio, all the city knew, almost in the same instant, that Vasco had lost.28 The automobiles had returned from Laranjeiras, ­silent, without honking their horns or anything, like a funeral pro­cession, carry­ing the fans of Vasco. The Flamengo fans went by foot to Paissandu field, which was close by, almost in front of Fluminense, and to the garage, a l­ittle farther, t­ here on the beach. The garage filled up pretty quickly with ­people, and they de­cided to arrange a car with the top down, and to look into buying fireworks, from a spinner to a rocket. Each fan of Flamengo brought something. Chico Science, short and very thin with a round face, won the glory of the day by showing up with the biggest clog in the world, two and a half meters in length, which was in permanent exhibition at a clog shop on Catete Street. It was agreed that the clog would go in the front car, a kind of chief car of a carnivalesque pro­cession. It was a second Carnival. More than one hundred cars paraded through the city, beginning at Flamengo Beach and moving to Glória, then Lapa Square, stopping only to throw bombs at the chapel, then continuing on to Mem de Sá Ave­nue, Evaristo da Veiga Street, Rio Branco Ave­nue, Larga Street, República Plaza, Visconde de Itaúna Street, and Plaza Onze, pausing once more to throw bombs at the Vitória Brewery, where the vascaínos enjoyed celebrating their wins. The Vitória Brewery had to close quickly. The cherry bombs and rockets ­were slamming against the steel doors, then ricocheting. And the guy who was throwing the rockets was Plácido Barbosa, the greatest sharpshooter in Rio de Janeiro, capable of making any orator in a public plaza swallow an egg, thrown from a distance of ten meters. The parade continued all night long, and Flamengo celebrated its victory. And when they ­were about to end the parade, in the wee hours of the morning, they hung the clog of two and a half meters on the door of Vasco’s headquarters, in Santa Luzia. They found this to be insufficient, so they bought The Grass Field and the Empty Lot  105

an enormous funeral wreath in the flower market, which was placed alongside the clog. And as if that w ­ eren’t enough, they dressed the statue of Pedro Álvares Cabral with clogs and strands of onions. But Vasco did not sit around with their arms crossed. So much so that on Tuesday, the headquarters of Flamengo had been tarred, from top to bottom. Crazy fans must have done it. Which club d ­ idn’t have its crazy fans? Vasco would return the courtesies of Flamengo with flowers. They bought a ­giant corbeil, which barely fit in a car with the top down, and took it to Flamengo. It was an interminable parade of automobiles, vascaínos on the side footboards holding Roman candles, shaking torches and flags with the Maltese cross. The rowers of Flamengo locked the garage, and from the second floor received the committee from Vasco with a hail of stones. When t­ here ­were no more stones, the rowers went up on the roof of the nuns’ high school and stayed up ­there, throwing roof tiles down ­until the vascaínos went away. And for many days, the commercial establishments of the Portuguese would hang a sign b ­ ehind the c­ ounter: “Talking about Soccer Is Prohibited.” To speak of soccer was to speak of Vasco’s defeat. But another week went by, and Vasco continued to win—­and did not lose again through the end of the championship. The victory of Flamengo had given the illusion that every­ thing would go back to the way it was before, the white teams winning championships, the black ones always losing. This illusion did not last long, and the fine clubs—­those of society, as they said—­found themselves before a consummate fact: one did not just win championships with teams of whites. A team of whites, mulattoes, and blacks was the champion of the city. Against that team, the teams of whites had not been able to do a t­ hing. The advantage of being of a good ­family, of being a student, of being white, had dis­appeared. The lad from a good ­family, a student, white, had to compete, u ­ nder equal conditions, with the almost illiterate poor kid, the mulatto, and the black, to see who played better. It was a true revolution at work in Brazilian soccer. It remained to be seen what would be the reaction of the big clubs.

106  Chapter Two

Chapter 3

The Rebellion of the Black Man

1. The reaction of the big clubs was tremendous. It had begun with that Vasco and Flamengo game, of oars, clogs, ribbons of onion, cherry bombs, and rockets. It would continue in the Brazilian championship, a carioca side made up mostly of whites and two mulattoes: from Vasco, Nelson Conceição; from São Cristóvão, Nesi. Most of the white players ­were chosen from Fluminense, Flamengo, Botafogo, and América; the remaining white player, Nilo Murtinho Braga, was from Sport Clube Brasil, with one foot in Fluminense. Even the whites of Vasco ­were pushed aside, as in the case of Pascoal, considered the best right winger in the city. Between Pascoal, an ex-­fishmonger who barely knew how to sign his name, and Zezé Guimarães, a young gentleman of society, it is clear that Zezé Guimarães was preferred. Vasco, the champion, gave one player to the side, Nelson Conceição; Botafogo, in last place, gave two: Alemão and Palamone. For the side, the best players continued to be white and from good families. ­These players did not spend the w ­ hole day with the ball at their feet, as they had other t­ hings to do. Some of them worked, some studied. T ­ here ­were ­those, of course, who did not work or study. They ­were the sons of rich daddies, who had the luxury of d ­ oing nothing. The whites, mulattoes, and blacks of Vasco, coming from the empty lots and small clubs, could not allow themselves this luxury. The advantage had to lie with Zezé Guimarães, not with Pascoal Silva. What had happened in 1923 d ­ idn’t need to happen again. Thus, Amea was born. The year 1924 saw the creation of Amea, a league of big clubs—­without Vasco.1 It was not born sooner ­because Botafogo had been in last place and needed to play a relegation match. If not, it could be said that Amea had been founded in order for Botafogo to avoid relegation. ­After the relegation match, Amea would be founded, and never again would a big club go through what Fluminense had gone through, what Botafogo was about to go through. Botafogo thought it was unnecessary, b ­ ecause t­ here was no way they w ­ ere ­going to stay in the Metropolitan League. They ended up playing and winning,

and afterward ­there was a dinner at Sul América, Fluminense’s restaurant for cele­brations. The other clubs came to Botafogo’s dinner, and it seemed as if Vasco was not the champion, that one of them had been the champion, one of the big clubs. It was not a new era that was beginning; rather, it was the old era returning, the good times when white players w ­ ere superior to black players. The good times of amateurism. Amateurism, or sport for sport’s sake, was for t­ hose who w ­ ere on top. While amateurism lasted, whites would be superior to blacks, the rich to the poor. Any poor black man who wished to compete with the whites, with the rich, would end up like Monteiro. If many white men, well fed, with all the comforts of a home and a club, could not make it, how could a mulatto or a black man do so, having to work hard and to play soccer on top of that? The big clubs needed nothing e­ lse to make every­thing go back to the way it was before: pure amateurism, something for t­ hose living the good life. Whoever was not studying or working could not play. Whoever did not explain clearly how they made a living could not play. And even if they could clearly explain how they made a living, they could only play if they had a decent job. Subaltern employees ­were excluded. Was it amusing to have young men from good families go onto the field in order to be kicked by soldiers, sailors, and stevedores? Stevedores playing—­that was why soccer was ­going backwards. An exception was granted for the factory worker. The factory worker could play, a move that shut the mouths of many. ­There ­were no castes in Amea. Bangu was small, and b ­ ecause it was small, and a club of the factory, it was the one chosen, so that no doubt would remain over the ­matter. This would show that the big clubs ­were with the small ones, the poor, the unprotected, the mulattoes and blacks. Fluminense brought Bangu by the hand to Amea, silencing all protest. No one had the right to say anything more: ­here was Bangu together with the big clubs, with the same rights. And the mulatto and black players could play, as they had always played, in the ­middle of the whites. They worked in a factory, and only left the factory early on Thursdays; they did not spend the ­whole day kicking the ball around like Vasco’s players. Bangu had never been a champion, while Vasco had been a champion right from the beginning. Bangu, beside the big clubs, would remain the same Bangu, of the factory, of the workers, without winning any championships. But Vasco had grown too much in one year. Shortly it would have its own field, its own stadium, and then t­ here would be no stopping it. But it did not yet have a field; it just had a club. Whoever did not have a good field, with international proportions and with grandstands of cement, 108  Chapter Three

like ­those of Fluminense and América, or of wood, like ­those of Flamengo, Botafogo, and Bangu, could not belong to the group of so-­called found­ers of Amea, the masters of soccer. Each one had five votes, in addition to one vote for each sport it practiced. Fluminense, for example, was practicing almost all sports and had more votes than an entire division of small clubs: eight clubs equaled eight votes. Fluminense, with five votes as a founder and one vote each for track and field, basketball, volleyball, tennis, and shooting, had ten votes. And the same, with small differences, went for the other found­ers. ­There ­were five found­ers, and the rest w ­ ere simply affiliated members. With the founding of Amea, the championship of 1923 was worth nothing to Vasco. The only t­ hing that Vasco had now, beyond its fans—­t he biggest fan base yet seen on carioca fields—­was a team. The big clubs wanted Vasco to come to Amea with its fans, with the Portuguese with the Maltese cross on their chests, but they did not want Vasco to bring its team. For this reason, ­there was a Commission of Membership. Reis Carneiro of Fluminense, Diocesano “Dão” Ferreira Gomes of Flamengo, and Armando de Paulo Freitas of América would go see if the players of Vasco—­Nelson Conceição, Mingote, Bolão, Pascoal, Torteroli, and the ­others—­worked, and if they did, ­whether they could live on what they earned. If they did not work, they would be cut. If they worked and earned ­little, an amount that would not suffice for the life they ­were living, they would be cut. And if they worked and earned a good living, they would still have to pass the terrible ABC test. The time of the player just knowing how to sign his name on the score sheet had ended. If he did not know how to write and read correctly, and in the presence of someone like the president of the league, he would be cut. Many players who knew how to sign their names w ­ ere perturbed, including Leitão. When he was with Bangu, the league had no prob­lem with him. But once he went to Vasco, he had to sign the enrollment form in front of Célio de Barros, then president of the Metropolitan League. Célio de Barros did not remove his eyes from Leitão, and Leitão got the cold sweats, feeling as if it w ­ ere taking him forever to fill out the form. And he knew how to sign his name; he knew how to scratch out his letters. ­Every night Custódio Moura, a member of Vasco, would show up at Morais e Silva for calligraphy class. The most impor­tant t­ hing was calligraphy. Custódio Moura, at least, was not worried about anything ­else. If the player signed his name, every­thing was arranged. In ­those days, that was enough. A ­little before the game began, the referee would call over the players, one by one, and the players would sign the score sheet and be done. But the league kept demanding more. The enrollment form became practically a basic reading The Rebellion of the Black Man  109

and writing exam, with a bunch of ­things to fill in: full name, parents’ names, nationality, birthplace, date of birth, where you work, where you study, and so on. Vasco thought Custódio Moura’s night class was too ­little, so they signed up Leitão, Pascoal, Torteroli, and Mingote in a school situated in a mansion on Quitanda Street. The players learned how to read by the João de Deus method, tracing verses from a primer: ­ here went one day, so small T Round about Nazareth In the com­pany of St. Joseph The Son of God of all Good Jesus Then winging He saw in the brush Come singing Terrified A nightingale Which a serpent With flashing gaze Resplendent Sun-­like And scheming Like a diamond gleaming Had attracted Wooed and charmed Prey’s wariness impacted Had Jesus alarmed Who left the path Kept bird unharmed By breaking the charm. Reciting, it was easier to learn. Leitão did not even look at the primer during lesson time. Da-­dee-da, da-­dee-da, da-­dee-da, the verses on the tip of his tongue. But even still, with two classes a day, one in the morning and one at night, he only barely passed the test of the enrollment form. Célio de Barros, on the request of Antônio Campos, ­stopped looking at Leitão. But when he finished filling out the form, Leitão confessed to Antônio Campos that he would rather play three halves in a row without break than go through such torture. During all of 1923, Vasco did not forget the ABC classes for the players. Naturally ­those who did not need it ­were excused: Lindinho, son of a good 110  Chapter Three

f­amily, who had been on América and Botafogo; Negrito; Arthur; Ceci; the Cook; and Nelson Conceição, who, though he did not seem like it, knew how to read and write correctly. Bolão, who was bad at both reading and spelling, was improving bit by bit, like Pascoal. Pascoal was one of the ones who was most exemplary in calligraphy. He developed a nice round letter, very legible, even childlike, taking special care with the “p” and the “s”—­for him, the most impor­tant letters of the alphabet. Vasco, in 1924, could rest easy with re­spect to the enrollment form test. At least the ones at Morais e Silva, which the players passed e­ very night. ­There was no shortage of enrollment forms t­ here, just like the ones used by the league. Nor was it difficult for Vasco to employ its players. Any vascaíno who owned a commercial establishment, w ­ hether large or small, liked the idea of having a Vasco player working for him. Vasco, however, feeling itself to be the size of Fluminense, Flamengo, América, and Botafogo, could not remain below Bangu, like Andaraí, Carioca, and Vila Isabel, the o ­ thers with five votes and it with only one. The city champion with the vote of a small club, without the right to anything. It was better, then, to just stick with the small clubs once and for all, with the black clubs. The distinction that was established between Amea and the Metropolitan League was this: one, a league of white clubs; the other, a league of whites, mulattoes, and blacks, all mixed together. The separation came about naturally. Andaraí could have gone to Amea but preferred to remain in the Metropolitan, with Vasco. Sport Clube Brasil did not even discuss it: they had no black players on their team, so their place was in Amea. It is true that São Cristóvão, with Nesi and Baianinho, left the Metropolitan and went to Amea, to be small, with one vote. But São Cristóvão would still argue for its right to four more votes. It had its field, its grandstands; if the question was one of a field or grandstands, São Cristóvão could be big like Bangu, not to mention the ­others. The Commission of Inquiry of Amea, despite every­thing, went against São Cristóvão. Any club that had blacks would be ­u nder suspicion—­except for Bangu, which set itself apart. E ­ very player on Bangu wrote on the enrollment form, in the spot reserved for place of work, “Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil.” It was not necessary to take the train and lose three hours on the round trip. The player might work in the fabric room, but he worked. Baianinho, however, a black man, had written in the place of work blank “Esberard Factory,” a glass factory in São Cristóvão. Reis Carneiro, Diocesano Ferreira Gomes, and Armando de Paula Freitas showed up at Esberard Factory The Rebellion of the Black Man  111

and made a point of seeing Baianinho working. Baianinho worked as a blower, and the heat was so intense in the blowers’ room that the three commissioners came and went quickly, convinced. Baianinho was not the only black player on São Cristóvão. ­There was also Nesi, who said he worked at Simões, an herbal medicine establishment on Marinheiros Bridge. Nesi, however, was not found; Simões reported that he had gone out on an errand. The Commission of Inquiry did not believe that story, so Nesi could not play. It was also necessary for the commission to inquire about some white players; if not, it would seem clear that Amea was truly against black players. As a result, the commission discovered that Osvaldo “Maneuver” Gomes de Castro did not work, nor did his ­brother, Valdemar Afonso de Castro. Maneuver, a player on the first team, and Valdemar, a player on the second team, ­were both cut. Amadeu Macedo, president of São Cristóvão, protested, asking if Amea did not believe his word. He had signed the enrollment form, giving his word that what the player had written was the expression of the truth, and then a Commission of Inquiry had come and said that he had lied, or close enough to it? São Cristóvão requested a new inquiry for Nesi; for the o ­ thers, it was not necessary. Maneuver and Valdemar did not work, as their ­father was the owner of a billiards hall in Cancela Square and supported his sons, as did many ­fathers of players on Fluminense, Flamengo, América, and Botafogo. Amea had to apologize to São Cristóvão. They did not even order a new inquiry: the word of Amadeu Macedo was enough. Why argue over the situation of one player? And afterward, every­thing went so well! The good times ­really had returned—­one barely saw any black players on Amea teams. Of Fluminense, Flamengo, América, Botafogo, Bangu, São Cristóvão, Helênico, and Sport Clube Brasil, only Bangu and São Cristóvão had some mulattoes and blacks. Helênico wanted to be the suburban Fluminense; they did not allow black players on the team, just like Sport Clube Brasil. The proof that 1919 had returned was Fluminense. Fluminense was winning game ­after game, marching t­ oward winning a championship. Haroldo, Petit, Léo, Nascimento, Floriano, Fortes, Zezé, Lagarto, Nilo, Coelho, and Moura Costa. One could recite the 1924 Fluminense team as one had recited that of 1919, to see that every­thing was right. The Fluminense team was right, and Amea was right. It was something e­ lse to play like that, white with white. Now it was a plea­ sure to prepare for the games. The Fluminense players even trained more. Almost all of them slept at the club. Only Léo and Coelho, of the Naval War School, and Nascimento, who never got used to all the noise of the Flumi112  Chapter Three

nense dormitory, with the players playing around and throwing pillows at one another, w ­ ere not obligated to sleep at the club. Bedtime was at eleven. It had originally been ten ­o’clock, but the players thought that was too early, since ten was when Lamas was getting good. Even so, t­ here ­were ­those who would arrive ­later, when the gate was locked, and the guard had o ­ rders to shoot if he saw someone jumping the wall. Fortes would almost always jump the wall. One early morning the guard, thinking it was a thief, fired a shot. Fortes raised his hands and yelled, “It’s me!” Fortunately the guard had fired into the air, as a warning shot. ­After that, before getting to the wall, Fortes would start whistling from the sidewalk. ­Unless he received a responding whistle, he did not risk ­going over. The guard was on ­orders to shoot at whoever it might be, even at a player like Fortes. If he could not or did not want to arrive on time, then let Fortes sleep at his own home, like Nascimento. Nascimento slept at his ­house and lived in Tijuca. Even so, by the time the other players woke up, he had already jumped rope and finished ­doing his laps. If he ­were to wait for the ­others, he would get to Sucrerie Brasil late, which was where he worked. Moura Costa would almost always keep Nascimento com­pany. He, too, had to go to work early. Not as early as Nascimento, but if he d ­ idn’t train with him, he would end up training alone. It was difficult to get Harold, Fortes, Floriano, Petit, Zezé, Lagarto, and Nilo out of bed, since all of them had plenty of ­free time. Further, Moura Costa had no beef with Nascimento, whereas the ­others played jokes on him, dressing themselves up as ghosts to scare him. If ­there was one ­thing that Moura Costa was afraid of, it was ghosts. And the ghosts would appear in the Fluminense dormitory, white sheets walking, while Moura Costa shut his eyes and covered his ears, wishing neither to see nor to hear. At one point he had even fainted. It was late and dark, and he ­didn’t want to turn on the light and wake anyone up. He ran into Welfare, thought he was a ghost, and fell backwards, passing out. So that this would not happen again, Moura Costa would go to the club early, while every­thing was lit and ­there ­were no ghosts, and go to sleep before they turned out the lights, then wake with the birds. The ­others got up only when Charles William showed up to pull them out of bed. From the dormitory they would go to the field, while Charles William ordered their breakfast: milk, coffee, Petrópolis toast, ham and eggs, and even filet mignon for ­those who wanted it. First, t­ here was French gymnastics, the players opening and closing their arms, breathing deeply. They ­were just beginning, and Nascimento and Moura The Rebellion of the Black Man  113

Costa would appear, already dressed and on their way to work. Zezé Guimarães made fun of them. He had not lost the habit of calling ­every player who worked a slave. Nobody from Vasco was near, so Zezé Guimarães could joke about Nascimento, Moura Costa, and Welfare, though Welfare did not play anymore. Fluminense had gone to Bahia and was considered an official guest. E ­ very day the newspapers of Boa Terra published the list of players, which did not prevent Popó, a gigantic black man with crooked legs, from kicking Welfare right in the knee. Though Mister Welfare had ­stopped playing, he continued sleeping at Fluminense, living the same life as ­those who did play. He liked that life: Lamas; the Matriz da Glória staircase; the dormitory, with its pillow fights and its ghosts. The ghosts did not drag the sheets through the halls of Fluminense only to scare Moura Costa. Sometimes they would dress up like ghosts and go to the club’s bar, like ­after that St. John’s party.2 Fluminense had prepared a bonfire, and the players ended up setting off rockets deep into the night. Then bedtime came, and no one was sleepy. Fortes dressed up as a ghost in front of Moura Costa, so Moura Costa would not be afraid. About three ghosts went to the bar and returned carry­ing b ­ ottles of vermouth, gin, and whiskey. Welfare ended up with a ­bottle of whiskey just for him. Other ghosts brought glasses and ­bottles of soda and mineral ­water. They drank ­u ntil the early morning. If not for Welfare, the empty b ­ ottles and glasses would have remained in the dormitory, and when Charles William appeared to pull the players out of bed, he would have discovered every­thing. Welfare had drunk more than anyone ­else, but he was En­glish, and he never lost his perspective on ­things. It was necessary to return the empty ­bottles and the cups to the shelves of the bar. For Eugênio, who managed the bar, it was hard to believe that t­ here was not one drop of vermouth, gin, or whiskey in ­those ­bottles, which ­were arranged perfectly, each b ­ ottle in its place. Eugênio did not complain to Fluminense; instead, he took Fortes to the side and presented the bill: almost 800 mil réis. So many ­bottles of soda and mineral ­water; so many ­bottles of vermouth, gin, and whiskey. That total had to be correct; Eugênio was a good man and would never exploit anyone. Fortes took up a collection among the players who had drunk, and even arranged a good tip for Eugênio. Eugênio had behaved like a gentleman; it was not without reason that he had taken over Fluminense’s bar. Fluminense knew whom to choose, even to take over the bar. The players of Fluminense had never had it so good. The director of soccer was Ramiro Pedrosa, a millionaire with an open hand. He kept inventing ­things to please the players: luncheons, dinners, outings, pre­sents. 114  Chapter Three

Nilo Murtinho Braga, the top scorer of the championship, and Floriano Peixoto Corrêa, “the Marshal of Victory,” received pre­sents ­every week. But then Floriano Peixoto Corrêa went so far as to exploit Ramiro Pedrosa. Sometimes he would be in the city on a training session day, and he would call Ramiro Pedrosa, apologizing. He was not ­going to arrive in time to train. Ramiro Pedrosa would ask where he was, and he would respond that he was in Petrópolis. Ramiro Pedrosa would instruct him to take a taxi and come ­running. Floriano Peixoto Corrêa would wait a while, calculating the time it would take for a taxi to quickly go from Petrópolis to Rio. When he fi­nally jumped out of the car, the doorman of Fluminense would already be on the sidewalk with 500 mil réis. So much was not necessary, so Floriano Peixoto Corrêa would put 300 mil réis in his pocket and return 200 to Ramiro Pedrosa. “The change, Mr. Ramiro.” Ramiro Pedrosa did not even look at the change; he simply hurried the Marshal of Victory along. Practice had already begun, and Floriano Peixoto Corrêa needed to change clothes. A ­ fter the training session, Ramiro Pedrosa would take the players to the Toscana, and he almost always had a bunch of theater tickets in his pocket, for the São José, the São Pedro, the Trianon, the República, the Lírico, or the Municipal. When ­there was a lyrical per­for­mance, Ramiro Pedrosa made a point of the Fluminense players wearing their tuxedos. Moura Costa, who was from a very good f­ amily, but poor, did not have a tuxedo. To conceal this, he would give an excuse, that he needed to see his fiancée, and he would not go. Ramiro Pedrosa ended up discovering every­thing when Fluminense was preparing to go to São Paulo. The first t­ hing that the players of Fluminense packed in their bags was their tuxedos, the tuxedos being as impor­tant as their cleats, shorts, and jersey. Fluminense would take care of bringing the sporting material; all the players needed to concern themselves with was their clothes for outings and parties. Moura Costa packed pajamas, two shirts, three pairs of underwear, and three pairs of socks in his suitcase. No tuxedo. Ramiro Pedrosa did not waste any time; he took Moura Costa to a good tailor. The tailor was told to arrange a tuxedo immediately for Moura Costa, what­ever the cost; Ramiro Pedrosa would not argue about the price. Thus, Moura Costa managed to appear in a tuxedo at the banquet of Paulistano for Fluminense. All the players of Fluminense, t­ hose who had played and t­ hose who h ­ adn’t, ­were in tuxedos. It’s true that they could not be outdone at Paulistano. The players of Fluminense, however, did not just wear tuxedos on the night of a party. They w ­ ere staying at the Esplanada, and when they came down to dinner—­twenty young men, all together, in tuxedos—­they drew the attention of the guests, and the guests ­were accustomed to such ­things. The Rebellion of the Black Man  115

And if that w ­ asn’t enough to call one’s attention, t­ here was the t­ able prepared as for a banquet, decorated with flowers. It became obligatory to ask who ­those young men ­were, so pleasant, so personable, so elegant, who ­were fine dining e­ very night. The shock increased when one discovered that t­ hese young men w ­ ere soccer players. The popularity of soccer had given many ­people the impression that the time of the player in a tuxedo was long gone and definitively in the past. The newspapers w ­ ere already printing columns on players who had never worn tuxedos in their lives, p ­ eople of the lower class who barely knew how to read and write, players with just one name, or even just a nickname. But in the end, Fluminense had not changed; the proof was ­there. It remained to be seen ­whether ­t hese young lads, who ­were so pleasant, elegant, and fine, played soccer like the o ­ thers, ­t hose with just one name or a nickname. They did indeed play like the o ­ thers, if not better. The Fluminense team was the carioca champion; the Amea side was the Brazilian champion. Fluminense had given five players to the side: Haroldo, Fortes, Zezé, Lagarto, and Nilo. Flamengo had given four: Penaforte, Seabra, Nonô, and Moderato. And Sport Clube Brasil and São Cristóvão had each given one: Hebraico and Nesi, respectively. Summing it all up: ten whites and one mulatto.

2. And if the side had been all white it would have been all the better, say Nascimento in place of Nesi. Still, it did no harm to have a mulatto on the side. On the contrary, it served to show that Amea was not as much against black players as it seemed. The demonstration had been given, and it was a success. It had been necessary for Amea to arise, ending that story of the small club being equal to the big club, the black man equal to the white, for the carioca side to win a Brazilian championship. The players from good families had a new lease on life. They could live the life they had been living without the danger of competing, in inferior conditions, with the poor whites, mulattoes, and blacks. Amea was ­there to assure that the poor whites, mulattoes, and blacks would not be allowed to spend the entire day on the field, kicking the ball around. For this reason, it was even good that Vasco was joining Amea. Amea needed a club with an immigrant community; it needed one so much that it had even allowed Sírio to join. But the Turks did not like soccer like the Portuguese did.3 If Vasco ­were to join Amea, ­t here would be no field that had enough room; all of them would be bursting at the seams with p ­ eople. 116  Chapter Three

And Vasco would never lift the championship cup. How could they win the championship if their players had to work, d ­ oing the hard stuff? And then ­there was the Commission of Inquiry, which would not leave Vasco in peace. Once in a while, without notice and at random times, the Commission of Inquiry would appear at Morais e Silva to see if a Vasco player was around. With Vasco in Amea, the Commission of Inquiry would work ­every day, ­going to Morais e Silva and to the commercial establishments where Vasco said their players ­were working. Nobody believed that Vasco’s players w ­ ere actually working. The Commission of Inquiry was certain that the Vasco players ­were on the employee rolls of the commercial establishments just for show. Maybe many Portuguese, ­owners of commercial establishments, thought it was not necessary for the players to actually be working, that it sufficed simply to say they did when they came asking about a par­tic­u­lar player. “Yes, Bolão works h ­ ere, sir. He’s a g­ reat employee, I give you my word.” The Commission of Inquiry had a trick. They did not ask for the player; they asked for the employee. “Does Mr. Nelson Conceição work h ­ ere?” And Nelson Conceição did work t­ here; he happened to be at the front c­ ounter of Casa Portela. But Nelson Conceição was known as Nelson Conceição. Espanhol, however, had the name Francisco Gonçalves. In the leather shop of Mr. Gomes Portela, the Commission of Inquiry asked a­ fter Francisco Gonçalves. Francisco Gonçalves did not work t­ here. Espanhol, in truth, did not work anywhere. Vasco would arrange him job ­after job ­until they could prove that he had a position. But Bolão worked at the Buttons and Metal Artifacts Factory Com­pany. He worked in shipping and packaging. If the Commission of Inquiry went to the shipping room, they would find Bolão working without stop. Bolão wanted to make something of himself in life; he knew that soccer would end for him, sooner or ­later, and was thinking of the f­ uture. The Commission of Inquiry did not ask for Bolão; instead, they asked for Claudionor Corrêa. Claudionor Corrêa? ­There must have been some m ­ istake; no employee of that name worked at the Buttons and Metal Artifacts Factory Com­pany. Every­body t­ here knew Claudionor Corrêa as Bolão; Bolão ­here and Bolão ­there. At times all that was required was a last name to confuse the boss of a Vasco player. For example: Silva de Pascoal. If the Commission of Inquiry asked for Pascoal, Mr. Figueiredo, the owner of Casa Verde on Senador Euzébio Street, would not hesitate a moment. But Pascoal Silva? Who was Pascoal Silva? And e­ very Sunday, Mr. Figueiredo would cheer for Pascoal from the grandstands. “Come on, Pascoal; bring in Pascoal!” If such a ­thing happened with The Rebellion of the Black Man  117

Pascoal, imagine what would happen with Negrito when the commissioners asked if Mr. Alípio Martins worked ­there. It was a good idea on the part of the commissioners to consult the aliases of the player. Perhaps t­ here was an Alípio Martins. “­There is no Alípio Martins, no, sir.” It was amusing that their boss did not know the names of his employees. “Ah! So Negrito d ­ oesn’t ­really work h ­ ere?” “Negrito? Negrito is my employee, one with his hands full; ah, if only they ­were all like Negrito.” With Ceci, it was the same ­thing. He was called Silvio Moreira; his boss did not even know this. He had hired Ceci, the ­little black guy who played left midfield for Vasco. The Commission of Inquiry did not even argue: they cut Ceci, as they had cut Espanhol, Bolão, Pascoal, and Negrito, as they ­were ­going to cut Artur, Russinho, Brilhante, and Mingote. Mingote, according to the Commission of Inquiry, had been thrown out of the army. Clóvis Dunshee de Abranches, Vasco’s ­lawyer, proved that Mingote had not been ejected from the army; rather, he had been excluded from ser­vice due to being drafted outside the ­legal time frame. The accusation against Brilhante was that he was a subaltern functionary of the School of War. A subaltern employee could not play. It mattered ­little that Brilhante had come from Bangu. At Bangu that could pass, but at Vasco, it c­ ouldn’t. And it so happened that Brilhante had left the subaltern functionary position and was working at Singer. Vasco, further, would soon be threatening to leave Amea. If Amea did not want them to have a team, it was better to say so once and for all. The result of this was another inquiry, this one made up of dif­fer­ent p ­ eople—no Reis Carneiro, no Diocesano Ferreira Gomes, no Armando de Paula Freitas. Samuel de Oliveira did the inquiry in his own way, ­going to see if a player was at work only when it was close by. When it was a l­ittle more distant, he would phone. He would begin by unsettling the Portuguese owner of the establishment: “­Don’t tell me that so-­and-so works t­ here.” “He does work ­here, sir.” “Well, OK then.” This meant the player could play: Arthur, Negrito, Russinho, Brilhante, and Ceci. Bolão, Pascoal, and Espanhol w ­ ere left out, which brought another inquiry. Amea did not task Samuel de Oliveira with verifying if Bolão, Pascoal, and Espanhol ­were working or not; instead, they tasked Irineu Chaves. And fi­nally it was discovered that Bolão was a good employee of the Buttons and Metal Artifacts Factory Com­pany.4 Mr. Figueiredo, of Casa Verde, gave testimony: Pascoal Silva was working for him. The most difficult of all was Espanhol. Espanhol did not want to 118  Chapter Three

work. He had gone to Vasco to play soccer. From t­ here, to convince him that he needed, at least, to pretend to work took some time. But Vasco had its team. They w ­ ere not, however, g­ oing to win the championship. In 1923, the players would spend the ­whole day practicing at Morais e Silva, but in 1925, they could no longer do that. Even the players with no job, who ­were on the employee roll of a commercial establishment, had to pretend. If they showed up at Morais e Silva during work hours, Amea was capable of cutting them again. For this reason, they would laze around at cafés, at pubs, at so-­called street jobs. The most that they could do would be to train with the players of Fluminense, Flamengo, Botafogo and América: individual training early in the morning, group practice in the m ­ iddle of the week. And then ­there was the story of the field, Vasco having to play in Fluminense’s stadium. Nelson Conceição came in the front, and he was the first to get booed. Nobody yelled “Come on in, Basco, b ­ ecause my husband is a member” anymore. T ­ hose who ­were not for Vasco would put their fin­gers in their mouths and start whistling. And as if that ­weren’t enough, ­there ­were ­people ­behind the goal bother­ing Nelson Conceição. ­Toward Vasco, the fans of the other teams showed l­ittle re­spect. It is true that the man of general admission, the man of the grandstand, was changing. When the game took too long to start, some funny guy would come out with “­There is no doubt, throw the cod out,” as if a soccer field was a circus. Blame was cast on Vasco. Before Vasco, the fans w ­ ere respectful. The proof was in 1924, before Vasco was in Amea. When a player was burying the team, the fans prayed to God that he would leave the field, not wishing to offend him in any way. T ­ here was a delicate way of informing the club that the player needed to be substituted in order to avoid a loss, to ask the player to allow someone to take his place. It was known as the “get the telephone” ploy. Someone was on the telephone for the player, an urgent call; the player was ­going to take the call and had to be substituted. No insults, like “the pits,” “leper,” “bloodsucker,” “team killer.” With Vasco in Amea, however, the fans could not allow themselves the luxury of ­these niceties. If a player was playing badly, he had to go out, and right away, as quickly as pos­si­ble, or ­else Vasco would end up winning the game. The players began to hear yells and reprimands, the fans justifying themselves by saying they had paid to enter and therefore had the right to do as they saw fit, especially with Nelson Conceição, a mulatto dressed up like an Argentine goalkeeper with a baseball cap on his head. Baseball caps ­were for whites. The Rebellion of the Black Man  119

Nelson Conceição would be rushing to defend a ball, hearing “you this” and “you that,” and sometimes he would lose his calm and the ball would go in. With Fluminense’s fans ­behind the goal, filling his ears with belittling comments, what could he do? The Fluminense members ­were more prepared to leave the chairs of the social area, preferring to be ­under the sun, in the grandstand, ­behind the goal of Nelson Conceição. That way they would be more at liberty to reprimand the black man. When the half ended, they would move to the other goal. When Nelson Conceição returned, thinking he was rid of them, they soon freed him of that illusion. The stadium belonged to Fluminense, and Fluminense members could change their seats, watching the game from one side in the first half and the other in the second. Vasco complained, and Fluminense responded that it could not take any mea­sures against members who went to the grandstand. ­After that, Vasco de­ cided to change fields. They s­ topped playing at Fluminense and went to play at Flamengo. The situation did not improve; in fact, it worsened—by a lot. The Flamengo fans ­were even angrier at Vasco than the Fluminense fans ­were—­the fans, the players, every­body. What is more, the other players thought that they ­were sullying themselves by playing against the Vasco team. They would play against Vasco only in a championship, and in that case only b ­ ecause t­ here was no alternative. The Metropolitan League had had proof of this. They had dreamed, shortly ­after the 1923 championship, of a Vasco versus Flamengo matchup. They needed money, and no game could make more money than that. For Flamengo, t­ here was no doubt, but some of the players, like Seabra, Dino, Candiota, Junqueira, and Moderado in front, refused to play, and so that game never happened. And it was into the hands of the Flamengo fans that Vasco fell. The grandstand of Paissandu belonged to the Flamengo members, t­hose who paid 3,000 mil réís. The members, the fans of Flamengo, liked to attend games ­behind the goal, especially the games of Vasco. The goal was almost glued to the fence, and Nelson Conceição would hear abuse for eighty minutes. And the fans of Flamengo, the same ones who had, in 1923, brought oars wrapped in the Jornal do Brasil to Fluminense’s stadium, did not content themselves with this. They threw l­ittle rocks at Nelson Conceiçã­o’s back. When a ­little rock would hit Nelson Conceiçã­o’s back while he was making a defensive play, it was an almost certain goal. Vasco changed fields again, ending up at Andaraí’s field, Barão de São Francisco Filho. At Andaraí, Nelson Conceição s­ topped complaining, as he felt more or less at home. Andaraí, a small club, did not want to lose the rent money on the field, which it lived off of. So, on the day of a Vasco match, the 120  Chapter Three

ones who ran the show on Andaraí’s field ­were the Portuguese. Only fans with the shield of the Maltese cross on their chests could go b ­ ehind Nelson Conceiçã­o’s goal. Vasco, however, had already lost points in Álvaro Chaves and Paissandu, and could no longer even think of being champion. Flamengo would win the championship without a mulatto or a black on the team, another proof for the fine clubs that they ­were the ones who ­were right, only wanting white players. The life of the Flamengo player was the same as that of a Fluminense player. In certain moments—at Lamas, on the Matriz da Glória staircase, on Laranjeiras Street, arm in arm, singing together, yelling hurrahs together—it became difficult to distinguish one from the other. Fluminense, however, had a dormitory and a restaurant, and liked to provide more comforts to the players. Flamengo had reservations about this; it was hard to convince them, and they seemed stingy. Furtado, who managed the bar, had ­orders to give the players, ­after a practice, a soda, a mineral ­water. They w ­ ere allowed one ­bottle at most, b ­ ecause the costs of one player could not exceed 1.5 mil réis. Even the players with money in their pockets, ­t hose who worked—­like Hélcio, Mamede, Dino, Vadinho, and Nonô—­revolted, obliging Furtado to pour more than 1.5 mil réis, to pour seven, eight, or even nine mil réis. Furtado had to open a ­bottle of vermouth, another of whiskey, and the players would drink, then they would order that every­thing be put on the club’s tab. The club would pay, getting used to spending more, convincing itself that this was the right way. Flamengo wanted to win the championship, and the players soaked their shirts on the field, receiving nothing for this, so they had to be well treated. So Furtado received o ­ rders to prepare ­horse steaks for the players. The players would end their individual practice and go to the bar, where they would eat steak with two fried eggs and drink their café au lait. Doctor Faustino Esposel—­president of Flamengo, medical doctor, and professor of the College of Medicine—­had reached the conclusion that bread with honey was much better sustenance than bread with butter. Before g­ oing to Flamengo, he would go through the city and buy one or two b ­ ottles of honey, then appear at the club’s bar with his purchase u ­ nder his arm. And the one who prepared the bread with honey was the doctor himself, as ­there was no one better to do it. The French bread would already be cut by Furtado; all Doctor Faustino Esposel had to do was slather the two slices with the honey, which would pour slowly out of the b ­ ottle. The players, while they waited, would eat the h ­ orse steak. Sometimes they ­were not content with just one steak and ordered another. Furtado would yell The Rebellion of the Black Man  121

“one more ­horse steak,” satisfied with life. Now, indeed, the bar was showing results; the players could spend to their liking. Dona Odete, wife of Doctor Faustino Esposel, did even more than her husband. He would slather bread slices in honey, but Dona Odete would prepare at home, with special care, a fine dish of egg threads. Naturally she did not do this ­every day, the egg threads being a kind of victory dessert. When Flamengo played in Paissandu, Dona Odete would take a package of egg threads to the field. The package would be placed in the room of the secretary and trea­sury, full of wicker chairs. When the game ended, the players would change clothes and go to the room. When they arrived, they would find Dona Odete filling the l­ittle dessert plates, one for each player. The players remained seated, waiting. Some w ­ ere so bashful that they did not even have the courage to take the plate from Dona Odete’s hands. What was worse, Dona Odete would then make the player open his mouth, as if he w ­ ere a l­ ittle boy, and feed him with a spoon. The less embarrassed players helped Dona Odete; they would get a plate from the ­table and eat standing up, slowly savoring the egg threads. “Delicious, Dona Odete; no one knows how to make egg threads better than you.” Dona Odete would smile, enchanted. Whoever was in the room got to know Flamengo better. Flamengo could only be this way, as it was. Consider if Flamengo had a Nelson Conceição on the team. Dona Odete spoon-­feeding Nelson Conceição would be considered the end of the world. If a Nelson Conceição ­were to wear the Flamengo jersey, goodbye egg threads; goodbye Dona Odete. Dona Odete would certainly not prepare the egg thread dish anymore; perhaps she would no longer appear at the Flamengo field. If she did appear, she would stay in the grandstand, far away, and when the game ended, she would leave, without speaking to the players. The players, too, would be dif­fer­ent, as would Nelson Conceição. The players ­there now did not even want to play against Nelson Conceição, much less alongside him, shoulder to shoulder, sweating in the same shirt. For this reason, in soccer, Flamengo did not make concessions. They could have a black man in another sport, even rowing, as in the case of Zé Augusto—­a black champion of track and field, and of rowing. He was also a basketball player and a ­water polo player, practicing a bit of each sport but not getting involved in playing soccer. Zé Augusto had gone to Flamengo while still a boy. Boys did not generally bother white teams if they ­were black. But the boy grew, and Flamengo took a look at his color. They had nothing against him but thought it too bad he ­wasn’t white. 122  Chapter Three

Few white men gave so many victories to Flamengo as Zé Augusto. He was black, but he was already in the club. Even so, ­there ­were ­those who did not like it, who believed Flamengo should have thought of his color before, seeing in Zé Augusto a sign of the changing times. A professor of the polytechnical school had wanted to join Flamengo, but he had not joined ­because he was black. And he was not even ­going to wear the club’s jersey; he was just ­going to pay a membership for the right to access the club. Perhaps he would have not even gone to the club, contenting himself with being a member. Zé Augusto never made an appearance on the skating rink of Paissandu on the night of a party. He knew that if he showed up, many p ­ eople would talk. The skating rink belonged more to soccer. It was right t­ here, next to the field, and almost always ­after a game they would send for an orchestra, and ­there would be a dance that lasted well into the night. As he did not get involved with playing soccer, Zé Augusto did not get involved with dancing. He had only remained at Flamengo ­because he did not play soccer and did not dance—­that is, he did not draw much attention. Barely anyone went to see a track and field competition, however impor­tant it was, a half dozen curious folks lost in the grandstands. When Zé Augusto won a trial, one heard a clap ­here, a clap ­there. And the newspapers would only publish a column about track and field on special occasions. The name of Zé Augusto would appear like any other name, without color, without anything. Zé Augusto was of Flamengo, so he must be white. Flamengo could have a black man in track and field, in basketball, in w ­ ater polo, in rowing. One watched a regatta from far away, from the Botafogo Beach pavilion, from the seawall of Beira-­Mar Ave­nue, from a boat. One did not see the rower very well; one saw only the boat and the oars. The rowers, in a regatta, became a boat and some oars. In a soccer match, one saw the players up close: Batalha, Pena, Hélcio, Mamede, Seabra, Dino, Newton, Candiota, Nonô, Vadinho, and Moderato. Flamengo could not have any black player in soccer. In soccer, one needed to be white, as white as Fluminense. It was no won­der, then, that when the ­people of Flamengo and Fluminense got together to form a carioca side, the side ended up entirely white, from the keeper to the left winger. It was the side that entered carioca soccer history with the name Fla-­Flu. This expression had not been used before. No one had yet perceived that the first syllables of Flamengo and Fluminense could be combined as the title of a game, as every­one preferred to pronounce the names of Flamengo and Fluminense in their entirety: T ­ oday, in Laranjeiras or in Paissandu, Flamengo and Fluminense. The Rebellion of the Black Man  123

The side of six players from Flamengo and five from Fluminense suggested the abbreviation, Fla-­Flu. The newspapers referred to the side with this moniker to see if Joaquim Guimarães, of Flamengo, and Chico Neto, of Fluminense, would put players from Vasco, Botafogo, or América in the se­lection. Flamengo was g­ oing to be the champion of 1925, and Fluminense had been the champion of 1924, but the other teams also had good players. But it was no use: Joaquim Guimarães and Chico Neto, tasked with organ­izing the carioca side, had carte blanche; they could start whomever they wanted. They started the white players of Flamengo and Fluminense, and with t­ hese whites, they won the Brazilian championship, consecrating Fla-­Flu. The press shut up; Joaquim Guimarães and Chico Neto had been right. And they ­were so right that the CBD [Confederação Brasileira de Desportos, or Brazilian Sports Confederation] did not put a black player on the Brazilian side for the South American Championship in Buenos Aires.5 The only one, then, was Friedenreich, the mulatto who wanted to be white. Since 1919, Friedenreich had acquired special rights: a Brazilian soccer glory could play, he had a spot reserved on the side, despite being mulatto. The CBD was not unfamiliar with the value of Nelson Conceição. If Nelson Conceição went to Buenos Aires, the Brazilians would be called macaquitos,6 as they had been two years before in Montevideo. That year, the Brazilian side had taken too many mulatto and black players to Montevideo. The Uruguayan side had had its own black player, preserving a good tradition. It even looked good then to have just one black player, a drop of coffee in a cup of milk. The Brazilian side, however, consisted of five mulattoes and blacks and six whites, some of whom did not even know fish cutlery existed. For that reason, their eyes never left Fortes. They could have chosen another to watch, such as Zezé Guimarães or Nilo Murtinho Braga, who also never neglected to wear their tuxedos at dinnertime. That was what drew the attention of the passengers of that Royal Mail Lines ship: ­tables in a “t” shape, and around the t­ able, all mixed together, whites, mulattoes, and blacks. The mulattoes and blacks would wait for the whites to sit. Nelson Conceição, Soda, Nesi, Pascoal, Torteroli, and Amaro only sat down at the t­ able ­after Fortes pulled out his chair. Every­thing that Fortes did, they did. Not immediately, not all at the same time, but one at a time, in order not to be obvious. They pretended a bit, then took the same spoon, fork, and knife that was in the hand of Fortes and began to eat. They did not want to commit a faux pas and ­were too ashamed to ask, to reveal that they ­didn’t know, and preferred to watch Fortes. Watching Fortes, who was used to that life, who seemed as if he slept in a tuxedo, they never went wrong. It did not enter any of their minds that Fortes, 124  Chapter Three

although the most urchin-­like of all the players on the field, would be capable of a prank in a dining hall of a luxury ship. Well, Fortes played a prank on them. He waited till the end of dinner, for the fin­ger bowls to arrive. When the fin­ger bowls arrived, Fortes pretended he was g­ oing to drink from his. In an instant, t­ here was not a drop of w ­ ater with lemon in the fin­ger bowls of Nelson Conceição, Soda, Nesi, Pascoal, Torteroli, or Amaro. For days and nights no one spoke of anything ­else. And even ­later on, when the South American championship had ended, the players having returned, it was still being talked about, to demonstrate the difference between a player from Fluminense and a player from Vasco, between a white one and a black one. It was a good advertisement for Amea, which was just getting started. The CBD also took note. ­Really it was an incon­ve­nience to send blacks in Brazilian soccer del­e­ga­tions. If the South American championship ­were ­here, one could even allow a Nelson Conceição on the side. In an international championship, however, they would do it only as a last resort, when they had no white player for his position. And t­ here was no lack of whites who played soccer well. For this very reason, the CBD de­cided to make a show of it. They sent white players to Buenos Aires, making an exception, as they always did, for Friedenreich. And e­ very player received money for expenses, a good amount in order to buy a tuxedo. CBD made tuxedos a requirement. The Brazilian players had to show up at night—on the Royal Mail Lines ship, in the Buenos Aires ­hotel—­wearing tuxedos. Thus, the fans in Buenos Aires, who liked to call the Brazilians macaquitos, could not open their mouths. They would not see one black player, and only one mulatto, who was well disguised—­the green-­eyed Friedenreich, who was just as at home in his tuxedo as was Agostinho Fortes Filho.

3. The tuxedo did not bring any advantage, though Renato Pacheco, sitting in the place of honor at the Brazilians’ t­ able e­ very night, would look around, full of pride. It was pleasing to see the players, without exception, dressed to the nines. Renato Pacheco was used to seeing players in tuxedos at Fluminense, at Paulistano, in the society clubs. The Argentinians, however, ­were not accustomed to this, and Renato Pacheco would imagine himself as an Argentinian, to better appreciate the spectacle of a national side in tuxedos. When could the Argentinians send a del­e­ga­tion like this abroad? The Rebellion of the Black Man  125

The Argentinian players ­were white, but just let someone look into where they came from. One would not find among them a Fortes, an Osvaldo, a Nilo. Thank God Brazil still had fine ­people, from good families, playing soccer. As long as the dinner lasted, Renato Pacheco did not feel the slightest doubt that this was the way ­things should be. Oscar Costa had done well to demand a white side, a side of players in tuxedos. ­After dinner, Renato Pacheco’s certainty diminished, almost dis­appeared. Perhaps less tuxedos would be better. A Nelson Conceição would not leave the ­hotel; he would spend the day locked in his room, in pajamas, only removing his pajamas for lunch and dinner. But the players in tuxedos had not gone to Buenos Aires just to play soccer; they had gone to play and to enjoy themselves. For that reason, they hardly s­ topped at the h ­ otel. In the morning and after­noon, Renato Pacheco did not worry. At night it was a dif­fer­ent story, as the players did not remove their tuxedoes ­after dinner. When Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães would check to see if the players ­were in for the night, they found their beds made up and empty. The players would spend the rest of the night at Tabaris Theater,7 only returning in the early morning hours. With this be­hav­ior, one could not even think of winning a South American championship. The Brazilians lost by a mile to the Argentinians in the first match; t­ here would be a second, and the players w ­ ere prohibited from leaving the h ­ otel. A ­ fter dinner, Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães went up with them, left each in his own room, and then calmly went back down and stayed a bit in the hall, u ­ ntil they got tired. Fortes, Floriano, Nilo, and Friedenreich always arranged a way to make their escape. They would wait u ­ ntil every­one was sleeping, get out of bed, and put their tuxedoes back on, often waiting to put on their shoes u ­ ntil they w ­ ere in the elevator, in order not to make noise and wake somebody up. Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães did not suspect a ­thing, believing the players incapable of something like that. It was necessary for Carlos Nascimento, on the eve of the last match against Argentina, to turn them in. Carlos Nascimento was one of the few who w ­ ere not counting the hours for a night at Tabaris. For him, life in Buenos Aires was practically the same as life in Rio. In Rio he slept at home and started his day at the club, for practice; in Buenos Aires he slept at the h ­ otel and woke up e­ arlier than every­one ­else to do gymnastics in his room. Naturally Nascimento understood Fortes, ­because he knew Fortes from Fluminense. If Fortes, Floriano, Friedenreich, and Nilo did not decide to spend Christmas Eve at Tabaris, Carlos Nascimento w ­ ouldn’t say anything.8 The eve of a match, for him, was sacred. 126  Chapter Three

For this reason, he went to speak with Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães. He said he was not sure but that it might be good if Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães kept an eye on the elevator door. Maybe some players had planned an outing for that night, even though it was the eve of the match. Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães, forewarned, took all the players upstairs, leaving each one in his room, as always, and then went back down, as always. But instead of staying just a ­little while in the hall, they remained ­t here, waiting. A while l­ater, the elevator came down, and when the door opened, Fortes, Floriano, Friedenreich, and Nilo came face to face with Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães. The went back up in the same elevator, got undressed again, and got in bed. Floriano and Friedenreich did not show up with the o ­ thers the next day for breakfast, and Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães went to see what was up, only to find Floriano and Friedenreich in bed, complaining. They ­were not g­ oing to be able to play; they had the flu. They had rolled handkerchiefs soaked in alcohol around their necks. Floriano did not stop coughing, and game time was approaching, with Renato Pacheco and Joaquim Guimarães unsure of what to do. Vari­ous rumors ­were spreading: Floriano and Friedenreich had the flu, Floriano and Friedenreich did not have the flu but wanted money to play. Renato Pacheco ended up being convinced that it was a question of money, as much for Floriano as it was for Friedenreich. When he became convinced of this, he wished to send a tele­gram to Oscar Costa, president of the CBD, asking him to eliminate Friedenreich and Floriano from the del­e­ga­tion, to send out an official memo. They would never play soccer again; they would end up with their c­ areers cut short. In the end, however, he gave them the money. In an instant, Floriano and Friedenreich got better. The score got up to two to zero in f­avor of Brazil, and Friedenreich was ­going to score the third goal when he got kicked in the back. Friedenreich ­didn’t seem to remember that he just needed to push the ball in to guarantee a win for Brazil; instead, he left ­behind the ball in order to fight. The crowd invaded the field of Barracas with yells of macaquitos and attacked the Brazilian players. As a result, t­ here ­were marches on Rio Branco Ave­nue against Argentina, and Itamaraty, the ministry of foreign relations, reached the conclusion that soccer did not bring p ­ eoples together—­quite the contrary—­a nd the best ­t hing would be for Brazil not to compete in any more South American championships. The Rebellion of the Black Man  127

And no one spoke of the eve­ning outings to Tabaris, or the flu of Floriano and Friedenreich. The bad ­thing had been to go to Buenos Aires, to play on a field like that of Barracas. Manuel Gonçalves, the columnist covering the Brazilian del­e­ga­tion to the South American championship, tried to give an idea of the Barracas field. While the São Cristóvão field was often called a “hen­ house,” the Barracas field was worse. São Cristóvão did not like this, as they w ­ ere one of the humiliated and offended ones in Brazilian soccer. And they ­were preparing to win the carioca championship of 1926 with a team of whites, mulattoes, and blacks. Vasco had won the championship in 1923 with a team like that, and São Cristóvão could do the same. It would be enough to take the championship more seriously than the o ­ thers, to think only about it. For quite some time, São Cristóvão had been dreaming of a championship, for to be big, a club had to be champion at least once. Naturally a championship cost money. Luís Vinhães, who took charge of the team with Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo, soon requested the construction of a dormitory and the purchase of a truck. The dormitory was built beneath the grandstand of Figueira de Melo Stadium, a chassis of a Ford truck was purchased, and an order was made to build the body of a bus in a garage on Bento Lisboa Street. Álvaro Novais, the president of São Cristóvão, had an open hand. He had a farm on which he raised chickens, and ­every week he would send São Cristóvão ten or twenty dozen eggs for the players. The players needed to eat well, and t­ here was nothing better to strengthen them than a good eggnog. The eggs ­were for the egg nogs and the porridges, and also served as pre­ sents for the players. Baianinho and Vicente, who ­were from big families, could take home one or two dozen eggs each. São Cristóvão did not want the families of their players to suffer. For this reason, they gave 150 mil réis to Baianinho and 100 mil réis to Vicente. The money was not for them, and once in a while São Cristóvão would inquire as to w ­ hether Baianinho’s old ­woman or Vicente’s old ­woman had received the money. It ­wasn’t that they d ­ idn’t trust them; São Cristóvão just wanted to see if it was getting to them. It was getting to them, since Vicente worked at Caneca Shipyard, and Baianinho at Esberard Glass Factory. Baianinho’s work was harder, eight hours of blowing glass. And Baianinho lived on the hill of Caixa d’Água. He had to come down and go up the hill ­every day. When he went up, he would always bring a package of tiles. He was building a ­house, for his old ­woman, for his siblings, and building it like that, bit by bit, five tiles one day, five tiles the next. It was a work of years. E ­ very time he saw Baianinho with the package of tiles ­under his arm, Luís Vinhaes would 128  Chapter Three

feel moved. A good black man, that one. Not exactly a black man, he was more a dark mulatto, with a stepped haircut, like Nesi. Nesi had left for Vasco, but Baianinho had stayed. São Cristóvão could be proud of a Baianinho. He was not the only mulatto on the team; ­there was also Zé Luís and Jaburu. Jaburu had erysipelas, but he still played, and his erysipelas was never cured. Before each game, Jaburu would stretch out his bare leg on a changing room bench and pass a gold ring over the swollen veins, all the while moving his lips, praying. ­After praying and blessing his leg, he would put on his woolen socks and cleats, and go over to the field to soak his shirt for São Cristóvão. With players like Baianinho and Jaburu, it was no miracle that São Cristóvão won a championship. The dormitory was ready, and the bus just needed a paint job. It was ­going to be beautiful, painted all in gray, with white curtains in the ­little win­dows. It would hardly cost anything, since it would be paid for by the savings in taxi expenses. Before the bus, São Cristóvão had to rely on the chauffeurs of the plaza: taxis for the players of the second team, taxis for the players of the first team. And it was necessary to arrange ­things with the chauffeurs, to give them tips, since the chauffeurs could not wait around their ­whole lives ­until the game ended. In the bus, the players of the second and first teams would fit, all together, and Luís Vinhaes and Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo knew how to drive, so the expenses would consist primarily of gasoline. Beyond this, it made an impression for São Cristóvão to have a bus. The bus would pass by, and whoever was in the street would look and discover that the bus belonged to São Cristóvão. The bus lent a certain importance to the club, as a club with a bus could not be a small club. And the bus was not just for taking the players to the fields once a week; it would also serve to take the players to Copacabana Beach ­every day. Luís Vinhaes had kept the secret; he h ­ adn’t told anyone that the individual training session of São Cristóvão would be on Copacabana Beach, with the players in cleats, woolen socks, shorts, and every­t hing, as if they w ­ ere ­going to the field. Newton Campelo, at that time a cadet, had lent his bicycle to Luís Vinhaes, who lived in Andaraí and did not want to use gasoline or put wear on the tires of São Cristóvão to get the players at Figueira de Melo. He woke up at 4:30 in the morning, while it was still dark out, and pedaled from Plaza Sete to Figueira de Melo. He found the bus at the door, waiting, and the players still sleeping. They woke up with the arrival of Vinhaes, got dressed, and got on the bus, without asking where they w ­ ere g­ oing. Luís Vinhaes kept mum. He took the steering wheel and headed out on the road to Leme. On that first day, the players did not hide their surprise. They The Rebellion of the Black Man  129

thought that the training would be at a field bigger than that of Figueira de Melo, but in the end what they saw w ­ ere the white sands of Copacabana and the sea. Luís Vinhaes jumped out of the bus, as did every­one ­else except Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo, who had to take the bus to Post Six.9 Only then did Vinhaes explain how individual training would go. The players had to run along the shore on the beach, very close to the waves, from Watchman’s Fort to Copacabana Fort.10 And ­there would be no removing of cleats, no removing of socks. And to prove that anyone could run in cleats from Watchman’s Fort to Copacabana Fort, Luís Vinhaes set the example and went out r­ unning in front, making a point of putting his feet in the w ­ ater. ­After a l­ittle while, the cleats would weigh kilos, soaked and full of sand. That was not a prob­lem—­the heavier the better, that was what Vinhaes wanted. Copacabana Beach spread itself out before Luís Vinhaes and the players of São Cristóvão; it seemed as if it would never end. The players did not have to run very fast; a good pace was a trot. The cleats ­were diving beneath the ­water, burying themselves in the sand, and Luís Vinhaes was in front, r­ unning his heart out. They arrived, fi­nally, at Post Six, more dead than alive, and some threw themselves on the ground while ­others remained standing, moving their heads back and forth, trying to catch their breaths. Vinhaes ordered every­one to take off their cleats and socks for one quick dip. The players fell in the ­water, got out right away, and still had the strength to run to the bus. The curtains w ­ ere already pulled, so they could change clothes as the bus returned to Figueira de Melo, with Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo at the wheel. Seated on the bus’s benches, stretching their legs, feet ­free of the heavy cleats, dressed in fresh and dry jerseys and shorts, the players did not even remember having run from Watchman’s Fort to Copacabana Fort. ­Every day it was the same ­thing. The players ­were getting used to it when one morning Luís Vinhaes, arriving in front of Post Six, did not stop, and returned, accompanied by the players, to Watchman’s Fort. The players of other clubs ­were ­doing a paltry half hour of individual training on the field, in tennis shoes, opening and closing their arms, bending and stretching their legs. Luís Vinhaes wanted to see the players of the other teams get on the field to face off against the players of São Cristóvão. It was easy to get the sense of it. São Cristóvão would do group training, and Paulino, Póvoa, Zé Luís, Julinho, Henrique, Alberto, Manobra, Jaburu, Vicente, Baianinho, and Teófilo ended up thinking they ­were barefoot; they did not even feel the weight of their cleats. Their cleats only weighed anything on Copacabana Beach, when they w ­ ere wet and full of sand. On the field they would become light, like patent leather shoes with thin s­ oles. Luís Vinhaes and Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo could extend the practice as they pleased. 130  Chapter Three

When the practice ended, the players would even complain that they had hardly trained at all. Training like that, the players needed to eat well, very well indeed. Returning from Copacabana to Figueira de Melo, they would find the Bahian cook, Balbina, preparing the porridge. Balbina lived on Francisco Eugênio Street, very close to São Cristóvão. Early in the morning she would go to Figueira de Melo, light the fire, and start stirring the pot of porridge. The result would be a thick, delicious porridge with a lot of milk, a lot of wheat flour, and a lot of eggs. Balbina did not charge anything for the ser­vice. She was a São Cristóvão fan, and on game day she got f­ ree entrance. She treated the players like boys, like her own sons. Seeing them ­running on the field, she could not contain herself; she would roll up her silk sleeves, very short by the way, and expose her black arms, like candy rolls, and yell for the boys, “Ah, my boys!” Around eleven ­o’clock e­ very game day, the players would eat Balbina’s porridge. For her, São Cristóvã­o’s wins w ­ ere a l­ittle bit due to the porridge. In ­earlier years, São Cristóvão had done nothing in the championships, and Balbina connected one t­ hing with the other. Ever since she began preparing her porridge for the players, São Cristóvão had managed to win game ­after game; they w ­ ere g­ oing to be champions. But even with the dormitory, the bus, players in cleats ­running along the shore from Watchman’s Fort to Copacabana Fort, the dozens of eggs from Álvaro Novais’s farm, and Balbina’s porridge, Luís Vinhaes and Gilberto de Almeida Rêgo did not forgo a visit to the Church of Santa Terezinha, on Mariz e Barros Street, to pray for the victory of São Cristóvão. Not for just any victory—­for victory in the championship. Only thus would São Cristóvão be big. It mattered ­little that it was a founding member of Amea, like Vasco. Vasco had won a championship, so “Basco is pow-­whore-­ful” had taken the place of “Come on in, Basco, ­because my husband is a member.” Even joking, they respected Vasco. São Cristóvão was treated like a suburban club, even though São Cristóvã­o’s field was close by, in Figueira de Melo, closer to the city than América’s field in Campos Sales. They called América’s field a “­little stadium,” whereas they called São Cristóvã­o’s field a “hen­house.” When Fluminense, Flamengo, Botafogo, and even Vasco had to go to Figueira de Melo, they prepared themselves as if they ­were ­going to play in Bangu, perhaps even with more caution. The fans up ­there waited for the fans from the city to board the train before throwing the first stone. Thus, t­ here was the refuge of lying down in the train car and covering one’s head with one’s hands; it was more a fright than anything ­else. ­Those who entered Figueira de Melo had to leave by the hallway, and the fans of São Cristóvão would be on ­either side, wielding canes and pieces of wood. The Rebellion of the Black Man  131

­Those who went through could not even defend themselves. If a tough guy showed up, he would get more soundly beaten; the fans of São Cristóvão had the canes and pieces of wood precisely for this purpose. Many ­people remained on the field, not wanting to leave. When the game ended, if São Cristóvão had won, Figueira e Melo field would become a public square. The only t­ hing missing would be a bandstand and a band. The rest was identical, down to the lovers walking arm in arm. It was easy to pass through the fans of São Cristóvão a­ fter a victory, but it was dif­fer­ent a­ fter a loss. The São Cristóvão fans, with swollen heads, demanded a shield, a pennant, a cry of “long live São Cristóvão!” The false São Cristóvão fan had to run. It was better to jump the wall and escape through the Joana River, full of dirty drain w ­ ater and consisting almost entirely of mud, than to pass through the exit hall. Through the exit hall, no one escaped. ­These ­things only happened on the field of a small club, of a club with mulattoes and blacks on the team. An exception was made for Vasco. Vasco handpicked its mulatto and black players: Nelson Conceição and Bolão, carioca champions; Nesi, Brazilian champion; Tatu, South American champion. It did not hurt to have mulattoes and blacks like this; in fact, it was understandable. Vasco could allow itself the luxury of putting mulatto and black players on the team, even with the danger of seeming like a small club. The luxury of the big club was that it whitened mulattoes and blacks. Playing, rooting for Vasco, the mulattoes and blacks felt at home, as if they ­were white. The mulattoes and blacks of São Cristóvão felt themselves to be more mulatto, blacker. They made a point of being mulatto and black, they took pride in it, although they ­were offended by any small slight—­and they ­were offended so as not to miss an opportunity to get their hands on the whites. The whites of other clubs received a pummeling in general admission, in the grandstand, in the exit hall; they even ran the risk of getting stabbed. Naturally the São Cristóvão fans did not pull out their knives for just any white. It had to be a special white, a bigwig, as they said—as in the case of Paulo Azeredo. ­There was a São Cristóvão fan, a mulatto, known as Perneta. He was missing a leg and walked with a crutch. During a ruckus, one would see a crutch coming down on a bunch of heads, p ­ eople r­ unning in ­every direction, and one knew already: Perneta, his knife tucked into his ­belt like a comb, was fighting a white man who was worth g­ oing to jail for. Paulo Azeredo, president of Botafogo, who only went to see soccer games in a black sport coat, a white vest, and costume pants, was well worth some jail time. Perneta pulled out his knife and went a­ fter him, hopping on one leg. 132  Chapter Three

Fortunately for Paulo Azeredo, Luís Vinhaes was close by and put himself between them. Perneta pleaded, “For God’s sake, let me open the belly of that white,” but Luís Vinhaes did not allow it. For Perneta, Paulo Azeredo was more than a white; he was the white—­the white man who looked down on São Cristóvão ­because São Cristóvão had mulattoes and blacks on their team. The ­great shame of São Cristóvão. They w ­ ere g­ oing to be the champions of 1926, they w ­ ere at the top of standings, but they did not contribute a player to the carioca side. The side was made up of players from Flamengo, Fluminense, and Vasco only: Amado, Penaforte, Mélcio, Nascimento, Floriano, Nesi, Pascoal, Lagarto, Nonô, Russinho, and Moderato. The whites, mulattoes, and blacks of São Cristóvão ­were left out. Five whites from Flamengo, three whites from Fluminense, two whites and a mulatto from Vasco. The result: Amea lost the Brazilian championship, and Flamengo, which had given the most players to the carioca side, took a five to zero thrashing from São Cristóvão. It was the game that de­cided the championship. It seemed more like a game between São Cristóvão and Vasco than one between Flamengo and São Cristóvão, Flamengo with no aspirations to the title, and Vasco hoping for a São Cristóvão loss to be champions again. For this reason, the Paissandu field ended up packed full of ­people with the Vasco shield. It was no use for the Portuguese to root for Flamengo, forgetting, for a day, the oars wrapped in newspapers, the spinners, the bombs, the clogs, the strands of onions, the funerary pro­cession, every­t hing that Flamengo had done to Vasco. São Cristóvão managed to release the biggest balloon ever seen in Rio de Janeiro up till then.11 It was a balloon of ten meters in height and five in width, made of thick packaging paper, with a skirt that required two p ­ eople to carry it. A ­ fter the game, whoever was for São Cristóvão went to Figueira de Melo. The field was transformed into a village in São João season, and the skirt of the balloon was a real bonfire. ­People w ­ ere mounted on ladders to hold the balloon, and the balloon was secured by a bamboo pole sunk into the field with a crowd all around, their necks straining to look up. Once in a while someone would yell out the question “To São Cristóvão nothing?” And every­one would answer: “Every­thing! So how is it, how is it, how is it? São Cristóvão! São Cristóvão! São Cristóvão!” And the balloon would be filling up with smoke, wanting to take off. It was necessary to hold on to the bamboo pole, b ­ ecause the balloon w ­ asn’t entirely full yet. They held the bamboo pole and pulled it downward, forcefully. The bamboo pole did not go down; instead, it went up with the balloon. They released the pole and ­there it went, hanging from the balloon and swinging around. The Rebellion of the Black Man  133

It was the balloon of São Cristóvão; it was São Cristóvão. São Cristóvão felt like that balloon. It was up very high, and it would stay up ­there. It was enough to see the pilgrimage of the big clubs to Figueira de Melo. It was the mecca of soccer during this night of victory. The first ones to arrive in a parade of automobiles w ­ ere Botafogo. The big clubs paid tribute to São Cristóvão. São Cristóvão had a championship; it had become big, just like any of them. The mulatto and black players of São Cristóvão could make their peace with the other clubs. ­After Botafogo came Flamengo, then América, then Fluminense. Vasco did not show up, believing that Flamengo had let São Cristóvão win. How could Flamengo, with five players on the carioca side, lose so badly to São Cristóvão? they reasoned. Only by not r­ eally trying, handing the game over without even trying to pretend. If Vasco went to Figueira de Melo, it would be with frowning f­ aces; they would ruin the happiness of the o ­ thers. It was better to stay away, to see the São Cristóvão balloon high above, pushed by the wind. The balloon fell on the gasometer of the Light Com­pany, and the city panicked. What if the gasometer ­were to explode? While the firefighters worked to remove the balloon, the party at Figueira de Melo continued. From the street, one could hear the noise of corks popping from b ­ ottles of champagne. This detail was impor­tant. In 1923 ­there had been no pilgrimage of the big clubs to Morais e Silva. The pilgrimage to Figueira de Melo signified, above all, the ac­cep­tance of real­ity. No one could deceive themselves anymore; São Cristóvão was champion, and Vasco second place. This was the advantage of mixing together whites, mulattoes, and blacks, of not looking at the color of the players, of being f­ ree of white prejudice. América freed itself soon, putting Aprígio and Mineiro on their team. The distinction between teams of the Southern Zone and the Northern Zone established itself more clearly: the teams of the Southern Zone, Flamengo, Fluminense, Botafogo, and Brasil, with just whites, and the teams of the Northern Zone, Vasco, América, São Cristóvão, Bangu, Andaraí, and Vila, with more and more mulattoes and blacks. Vila had six: Jobel, Dutra, Alô, Mário Pinho, Baianinho, and Bianco; Andaraí had six: Herotides, Americano, Betuel, Sobral, Telê, and Cid; Bangu had six: Zé Maria, Fausto, Plínio, Ladislau, Barcelos, and Antenor; São Cristóvão had five: Baltasar, Zé Luís, Tinduca, Jaburu, and Baianinho; Vasco had four: Nelson Conceição, Nesi, Bolão, and Tatu; and América had two: Aprígio and Mineiro. The limit for the number of mulattoes and blacks on a team had dis­ appeared, which even the small clubs used to re­spect. The only t­hing that 134  Chapter Three

mattered was the player. If he was good, he could be mulatto or black, and the clubs of the Northern Zone would open their arms to him. América just did not want the mulattoes and blacks to act like they w ­ ere whites, to spend time at the club­house. On the field they had the same rights as whites, but off it was dif­fer­ent. América did not, however, say this to any of them. When t­ here was a party at Campos Sales, Bem-­Te-­Vi took it upon himself to take Mineiro somewhere far away. Aprígio did not require this; he knew what his place was. Mineiro, however, although respectful, frightened América. He always dressed himself in the most fash­ion­able way, and he had the tact of a gentleman, the delicacy of a lady. One day he might forget he was black and show up at one of América’s dancing soirées, wishing to ask a young lady to dance. For this reason, Bem-­Te-­Vi never failed to invite Mineiro to see a film or go to the theater, the ten o ­ ’clock to midnight session, and ­after the theatrical revue, he would sit with him in a café and stay up chatting ­until almost morning. Every­one on América thought that Mineiro ­didn’t suspect a t­ hing. How could he suspect anything? E ­ very after­noon he would go to the hall, pull out his wicker chair, and cross his legs, feeling at home like a Joel or an Osvaldinho. ­There in the hall ­there was no difference between white and black. The hall was an extension of the field, and no young ladies showed up ­there. But the presence of Aprígio and Mineiro in the hall was a sign of changing times. Miranda and Manteiga, years before, had never dared to enter the hall of América.

4. It must seem strange that precisely in that year of 1927, marked by the victory of the black man in soccer, a team of whites, and whites only, won the championship. Flamengo w ­ ere the champions by force of w ­ ill. They did not have a team to compete with the likes of Vasco, América, or São Cristóvão, but they had the jersey. Eleven broom h ­ andles with the Flamengo jersey, red and black, would have won the championship in the same way—at least that’s what they said at Paissandu. Flamengo recognized the superiority of the other teams, of the teams of whites, mulattoes, and blacks. Against this superiority they fought with the jersey and with heart. The o ­ thers had the players; player for player they should be champions. Flamengo had the jersey, the heart. ­After the game, the Flamengo jersey was so soaked that the red was indistinguishable from the black and the players could hardly breathe. The Rebellion of the Black Man  135

Dona Odete, the wife of Doctor Faustino Esposel, was still preparing the plate of egg threads for the players. As never before, the Flamengo players required ­horse steak, made to order at the bar, with Furtado yelling back, “One more ­horse steak,” and Dona Odete’s egg threads being specially prepared. Hermínio, who would throw himself headfirst at the feet of the players of other teams, preferring that they kick his head rather than the ball into Flamengo’s goal, became extremely bashful e­ very time Dona Odete approached with her plate of egg threads. Dona Odete had to spoon-­feed him the dessert. Not all the Flamengo players ­were like Hermínio. ­There was Amado, Hél­ cio, Seabra, and from one end to the other, Vadinho, Chagas, and Moderato. When somebody asked who made up Flamengo’s team, the response would be Amado and Hélcio, Moderato and Vadinho. Amado and Hélcio back t­ here, not letting any ball get past them, and Moderato and Vadinho up front, one to center the ball, the other to score the winning goal. The rest filled in the holes on the team, sweating their shirts through, playing their hearts out. The championship was a force of w ­ ill, as the newspapers did not tire of repeating. Vasco would keep attacking for two full halves, taking over the field, but when it ended, Flamengo would win three to zero. This made Flamengo take a special pride in 1927. Penaforte had left Paissandu, had gone to Campos Sales, b ­ ecause every­one thought that América would be the champion, and if not América, then Vasco or São Cristóvão. Flamengo would not be, but then it was. Perhaps this insistence of Flamengo in denying the player every­thing, in placing all value on the jersey, was a consequence of the departure of Penaforte for América. If Flamengo so wished, Penaforte would have stayed at Paissandu. It would have been enough to give him the gift of furnishing his bedroom. Penaforte was ­going to get married and had no furniture in his bedroom. What Flamengo did not give, América did right away, without haggling, since a player like Penaforte was worth more than a furnished bedroom. América furnished Penaforte’s ­whole ­house, and Penaforte exchanged Paissandu for Campos Sales. It was the same Penaforte, tiny, who would spend half an hour rolling strips of gauze and newspaper around his skinny legs. Penaforte’s legs would puff up so much that he had to force them into his woolen socks. No one at Flamengo forgave Penaforte. Penaforte was not missed—­ Hermínio in his place, wearing the red-­and-­black jersey, was the same ­thing—­but he had left Flamengo. For that reason, when Penaforte entered the field, the Flamengo fans would put fin­gers in their mouths to whistle at him and boo him. Many ­people at Paissandu hoped that Flamengo would be champion if only to avenge themselves against Penaforte. One could not have planned it 136  Chapter Three

better: the winning of the championship coincided with a victory of Flamengo over América, and Sílvio Pessoa or­ga­nized the funeral pro­cession of Penaforte.12 The car with the coffin was in front, Sílvio Pessoa with a revolver in his ­belt seated at the side of the chauffeur. The pro­cession left from Rio Branco, took the Ave­nue, turned at Larga Street, continued through the Plaza da República, Mangue, the Plaza da Bandeira, and Mariz e Barros Street to Campos Sales. An América fan, Armando de Paula Freitas stood in the ­middle of the street to impede the passage of Penaforte’s funeral pro­cession. He waved his arms, and the car with the coffin s­ topped so as not to drive over him. Sílvio Pessoa pulled out his revolver, and Armando de Paula Freitas tore open his shirt and told Sílvio Pessoa he could shoot. Sílvio Pessoa held on to his revolver and warned that he would order the car to be driven over Armando de Paula Freitas. He counted one, two, three, but Armando de Paula Freitas did not get out of the way. The chauffeur started the engine and the car gave a jolt, threw Armando de Paula Freitas on the ground, passed over him, but did not pass him. Armando de Paula Freitas, blood everywhere, held on to the bumper, and the car dragged him up to Gonçalves Crespo Street. América was like Flamengo: it had ­those who ­were prepared to die for it. And the story of the jersey ended. América also had the same illusions as Flamengo about the jersey, so much so that when the issue came up at Campos Sales of replacing the denim jersey with a knitted jersey, América divided up into “Loosies” and “Tighties.” The Tighties wanted the knitted shirt; the Loosies wanted the denim. The denim jersey was large, open at the chest, where it would fill with air, swelling like sails in the wind; it was beautiful, ­there was no doubt. But the knitted shirt was also beautiful, perhaps even more so, in a lively red, like blood. It did not swell in the wind; it stuck to the body, which was a big advantage. With the denim jersey, the player would accidentally catch a cold. He would be sweaty, and even when soaked, the denim jersey would detach from the skin, and the wind would be coming in and g­ oing out, making currents of air. The trick was to wear an undershirt beneath it. Some did but ­others ­didn’t, and the truth is that many a player of América had died of tuberculosis. Suffice it to list ­here: Lincoln, champion of 1913; Álvaro Cardoso, the “Baroness of Tranquility,” champion of 1916; Nelson Cardoso, the “Guava,” who did not manage to win a championship; and Miranda, champion of 1922. It was not by accident that Fluminense and Flamengo had ­adopted the knitted shirt. Fluminense would change its shirt a lot. It had had two woolen The Rebellion of the Black Man  137

ones—­one white and gray, the other tricolor—­and had preserved the three colors in the knitted shirt. That was what América was ­going to do: preserve the color, the shield of its jersey. One hardly noticed the difference. And even if one noticed, it mattered l­ ittle. From the red and black squares of the “cheap parakeet” shirt, Flamengo had moved on to the horizontal stripes—­red, white, and black—of the “coral snake,” ­until they eliminated the white stripe, suspect b ­ ecause of the German flag, to end up with the red-­and-­black jersey. ­Those who remembered, however, the years of 1913, 1916, and 1922 did not agree. They preferred even that another Lincoln, another Álvaro Cardoso, another Nelson Cardoso, another Miranda die rather than América changing its jersey. It was b ­ ecause one t­ hing was linked to the other, the jersey to the victory. The denim jersey was the winning jersey, the Belfort Duarte jersey. The fight between the Loosies and the Tighties extended as well; the Loosies had the members, the fans; the Tighties had the directors, the bigwigs. The directors and bigwigs launched a coup and bought knitted jerseys, and the team appeared on the field in the close-­fitting jerseys. And it seemed as though Flamengo was right, although they had won championships ­after changing jerseys. With the coral snake they ­were champions in 1914 and 1915, with the red-­and-­black jersey they had won the titles of 1920, 1921, 1925, and 1927. The red-­and-­black jersey had given more glory to Flamengo than the coral snake. And Flamengo could no longer believe in the player, Penaforte, ­going to Campos Sales b ­ ecause of some furniture, so they had to believe in the jersey. América, not being able to believe in the new shirt, still with the odor of the wardrobe, turned to the player. For the Tighties of América—­not the Loosies, idealists who had to bow to real­ity—­a Penaforte, w ­ hether white, mulatto, or black, was worth more than the jersey. To be champion, a club needed to search out a Penaforte, wherever he might be. The one who played was the player, not the jersey. Without the player, the jersey was no more than a piece of cloth. ­A fter taking Penaforte from Flamengo, América took Floriano from Fluminense. Nobody at Álvaro Chaves thought about holding a funeral pro­cession for Floriano. If Fluminense w ­ ere the champion of 1928, like Flamengo had been in 1927, perhaps a tricolor Sílvio Pessoa might have bought a coffin, rented some cars, and gone through the city with a funeral pro­cession for Floriano. But the champion was not Fluminense, it was América, which meant for both Flamengo and Fluminense that Penaforte and Floriano w ­ ere not dead but very much alive. It was the victory of the player over the jersey, over the club. Floriano, “the Marshal of Victory” in Álvaro Chaves, was “the Marshal of Victory” in Cam138  Chapter Three

pos Sales. The jersey had changed, but he had not—­one more proof that the jersey did not play. What one called the jersey was something e­ lse; it was the love of club, making the fan fight in general admission, in the grandstand, making the player kill himself on the field. ­There was a name for ­these players who gave every­ thing for the club: “specialty of the h ­ ouse.” Generally, they had been born in, grown up in, and found glory in the club. ­There was no lack of players like that at América, who loved the red banner, the bloodred jersey: Joel, Hidegardo, Gilberto, and Osvaldinho. The fan was in general admission, in the grandstand, in order to make sure the other players—­Penaforte, Hermógenes, Floriano, Válter, Sobral, Mineiro, and Miro—­were no dif­fer­ent. All of them had to run on the field, to soak their shirts. If the fans made an exception for anyone, it was for Osvaldinho, “the Divine Lady,” not for Floriano, “the Marshal of Victory.” Floriano could not stop, ­running from one end to the other, a machine. When the teams came together, ready to begin the game, no one yelled “It’s time” or “Throw the cod out” anymore; instead, every­one yelled, “The time has come for the jaguar to drink ­water!”13 Whoever w ­ asn’t prepared to fight to the end should leave. ­A fter the victory, further, the player could request what­ever he wanted. Sometimes even before. To request before, you had to be like Floriano. Floriano, on the day of a game, would start the morning with a turban of gauze rolled around his head. He knew that ­whether he went on the field healthy or sick, he would have to kill himself trying, to give every­thing for an América win. Almost always to earn a trifle, double the cost of dinner. The dinner allowance was twenty mil réis for a player of the first team, ten mil réis for a player of the second. When América won, it was forty and twenty. But Floriano was not a forty mil réis player. Wilier than the o ­ thers, he would get sick, and ­there would come Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro, like a doctor, to cure him immediately with a 100, 200, or even 500 mil réis bill, corresponding to the value of the game. This player had become so impor­tant that the fans no longer believed in victory without him. The Marshal of Victory had to always play. How could América win without the Marshal of Victory? Floriano would show up with his head wrapped and do a header—­t he turban would turn black in front, from the mud, but did not turn red from blood: which is to say that Floriano was fine, his head not broken. Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro thought it was funny; he did not get offended. Only ­those who did not belong to a club could get offended. Like Washington Luís. The Rebellion of the Black Man  139

Washington Luís, president of the republic, thought that he gave the ­orders on the soccer field. He was up ­there, on the platform of honor, in top hat and tails, the Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo players below, in the field, g­ oing a­ fter the ball. A lovely spectacle, worthy of being seen. The Vasco stadium, the biggest in South Amer­i­ca, was full, bursting with p ­ eople, and not just arriving for a Rio–­São Paulo soccer match. Washington Luís was enchanted; he had never received so much applause in his life. Fifty thousand p ­ eople, filling out the grandstand, the general admission, standing, clapping for the president of the republic. It was a plea­sure to receive an ovation like that, unplanned, totally spontaneous. Washington Luís would discover, at the same time, the power and the beauty of the sport. Suddenly the game ended; the referee had called a penalty against the paulistas, and the paulistas ­were ­going to abandon the field. Washington Luís became serious and gave an order to an official of his cabinet. It was an order for the game to continue, an order from the president of the republic. So the cabinet official headed down, and the news began to spread—­ Washington Luís has ordered this business to stop, that the game recommence. The cabinet official entered the field to applause and walked up to Amílcar and Feitiço. With a frown on his face, he delivered the message: the president of the republic ordered that the game continue. The answer of Feitiço, a mulatto in disguise, who was not even captain of the paulista side, was that Doctor Washington Luís gave the ­orders up t­ here—up t­ here being the platform of honor—­but down h ­ ere—­down h ­ ere being the field—he was the one who gave the o ­ rders. And to demonstrate that he ­really did give the ­orders, that it was not just talk, he gave a signal, and the paulista players left the field, with him in the lead. Washington Luís, president of the republic, had no other recourse than to leave, highly offended.14 And that was the way it ended, with nothing happening to Feitiço. It is true that the CBD wanted to do something. Every­thing that the CBD did, however, only served to demonstrate nakedly the tremendous power of a soccer player. Before Washington Luís got down t­ here, all the players of the paulista side, from Tuffy, the keeper, to Evangelista, the left winger, had been suspended, threatened with being cut. One hour l­ater it was not all of them anymore; it was only eight. One day ­later, five; one month ­later, none. The CBD could not fight with Apea, with the paulista clubs, with São Paulo.15 No one had any illusions about the ­matter: São Paulo was with the players, like Tuffy and Feitiço. When Santos cut them, the truth became obvious to every­one. Whoever was passing through the Triangle in the after­noon would not cease to see ­people gathered around Tuffy or a­ fter Feitiço.16 Tuffy, without hat or tie, in a 140  Chapter Three

buttoned coat with a sport shirt and a handkerchief in loud colors around his neck, would remain frozen, quiet, like a statue. It was the habit of a goalkeeper, who spent eighty minutes ­u nder the three posts. Feitiço, an attacker, used to ­r unning the field from one side to the other, would cross Direita Street, ­running into Quinze Ave­nue, and would shortly be on São Bento Street. This did not make him draw any less attention. “Oh, it’s Feitiço, look at Feitiço, that guy over t­ here,” and fin­gers would be pointing him out for public admiration. If Santos did not act quickly, it would lose Feitiço, just like it had lost Tuffy. Corinthians did not try to find out ­whether Tuffy was eliminated or not; a keeper like him could not be found e­ very day. And a crack scorer like Feitiço? Santos ­imagined him on another team, scoring goals against them. The best would be to simply sweep the w ­ hole ­thing ­under the rug, to forget what had happened at São Januário Stadium. This is what Santos did, and the CBD had no other recourse. It was of no use to be on the side of Washington Luís. From that moment, Washington Luís was sour on soccer, not wanting even to hear anyone talk about sports. For him, soccer and Feitiço added up to the same t­ hing: a mulatto disrespecting the president of the republic. Washington Luís was not a fan or a director of a club or an organ­ization, so he could do quite fine without soccer. The CBD, not so; they lived off soccer. And ­because they lived off soccer, they had to put Feitiço on the Brazilian side. They did, and Feitiço scored four goals against the Scottish and was called “the Emperor of Soccer.” The Motherwell team became the ­England side, and it was Brazil five, ­England zero. The Brazilians ­were the best players in the world, and the newspapers could repeat the old headline, “Eu­rope Yields Yet Again to Brazil.” Beneath the headline, a photo of Feitiço wearing a crown filled the page, a mulatto Emperor of Soccer. Perhaps he would have passed as a mestizo if not for his ­brother, Matoso, who played at his side, who was a mulatto without a shadow of a doubt. A mulatto, however, could now be Emperor of Soccer. Nobody worried about ­these ­things anymore. An “artist of the ball”—to use the expression that now substituted, in the somewhat pedantic columns, for the prosaic, down-­to-­earth “player”—­was above every­t hing. In certain cases, “player” truly did not go far enough. As in the case of Feitiço, the case of Floriano. Santos was called the club of Feitiço; América, the club of Floriano, the name of the player stifling the name of the club. The club retreated to second place, and the all-­powerful player dominated the landscape of soccer. And this occurred precisely when the club was better and could be champion. But this was ­because it had the star player, it was So-­and-­So’s club. The So-­and-­So, Feitiço or Floriano, leader of the team, knew the power he had. The Rebellion of the Black Man  141

Feitiço made a point of showing it off. “Tell Doctor Washington Luís that he’s in charge up t­ here, but I’m the one in charge down h ­ ere.” Floriano preferred to hide it. This was the difference between the Emperor of Soccer and the Marshal of Victory. The Emperor of Soccer barely knew how to sign his name on the score sheet. He would spend five minutes torturing himself, trying to remember, afraid he would forget a letter and have to start over. He never forgot the “L,” the “L” would be enormous. Feitiço ended up getting frightened by the size of the “L,” so he made the “u” smaller, then thought the “u” a ­little too small, so he tried to scratch out an “i” bigger than the “u,” smaller than the “L.” The “z” went any old way, with ­people around, waiting, hoping, getting impatient—­ Was Feitiço ­going to finish signing his name or what? In ­those five minutes he was not Feitiço, he was Luís Matoso, a ­humble mulatto, with his head bowed by the shame of not knowing how to sign his name correctly. However it turned out, the name of Luís Matoso would end up on the score sheet, and then every­thing would change: Luís Matoso would dis­appear, and Feitiço would puff out his chest and enter the field. Soon he would be lifting his arms above his head and clasping his hands, like a boxer ­a fter a knockout, calling for applause. The more applause he received, the more he would run on the field. Floriano, who had passed all his preparatory exams and started military school, with a job at the Jornal do Commercio, did not let himself get excited by applause. Every­one would be standing, shouting “Floriano, Floriano,” and he would be cold. He would not even nod in appreciation. If the fans thought that he would soak his shirt b ­ ecause of a bit of clapping, they should stop kidding themselves once and for all. Thus the frowning face of Floriano on the field. Less applause and more money, that was what he wanted. For that reason, the one with the advantage was he, not Feitiço. Feitiço got the glory, he got the money. He had a special way of demanding it without appearing to demand. When he asked for money, he would talk about anything but soccer. He would write notes on the back of the image of a saint. “­Here is Santa Terezinha, my dear Fábio Horta. Take her in exchange for 50 mil réis.” Or “I need 1,500 mil réis, but I can make do with 200.” Postscript: “­Don’t send me any less than 100.”17 Sometimes he did not ask for anything; he would fall into bed, with game time approaching and he prone, complaining of a pain. With that pain, he was not g­ oing to be able to play. And it was no use calling a doctor. Only someone like Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro could make Floriano get up. Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro knew Floriano, the illness of Floriano. He would open 142  Chapter Three

up his wallet, offering this much, this much more, u ­ ntil Floriano declared himself ready to make the sacrifice of playing for América. That sacrifice cost good money. Lafaiete was not concerned ­whether it was a ­little or a lot, as long as Floriano would play. With a few bills of 100 or 200 mil réis now gone from his wallet, Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro could go calmly to the grandstand, confident in an América victory. Soon the Marshal would enter the field, the bills of 100 and 200 well folded, crackling from their newness, held by the garter in the folds of his woolen sock. They might even fall and get lost, some green ones, the color of the grass. Floriano was not concerned about the money per se. What he liked to experience was the generosity of the admirer, to know if t­ hings ­were ­going well or badly at Campos Sales. Anyone would do. For the poor ones, he would reach the same conclusions he would get from the wealthy by multiplying. He would seat himself in the hall, cross his legs, and call for a believer, “believer” being a synonym of “fan,” to run his hat around. If no one did as he asked, it was fine. If someone took too long putting his hand in his pocket, or if he started to search around for a smaller bill, Floriano would understand that he had better be careful, not get sick on game day, and run more on the field. Generally the fans would pull out their wallets right away, and the hat would fill up with bills of five, ten, twenty mil réis. Afterward, Floriano would count the money in front of every­one, to see if it was enough or not, then invite some friends, right ­there, to a lunch at Cabrito, a restaurant on Senado Street. The one paying was he, with the money from the suckers, as he called them. Not all the players, of course, did this. Some ­because they did not need to, like Joel, “the Most Handsome,” and Osvaldinho, “the Divine Lady,” the “Prince of Passes.” ­Others b ­ ecause they did not have the courage, like Sobral and Mineiro, who ­were just Sobral and Mineiro, with no adjective or title. Color had nothing to do with this, though Osvaldinho and Joel ­were white, Sobral mulatto, and Mineiro black. Sobral and Mineiro w ­ ere not part of the privileged group of leaders of the team. They ­were just players, h ­ umble workers for the win. They ran on the field, soaked their shirts the same or more than the o ­ thers, and when the game ended, they would stay to the side, walking to the changing room slowly, in the pro­cession of the idols being carried in triumph. Joel and Osvaldinho up ­there, in the arms of the crowd, Sobral and Mineiro down ­here, handshake, handshake. They did not find it strange; they w ­ ere used to l­ ittle. Mineiro and Sobral did not miss their former clubs: Goytacaz for Mineiro and Andaraí for Sobral. What was ­there to miss? In Campos Sales, Mineiro The Rebellion of the Black Man  143

was earning 200 mil réis, and his life began improving quickly. América managed to find him a job as a mechanic at Mayrink Veiga that paid 300 mil réis a month. Sobral, who’d never had a steady job, also improved his life with a move to América. He went to work at Felipe, a garage on Marquês de Abrantes Street, and e­ very month he earned 300 mil réis. Felipe Dias da Silva, the owner of the garage and an América fan, paid Sobral but did not want him to kill himself working ­there. Sobral, therefore, did not even need to work. He would wear overalls that w ­ ere always clean, without a grease stain, and would watch the o ­ thers who w ­ ere d ­ oing the heavy work. In the garage, Felipe Dias da Silva was a collegial boss, but on the field, he was never satisfied. Sobral felt the eyes of his boss on him and tried to play well; if he was not careful, he might even lose his job. Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro, worried about Floriano, did not take account of Mineiro. He would pay Floriano more in one day than he paid Mineiro in a month. The one who paid Mineiro was the com­pany he worked for, Mayrink Veiga. Mineiro was a good employee; at Mayrink Veiga, Lafaiete Gomes Ribeiro only heard praise for him. And no one had to be worried about Mineiro on the field. The game would begin, and Mineiro started ­running from one end to the other, never stopping. It was a way of paying back what América had done for him. Beyond giving him a job paying 300 mil réis, América gave him beasts: beasts of ten mil réis a­ fter a practice, twenty a­ fter a game, and forty a­ fter a win, for a dinner at Filhos do Céu. The dinner would not cost more than 3.5 mil réis, including tip. And a player could sleep at the club; he did not need to pay for a room. In the early morning he got café au lait, scrambled eggs and ham, and a nice bloody steak, all f­ ree. The 300 mil réis from the job, the twenty or forty from the beasts, w ­ ere for the tailors. One could tell just by looking at Sobral, at Mineiro, who w ­ ere always well dressed. Mineiro thus had the style of a Joel, of an Osvaldinho. If one ­were not a mulatto and the other black, the two could have perfectly well shown up at the América dance hall on the eve­ning of a party, without any reason for embarrassment. The money was sufficient. For this very reason—­going ­after jobs like that, along with the small change of the beasts—­good players left one club and went to another. Like Telê, “the Bricklayer.” He asked for no more to exchange the green jersey of Andaraí for the red one of América. And he was the Bricklayer, meaning he had one of the strongest shots in the city. The ball would leave his left foot and arrive in the hands of the goalkeeper on the other team like a hot brick. This was the impression of the keeper, who caught the ball and released 144  Chapter Three

it quickly, as if he had burned his hands, and the impression of the fans, who saw the keeper catching and releasing the ball more than quickly. He was not the only bricklayer of the carioca fields. ­There was another, Ladislau, of Bangu. América could not even think about Ladislau, however. They had had him at Campos Sales and had let him go, the old story of not wanting a black player on the team. B ­ ecause he was black, he had been put on the second team, and ultimately he understood that his place was at Bangu. América no longer had a prejudice in ­favor of whiteness; the doors of Campos Sales ­were open to mulattoes and blacks. One more, one less, did not ­matter; what mattered was the player. The proof was ­there, in Telê, a mulatto with very kinky hair, who was g­ oing to be the left winger of the team, in exchange for a position as a receptionist for the Department of Public Health. Telê could request what­ever he wanted. América, the 1928 champion, had a desire to be a repeat champion and would give every­thing to Telê to make that happen. Telê, however, wanted only a position as a receptionist at the Department of Public Health. Nothing could be easier, with the inspector of the Disease Prevention Ser­vice, Doctor Maurício de Abreu, being vice president of América. On game day he would be in the grandstand, with clammy hands, his heart wanting to jump out of his chest. It made no difference if he was in charge at Public Health. At game time he depended on the player, just like the ­humble folks in general admission. His happiness depended on the hands of Joel, on the feet of Floriano, on the head of Osvaldinho. The América player, white, mulatto, or black, played on the field with his joy and sadness, and could make him the happiest or the most wretched of men. It is easy to understand, then, the rapidity with which Telê was appointed. On the night that Telê signed América’s membership form, it seemed as if a party was taking place at Campos Sales: the hall was all lit up, ­people ­were outside in the street, on the sidewalk, like an outdoor cele­bration. Once in a while one heard a cry of “América!” a cry of “Telê!” Telê did not hang around much, as he was not used to such ­things. And it would always be that way in América. He would practice, play, change his clothes, and when one sought him out, he had gone. It was as if the whistle of the referee, ending the training session or ending the game, was the whistle of the factory ending the workday. It was no use to invite him to the hall, to the bar: “Come drink something, come have a l­ ittle chat.” Telê would imagine himself in the hall, next to Joel, next to Osvaldinho, not even remembering he could be next to Sobral, Mineiro, or Miro. The hall of América was not for him. And, despite every­thing, he still thought what he did ­wasn’t much. For this reason, on Fridays, when he had to sleep at Campos Sales, Telê would show The Rebellion of the Black Man  145

up with a package beneath his arm. Inside the package was a b ­ ottle of black beer, a b ­ ottle of seawater, a branch of rue, and half a dozen candles. Telê would open the package and take out the b ­ ottle of black beer. Then he would go to the back of the field and throw the ­bottle, with force, against the fence, turning around quickly so as not to see the foam spraying around, which would ruin every­thing. Then he would go back to the dormitory, uncork the b ­ ottle of seawater—­collected at Santa Luzia Beach, which was the closest beach—­sprinkle the branch of rue, and proceed to throw w ­ ater to the four corners of the long, narrow room. Having done that, he would light a candle and drip a ­little bit of stearin into a saucer; the candle needed to burn all the way down at the entrance to the dormitory. Penaforte, Hermógenes, Válter, Sobral, Mineiro, and Miro—­whites, mulattoes, and blacks—­would follow Telê, respectfully, tip-­toeing around, not opening their mouths even to cough, as if they ­were in church.18 If América won, every­one would get twice the beast: forty mil réis at the minimum. When the game was very impor­tant, Telê did not content himself with just the work of Friday; he would go to a f­ ather of the saint with a bunch of players in tow, all ­those who believed, including some of the directors, while ­others did not believe. It ­didn’t hurt to try, and who knew? The ­father of the saint would be seated on the ground in the ­middle of the sacred space, Cambono at his side, the players and the directors of América all around, heads lowered. Suddenly the believers would begin to sing to the sound of a drumbeat. The guardian caboclos ­were g­ oing to descend.19 The ­father of the saint was smoking more quickly; he would wheeze to the right and to the left and begin to stutter. He had been possessed by the World Turns Caboclo. “Blessed and praised be Our Lord. Blessed and praised be.” Cambono came over and ­stopped in front of Telê, placing his hand on his head. “Waddya want, my boy?” “I want to speak with the f­ ather of the saint.” “Come h ­ ere, my boy, you are bad off; come h ­ ere, my boy, talk to the f­ ather of the saint!” The f­ather of the saint would not even wait for Telê to get in front of him. “Um, hum, um, hum, you are bad off, caboclo wants to finish off your ­horse.20 Um, hum.” Telê bowed himself humbly, and the ­father of the saint began to blow smoke in his face, beneath his arms, on his back, all while flicking the air with his fin­gers. “Waddya want? Tell World Turns.” Telê would tell him that he wanted América to beat Vasco. “Yeah, yeah, Vasco’s very strong, my boy. Vasco’s very strong.” Vasco was very strong, but América would win the game if they made offerings of fried yellow manioc flour, palm oil, three cigars, three pennies, a black chicken, a pinch of salt, and three candles—­two to remain lit at the in146  Chapter Three

tersection of Dom Carlos and São Januário Streets, the other to remain unlit in the package with the other t­ hings. Early Sunday after­noon, when América’s car—­a good taxi for Carnival, roomy like a bathtub—­was on its way to São Januário, Telê would ask the driver to pass by the intersection. He wanted to see if anyone had touched the offering. Generally it would be open, the newspaper all ripped up, the black chicken on the outside, so quiet and hard it seemed stuffed, the fried yellow manioc flour scattered across the ground. The work of stray dogs. Only by accident would p ­ eople step on an offering. A package forgotten at a crossroads, two candles—­who would not know it was an offering? Every­ one walked around it; no way would they walk close by. Telê would poke his head out of the car. It ­didn’t m ­ atter if a stray had been ­t here; the driver could continue on. América was g­ oing to win the match, and Telê s­ topped worrying about América and started thinking about himself. He would not go on the field without threading a sprig of rue in the cleat of his left foot. The right foot did not need a rue sprig or anything ­else. Telê played with his left foot, the one that shot the hot bricks. He could not take enough precautions with his left foot. Thus, the sprig of rue—or, more accurately, sprigs of rue. ­Because Telê took a bunch of sprigs to the changing room. Penaforte extended his hand. Hermógenes d ­ idn’t even wait for Telê to offer, he went looking for him, as did Válter, Sobral, and Mineiro. And sometimes, even with a sprig of rue threaded into the cleat of his shooting foot, Telê was afraid to enter the big circle on the field. He would do a big arc around it, and it would be necessary for the América folks to corner him during halftime, when Telê would explain that he would break his leg if he entered the circle. But he would have to enter no ­matter what, ­because if he ­didn’t, the fans of América would break his leg anyway. Telê ended up entering the big circle, only ­a fter blessing his leg, of course. If the championship ­table had a match scheduled for the field of Andaraí, he would ask and beg not to play. For Telê, the Andaraí field, which he knew like the back of his hand, was worse than haunted. P ­ eople crossing themselves along the walls, and one of t­ hose crosses, certainly, had been traced so that he would break his leg.21 Telê knew that Andaraí had not yet forgiven him—­a nd perhaps never would. And ­every Saturday a ­father of a saint would show up ­there, to cross himself ­behind the goal. The players of the other club would be sleeping, resting for the game, while the players of Andaraí would be dancing on the field, The Rebellion of the Black Man  147

which had become a sacred space. The drumbeat would continue ­until the wee hours. Only a ­great superstitious terror would make a player like Telê not want to play. For Telê, playing was every­thing. ­Because of the beast—­the twenty and forty mil réis of dinner figuring heavi­ly into his budget—­and ­because of his place on the team.

5. When a player did not take the game seriously, if he skipped a game, another player would appear, and the former would not play again. Then it would be goodbye beasts, goodbye pictures in the newspapers, goodbye every­thing. For this reason, Jaguaré Bezerra Vasconcelos went so far as to pull out a knife in order not to stop playing. Harry Welfare, Vasco’s coach, had thought that Jaguaré would even be grateful to stay out of a game like the one against Elvira de Jacareí. What had deceived Welfare was the exaggerated way he had, of a smooth hustler, game to do almost anything other than work. When Jaguaré came onto the field, the sailor’s cap balanced on top of his head, the hem of his shirt coming untucked, he would be yawning. It seemed as if he had just gotten out of bed, that he was being obliged to play. He would stand in the m ­ iddle of the goal shifting from foot to foot, like a soldier in formation. The other team would be attacking, with no reaction from Jaguaré. Suddenly a net-­ripping shot would come flying, and boy would Jaguaré wake up, extending his arms so the “­little beast”—he called the ball a l­ittle beast—­died in his hands. Every­one was standing—no one could have caught that shot—­but when it was over, it seemed the shot had not been quite as strong as t­ hey’d thought, and Jaguaré would again put his hands on his waist, and yawn. In the game against Elvira de Jacareí, Welfare knew the Smooth One would die of boredom, so Welfare started Valdemar “Chuca-­Chuca” instead. In response, Jaguaré opened up Pereira Peixoto’s bin, took out a knife—­the knife of Erico, a Barra Mansa player, which he had forgotten to take—­and advanced upon Welfare. If Pereira Peixoto had not been nearby, Welfare would have been a dead man. From that, one can get an idea of how impor­tant it was to the likes of a Jaguaré to get on the field, to play. A ­matter of life and death. Ceasing to play, Jaguaré would have to return to being what he had been, wearing his clogs, clip-­clop, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. He would again have to carry sacks of flour to the Fluminense Mill, to do heavy work. 148  Chapter Three

Only a white man like Fortes could allow himself the luxury of not wishing to play. He was full of titles, being a carioca, Brazilian, and South American champion a number of times; he did not need soccer for anything. And ­because he did not need soccer for anything, Fortes did not want to play. To play, he had to interrupt hunting trips and outings on the bay, to cancel Sunday plans. He would be boating, hunting, with the game about to start, and Agostinho Fortes, his ­father, would be waiting at the entrance to the field, losing his patience. Dadá had promised, ­after many requests; the ­father, however, knew his son, and his son was liable to forget. But he almost never forgot. Suddenly a ­little Chrysler sports car would appear around the corner; one could hear the skidding from a long way off, the barking of dogs. It was Fortes. Fortes would park the sports car on the berm, leave the hunting dogs quite trapped in the sports car—­“Woof woof woof”—­jump out, and run off to change his clothes. In a big game he even managed to be interested, to forget what he had missed ­because of soccer. In an ordinary game, however, to be interested, to forget, he would go so far as to arrange a penalty against Fluminense, as in that game against Brasil, ­there in Chacrinha, a field close to the asylum. On Sunday after­noons, the residents of the asylum would be climbing on the wall, quietly spying. Fortes grabbed Coelho by the legs, suspending him, turned around and around, and threw him on the ground with all his strength. Coelho, with his legs in the air, was d ­ ying of laughter. The fans w ­ ere laughing as well, even the ­people climbing on the wall. Fortes had them all! The referee, even though he thought the joke was im­mensely funny, blew his whistle for a penalty against Fluminense. When the time came for the penalty shot, every­one ­stopped laughing—­especially Coelho, who managed to frown, awaiting the referee’s whistle. The referee blew his whistle, Coelho kicked the ball, and scored a goal for Brasil, the net shaking. Result: Fluminense ended up losing the game. And no one could say anything against Fortes. If Fluminense thought they had lost b ­ ecause of him, let them arrange someone e­ lse and put him in his place. Jaguaré, too, once in a while, would do something similar. He liked to spin the ­little beast on his fingertip and throw it at the head of the most dangerous player of the other team. Usually nothing would happen. The player on the other team expected every­thing except that. It was in this manner, however, that Baianinho scored his first goal for São Cristóvão. He did a header, and Jaguaré bet on the ball coming from one direction when it actually came from the other. The Smooth One almost got a beating from Espanhol. Espanhol had bet 200 mil réis on Vasco, and it was São Cristóvão one, Vasco zero, and it was Jaguaré’s fault. The Rebellion of the Black Man  149

Nevertheless, Jaguaré did not worry. It was of no use to beat him up; what was useful was to score a goal to be at one to one: “Nothing done, let’s start fresh.” Jaguaré would start fresh, no longer spinning the ­little beast on his fingertip, not throwing the l­ ittle beast at anyone’s head. For Jaguaré, the Vasco fans had to leave the field convinced that the Smooth One was the best in the world, without thinking, even slightly, of another keeper. The worst disgrace that could happen to Jaguaré was to be kept out, and to stop playing. He needed every­thing that soccer gave him: a home, food, beasts, his picture in the paper, and on top of that pre­sents, shoes, shirts, ties, and hats. A ­ fter a Vasco win—­a big win, to be clear—he would make the rounds of the shops. He would go into a store like someone who d ­ idn’t want anything, and it was rare if the owner was not Portuguese, a Vasco fan, an admirer of the Smooth One. Jaguaré would not leave without taking a souvenir. But he had to act fast and take advantage on Monday—­Tuesday at the latest, and that already was not the same. Two or three days ­were enough to cool the enthusiasm of the fans, as in the case of Espanhol. He had broken his leg to save a goal—­the carioca side three, Ferencvaros three, at the game’s end.22 The sound of the bone breaking could be heard from the other side of the field, ­there at the top of Fluminense’s general admission section. When Espanhol passed by on the way to the infirmary, in the arms of Fausto, many p ­ eople turned their ­faces away in order not to see his leg swinging. And nobody wanted to think about the game anymore. Espanhol had a broken leg; he would not be able to play again anytime soon. Perhaps he would never play again. On that Sunday night ­there was a pilgrimage to São Januário. Espanhol was lying in bed, his leg in a cast outside the sheet. The Vasco fans could now look at his leg. They w ­ ere looking, shaking their heads, “Poor Espanhol,” and putting their hands in their pockets to let fall what­ever they had into the deep dish, placed purposefully on the bedside ­table. What­ever they had was a silver coin worth ten pennies; two mil réis; and bills of 5, 10, 20, 50, 100 mil réis. Espanhol was happy, satisfied with life. Funny: he had been thinking during the day that he was disgraced, but the end of the day brought this. He had never received so much money, the deep dish full, heavy. Espanhol did not even take the trou­ble of counting the money. On Monday morning he emptied the deep dish, and put the silver coins, the bills, in the drawer of the bedside ­table, which was barely big enough. The other players ­were all around, wide eyed. If Jaguaré needed some, he should feel f­ ree. Espanhol’s money belonged to Jaguaré, Fausto, Pascoal, to his friends. 150  Chapter Three

And ­there began to be less ­people coming to São Januário to see Espanhol, to look at his leg, to leave something in the deep dish. On Monday, the deep dish still filled up; on Tuesday, it made it halfway; on Wednesday, t­ here was almost nothing. At the end of one week, Espanhol ended up alone, prone in bed, his leg stretched out in a gutter, the deep dish on top of the bedside t­ able very white, without even a ten-­penny silver coin, much less a bill of five mil réis. He did not take it badly. Before long he would be playing again; they just needed to take off his cast. When they removed his cast, they verified that his leg had been poorly set. They broke his leg again and put it in another cast. And time was passing without him being able to play, more and more sidelined, living off of crumbs, almost by the ­favor of ­others. He slept with the ­others, he ate with the ­others, but it was not the same t­ hing. He could no longer speak crudely; he had to speak g­ ently, and by no means could he be careless. Brilhante had taken his place, and Vasco was winning. The beast went into Brilhante’s hands, no longer into the hands of Espanhol. And he was not missed; the proof was right ­there. Without him, Vasco won the championship. Even if he was missed, what good did it do? A soccer player was only worth anything as long as he played, and when he ­stopped playing, no one remembered him. Thus, Jaguaré’s hurry to make money, to not leave till tomorrow what he could earn ­today. Not that he was afraid of breaking a leg. He only went on the field with his body blessed against injury. Being dropped he feared even less. Valdemar “Chuca-­Chuca” did not have to take his place. ­After the scene with the knife, Welfare did not mess around placing Valdemar “Chuca-­Chuca” on the team, even for an ordinary game. And other goalies who showed up at São Januário had no chance; Jaguaré took it upon himself to send them packing as speedily as pos­si­ble. If a keeper came, Jaguaré would order him to change his clothes and get between the three posts, then start to shoot balls at him with all his strength. His was a net-­piercing shot. Not even Telê, the Bricklayer of América, shot with more power. To get an idea of his shot: he would kick the ball down ­here, on the track, the ball would cross over the Vasco grandstand, leaving b ­ ehind the concrete steps, rise another thirty meters into the air with the power of a rocket, and then fall on the other side. No keeper could stand a shot like that, especially from close up, ­because Jaguaré would set the ball up at eleven paces, run up to it, and kick it full on. The player ­after a keeper position would see the balls blasting at him and try to catch one, two, then give up, jumping to the side and letting the balls go in. And he would never come back. The Rebellion of the Black Man  151

Thus Jaguaré had no reason to fear a rival and continued on alone, absolute; Valdemar “Chuca-­Chuca” could not shadow him. For this reason, he ended up sleeping in the changing room, lying on a hard, wooden bench. He would make a pillow out of his crossed arms, and shortly he would fall asleep. Welfare only woke him right when the team was entering the field. And he woke him ­gently, touching his shoulder with his fingertips, calling him in a low voice, “Jaguaré, Jaguaré,” so as not to frighten him. On some games no one placed any importance. The players would be seated on the changing room benches, awaiting the referee’s whistle. For other games, however, the players could not stand it; they would pace from one side to the other, like caged beasts. For example: the decisive game of the 1929 championship, Vasco versus América. A best of three, with the first game zero to zero, the second one to one; the champion had to be de­cided in the third game, come what may. Fluminense’s stadium could not fit another person. For a week no one had talked about anything ­else. América h ­ ere and Vasco t­ here, and Joel and Jaguaré, Floriano and Fausto, and Osvaldinho and Russinho. The clubs of the greatest popularity ­were no longer t­ hose of the Southern Zone, the fine clubs, of only whites, Fluminense, Flamengo, and Botafogo; they ­were now the clubs of the Northern Zone: América, Vasco, with whites, mulattoes, and blacks on the teams. ­There was the proof: the Fluminense stadium overflowing for the first, second, and third games, more and more ­people for each.23 It was América versus Vasco, and every­one wanted to see it. The sounds of the crowd, oceanic, reached the changing room; it seemed as if they would burst open the iron doors. And from Jaguaré, no reaction. The game began at 3:30, so at 3:20 he woke up, put his head ­under the faucet, and entered the field with the o ­ thers, his kinky, brush-­cut hair still wet, drops of ­water r­ unning down his olive-­toned face. He was g­ oing to play; the rest was of no interest. For this reason he snored, while Fausto, without rhyme or reason, would blurt out a swear word. The difference between Jaguaré, “the Smooth One,” and Fausto, “the Black Won­der.” Fausto did not spin the ­little beast on the tip of his fin­ger, he d ­ idn’t throw it at the heads of the players on other teams, he did not enjoy himself playing soccer, on the contrary. How was he ­going to enjoy himself killing himself on the field? When the game ended, he would be almost speechless, his narrow chest filling itself, emptying itself, like an oxygen balloon. He had taken command of the field, as they said. The other team was hemmed in, with Fausto pushing Vasco to victory. 152  Chapter Three

All of this, however, hardly did him any good. The disadvantage of being black. Russinho, white, had what­ever he wanted and more. The Portuguese, ­owners of commercial establishments, pursued him. “I’ve got a business for you h ­ ere, Russinho. Come by the h ­ ouse, Russinho, and you w ­ on’t regret it.” They even gave him a Chrysler sports car, worth thirty-­five contos.24 A contest to know who was the best player, and Vasco chose Russinho—­a white blond and a fine lad, apt to wear his tuxedo, to give a speech; they did not choose Fausto, black, with threadbare clothes, who barely knew how to sign his name. A sports car worth thirty-­five contos for Russinho, who had every­ thing; some beasts for Fausto, who had nothing. And the beasts that Fausto got, Russinho got, too. If Fausto had asked for more, Vasco would have given it to him. Fausto, however, did not know how to ask. Asking was fine for Floriano, a talker with the gift of gab. Fausto spoke ­little, saving up what he had to say u ­ ntil he would suddenly explode, letting it all out. He would avenge himself by yelling in the changing room and kicking p ­ eople on the field. A ­little before they entered the field, Welfare would gather the players. It was the time for instructions. Welfare would say what Mário Matos should do, what Oitenta e Quatro should do. The players like Mário Matos, Oitenta e Quatro, Baianinho, Santana, Mola, Tinoco, and Brilhante listened to Welfare. Itália would turn his head away immediately, and Russinho would do the same; he did not want instructions. Jaguaré was sleeping, and Fausto seemed to grow before Welfare, puffing up his chest, balling his fists. Welfare did not even dare to say “Do this or do that.” If Fausto fought with him, or anyone e­ lse on Vasco, Vasco would side with Fausto. The more he played, the more power he had. He would enter São Januário with a hat high on his head, with his coat unbuttoned, with his shirt missing a button, letting a bit of his black stomach show. And he looked around at every­one with a frowning face to see if anyone ­didn’t like it. If someone d ­ idn’t like it, they had to shut up and clear out, b ­ ecause Fausto was ready to fight, to put his hands on anyone, be it a fan or the director of Vasco. Directors did not mess with him. Fausto had had his fill of directors, of bigwigs. While he was killing himself on the field, the bigwig was up ­there on the platform of honor, enjoying himself in a nice wicker chair. Ah! If only he could manage not to play one day, to order a bigwig to change his clothes and enter the field, to see what was good. But he could not; he had to play in all the games. If he ­didn’t play, what would he live on? T ­ here was the rub. Floriano worked at the Jornal do Commercio making 750 mil réis a month, much more than Fausto earned with soccer. For this reason, the former would act the prima donna, getting sick on The Rebellion of the Black Man  153

the day of the game, wrapping a turban of gauze around his head. He would receive the beast early, before playing, ­whether América won or lost. Not so for Fausto; he received it afterward, in accordance with the game. If Vasco lost, the beast was a turkey, twenty mil réis; at most a rooster, fifty mil réis. It was only a cow with one or two legs if Vasco won. Fausto might have wanted to imitate Floriano, to exploit Vasco, to not be exploited, but he did not dare; he would get scared. It was very dangerous. América beared it silently, not saying anything, but when they could not stand it anymore, woe to Floriano. Said and done. A defeat bigger than the o ­ thers was all it took: Vasco five, América zero, Fausto on one side, Floriano on the other, and that was the end of the Marshal of Victory. When the game was still two to zero, Joel left the goal and came r­ unning, “Take out Floriano, take out Floriano.”25 And Floriano was kicked out, as if he had the plague. He had to change his clothes, to take off the América jersey, the jersey he would never wear again. While preparing to leave in a hurry, without buttoning his shirt at the wrists, without tying his tie, nobody was looking at him; nobody was speaking to him. He had died to América. A warning: a player should not play games with a club, for when a club took its vengeance, it would be like this. Floriano was still employed, and the money from the Jornal do Commercio was enough for him to live on. Fausto did not have a job, did not have a salary; he had nothing. And even so, Floriano left the Jornal do Commercio. Not that he was fired; he just followed his destiny, a wandering Jew, from one club to the other. And even that was ­going to end: the player’s ability to change clubs. A player who changed clubs had to spend four years “on the fence.” Meaning: he would not play anymore. Imagine a player on the fence for four years, with his arms crossed, without playing. When he returned to the game, he would not even know how to receive a pass. Fausto felt himself to be irremediably captive, more imprisoned than anyone. Beyond being a black player, he had no means of escape. The black man was playing; on the field ­there was no longer the story of black versus white, but off the field it continued to exist. Fausto and Russinho: one by Chrysler sports car, one by tram. The one who went by tram was playing more and more; the one who went by sports car was playing less and less. The high scorer of the championship was not Russinho of Vasco anymore, it was Carvalho Leite of Botafogo. Carvalho Leite was a medical student who was g­ oing to take his w ­ hole life to gradu­ate. He would only gradu­ate when it was time to leave soccer. But he was white, the son of Doctor Carvalho Leite, the owner of an asylum. The 154  Chapter Three

asylum was touch and go; Doctor Carvalho Leite barely went ­there, the asylum being in Petrópolis and his son playing soccer in Rio. The glory of Carlinhos was worth more than the asylum, was worth more than all the money in the world. If Doctor Carvalho Leite took care of the asylum, who would take care of Carlinhos’s glory? ­Because it was not enough for Carlinhos to score goals on Sunday. It was necessary for the photog­raphers to take pictures of the goals of Carlinhos, for the newspapers to print the photos of Carlinhos. Carlinhos would rarely appear in the newsrooms, but Doctor Carvalho Leite did not neglect, even for a day, to visit a newspaper. He would arrive and complain. It had been two days since the newspapers published anything about Carlinhos. And then the photo of Carlinhos would come out the next day, with a caption. Old Carvalho Leite would then invite, in the name of Botafogo, all the journalists who printed any news about Carlinhos to a cocktail party at General Severiano. He never forgot to invite the journalists and always forgot to give notice to Botafogo. The journalists would arrive, and old Carvalho Leite—in a black jacket, a white waistcoat, costume pants, and pince-­nez hung from a black ribbon, which encircled his white collar like an award—­would take them to the bar, no cocktail in sight. Paulo Azeredo, the president of Botafogo, also in a black jacket, a white waistcoat, and costume pants, would have to order someone to run out to the nearest bar for some b ­ ottles of vermouth, some French fries, some olives, some ham and cheese sandwiches. Carvalho Leite offering a cocktail to the press. Fausto in a pub drinking two fin­gers of cachaça. The advantage of the white man, of the student, of the son of a good ­family, who had not yet dis­appeared. If Carvalho Leite de­cided one day he did not want to play, Botafogo would go u ­ nder. And nobody would say that he had been bought off. Carvalho Leite bought off? That was silly. If Fausto w ­ ere to do the same t­ hing, it would be dif­fer­ent, quite dif­fer­ent; the first ­thing that they would say is that he had been bought off. Fausto could not even get sick. Who would have believed something like that? If he was sick, Fausto did not complain; well or sick he had to enter the field. Further, the player in front of him would try to pull his body out of the play. Fausto did not talk; he just kicked him. When a high ball came, he lifted his foot like a ballerina, and the cleats on his shoes scratched across the face of the player on the other team. The ball belonged to Fausto and no one e­ lse. The player from the other team would pull back and turn his face away, while Welfare, leaning on the fence, went so far as to close his eyes. The Rebellion of the Black Man  155

It was a shame that Fausto was like that, a rebel. If not, he would be the greatest Brazilian center-­half of all time. Welfare could not remember any center-­half who took control of the field like Fausto. Fausto stayed in the big circle, and the balls came right to where he was. It seemed as if he attracted the ball. He did not need to be sliding in with his ­soles first, to be taking the ball away like a bully, threatening every­ one, like Aragão. Aragão was another rebellious one. A tall and thin black man, taller, thinner, and blacker than Fausto. His cleats had steel tips, and for this reason they called Aragão “Steel Tip.” And let no white player approach him. No white, no mulatto passing as white, no black man full of himself. A mulatto like Arthur Friedenreich, a black man like Valdemar de Brito. Friedenreich did not want to be mulatto, and Valdemar did not want to be black. Friedenreich would spend half an hour with a towel wrapped around his head to soften his hard, rebellious, “­can’t deny it” hair. Valdemar would order his mustache crimped, singing an Argentine tango. Mulattoes and blacks thus had to keep their distance, twenty meters at least, from Aragão. Friedenreich wanted nothing to do with him; when Aragã­o’s eye was on him, he stayed in midfield and barely touched the ball. The whites of Laf lost by five to the blacks of Metropolitana.26 This was the result of Laf wishing to clean paulista soccer—­“clean” meaning to make it whiter, finer—­ only to have it fall into the hands of the black players of Rio. It was the end of Laf, of Paulistano. The attitude of Laf, Paulistano, and Friedenreich was of no use. Friedenreich thought that this was not soccer. If Aragão was t­ here, with his steel-­tipped cleats, only crazy p ­ eople would enter the box. That was not soccer; it was vengeance of the black man against the white man. And against the mulatto who was ashamed of being mulatto. For Aragão, a mulatto who was ashamed of being mulatto was worse than any white. Valdemar had a “­don’t touch me” attitude, with his crimped mustache, his hair parted in the ­middle. Aragão soon announced that he did not like black men with mustaches. A black man was clean-­shaven, like he was, with close-­cropped hair, and did not wear a mustache or part his hair in the m ­ iddle. Valdemar, with his mustache, with his hair parted in the m ­ iddle, tried to keep himself at a distance, not to get too close.27 Fausto did not kick anyone for this reason. It was ­because of the rebelliousness that boiled within him, that did not leave him in peace. He had to let loose on somebody or e­ lse he would explode. He kicked the black players, who ­were just like him, and he kicked the white players, who ­were not better but who had every­t hing, while he had nothing. 156  Chapter Three

­Those who watched Fausto play ­were always waiting for something to happen. Fausto could not bear to live his ­whole life that way, kicking ­those who ­were not to blame for anything. Nobody knew better than he did that the player on the other team, white, mulatto, or black, was not at all at fault. Somebody was to blame, so who was it? The ones who did not play, who stayed out of the fray. Not the fans, squeezed into general admission, into the grandstand, exposed to sun and rain, but the bigwigs, the ­owners of soccer, who made the law and chained the players. The bigwigs, however, did not come onto the field to receive his kicks. Poor bigwigs! T ­ hose who saw them from afar could not imagine how much they suffered. What gave p ­ eople the wrong idea was the platform of honor, the wicker chair, wide and comfortable like an armchair. And the coffee that would come, steaming hot, during the halftime break. The players ­were killing themselves on the field, and the bigwigs ­were comfortably seated. From the outside, ­there was no one living the good life more than the bigwig. But on the inside, ah! If every­thing that stung, every­thing that devoured the heart, ­were stamped on the face! The bigwigs would love to do something, to enter the field, to soak their jerseys. If they knew how to play, they would be ­there, in Fausto’s place. Since they did not know, they had to keep rooting from the wicker chairs, which would creak, as they kicked the iron rails of the platform of honor. It was the most they could do. For this reason, they shrunk within their wicker chairs, feeling themselves small, insignificant, up ­there. And entirely in the hands of the players. ­After a victory, the happiest of men, the bigwigs would go to the changing room and empty their wallets; the players who had made them happy deserved every­thing. ­After a defeat, the most disgraced of men, the bigwigs did not even want to see the players. They would go home, with “swollen heads,” as they said, their full wallets weighing down the back pockets of their pants. The more money they had in their wallets ­after a game, the more unhappy the bigwigs would be. They had filled their wallets to be able to arrive in the changing room and say, “­Here you go, Fausto”; “­Here you go, Jaguaré”; “­Here you go, Russinho.” The greatest happiness of the bigwig was this, ­going to the field loaded with money and returning home without a nickel. Thus, when a team was tending to win, the bigwigs ­were even apt to go bankrupt, as in the case of Antônio Campos. Antônio Campos, president of Vasco in 1923, almost went broke. He did not end up ­going broke ­because he had a property on Henrique Valadares Street to sell and ­because he still had a ­house on Tavares Bastos Street, the h ­ ouse where he lived, to mortgage. He sold the property, mortgaged his ­house, passed on the contract of the store at 177 Rio Branco Ave­nue, and closed the Casa Campos, then he had to The Rebellion of the Black Man  157

start anew, working as an employee of his ­brother, Raul Campos, in order to make a living, while Vasco was g­ oing from victory to victory, with only one loss; thus, Antônio Campos was thinking that all of this was not a defeat, at least a tie. The players w ­ ere not to blame; the ball entered, came out, and Carlito Rocha of Botafogo got dizzy and did not send the ball to the center. The resulting victory meant a beast for all the Vasco players. A way for his financial defeat to hurt less, Antônio could delude himself more easily. Notwithstanding, when he opened his eyes he was on the verge of bankruptcy. He did his accounts: Vasco had won the championship, and that championship had cost him 250 contos and change. And Antônio Campos, despite every­thing, regretted only one ­thing: not having any more money to help Vasco. Fortunately, Vasco did not need it; they could take money from the immigrant community as they wished. It sufficed to start a subscription; anyone who was Portuguese felt themselves obliged to sign up. To get an idea: when Vasco dreamed of having a stadium, the biggest in South Amer­i­ca, in one month the money raised went up to 10, 20, 50, 100 mil réis, ­until fi­nally the takings reached 700 contos. Antônio Campos did not even go to the platform of honor anymore. He had ceased to be a bigwig, seeming even as if he had never actually been one. He had lost himself in the m ­ iddle of the crowd, to root as he pleased. Like in the bygone days, he cried ­after a win and ­after a loss. The game would end, Vasco had won or lost, and happy or disgraced, Antônio would not show up in the changing room. Why would he? T ­ hose who did w ­ ere o ­ thers, quite dif­fer­ent from him, showing up to distribute the beast. Money of the club. Money of the club passed through the hands of the bigwigs into the hands of the players. T ­ here was no receipt, no nothing. The player suspected that the bigwig had not given every­ thing, had kept something back, charging his ­little commission. At the very least they w ­ ere not returning the money of ­those who did not want the beast. Rainha and Prego had never received the beast. Fortes had done like Rainha, like Prego. One day he found out that he was on the list of ­people who would receive it, and he started making a point of taking the beast. He did not even touch the roosters, the cows of one or two legs. The equipment man­ag­er, who brought him his cleats, his socks, his anklets, his shorts, his jersey, who took care of his ­things, could keep the money. Thus, the bigwigs no longer put a bill of 50, 100, or 200 mil réis in his pocket. If Fortes did not believe in the bigwig, just imagine Fausto. Fausto put out his hand, received the beast, counted the money, and wanted to ask if any was missing. Indeed, who would know for certain if any was missing? They ­were simply told that t­ oday the beast was so much and no more. 158  Chapter Three

Was the bigwig giving all of it or just part? The beast varied, one day a rooster, another a cow. Fausto was soaking his shirt in the same way for a rooster or a cow. He never knew how much he would earn. It depended on the ­will of the bigwig to give more or less. The worst was that Fausto ­couldn’t say anything. For all intents and purposes he was an amateur, employed in retail and living off his job, not playing soccer for money but rather for love of the club. In truth, it was entirely the opposite: he played soccer for money and not for love of the club. For that reason, he was not in Bangu; he was at São Januário. He had changed his jersey to improve his life. Amateurism, love of the club, was good for a Fortes, who d ­ idn’t need money. Fortes had every­thing, a sports car, a boat, even a bachelor pad ­behind the Pedro Ernesto Hospital, the entire first floor of number 75, Paulo de Frontin Street. Fausto had nothing; he lived with his m ­ other in a l­ittle ­house on Pereira Nunes Street, and sometimes he was penniless. His ­mother got thinner and thinner, never stopping day or night, sweeping the floor, cleaning the pans, cooking. She relied only on him. If he d ­ idn’t have to, he would stop playing the clown. ­Because the soccer player, white, black, or mulatto, was being compared to a clown.28 The fans would go to the soccer field and buy a ticket for general admission, for the grandstand, for what? To entertain themselves. Like at a circus. Whoever takes the trou­ble to read through collections of newspapers from that era ­will find many players unburdening themselves in the space of two or three columns, “I am not a clown” or “I am tired of being a clown.” More whites than blacks. The black men w ­ ere staying quiet, letting it eat them up inside. Fausto, for example, continuing to play, to sweat his jersey through, to kill himself on the field, waiting for a day, his day. Perhaps that day would never arrive. For that very reason, he had to bear it. And he did, buying a lottery ticket once in a while, making his ­little bet in the animal numbers game e­ very day. Ah! If he w ­ ere to get a winning ticket or to match all four numbers! Then he could stop playing, stay at home on Sundays, waiting for the bigwig. He wanted to see the bigwig humiliating himself in front of him, dragging himself along on his knees, asking, begging. He did not win the lottery, he did not match all the numbers, but he got his revenge when it was least expected. Vasco, at the front of the championship by four points, took the team to Eu­rope. Some games w ­ ere in Spain, some in Portugal. It did not cross anyone’s mind at São Januário that Fausto might stay in Spain or Portugal, far from it. Barcelona, however, soon offered thirty thousand pesetas to Fausto and thirty thousand to Jaguaré, plus more than thirty contos in signing bonuses, not including salaries and bonuses. The Rebellion of the Black Man  159

It was the moment for Fausto to avenge himself. He said nothing and made Jaguaré keep quiet, enjoying the trip ­until the end. ­After Spain, they went to Portugal. In Portugal, Fausto could not contain himself any longer. He played, kicking the Portuguese, b ­ ecause for him the Portuguese ­were bigwigs, ­were Vasco. On the field he had more liberty; he could do what­ever he wanted, let the ball go and target a Portuguese. Off the field, with Portuguese on ­every side, he had to pretend, to bump into them and then apologize. When a good occasion presented itself, however, he did not just talk. Like one time in Porto. Fausto opened the win­dow of his ­hotel room, and looked out at Batalha Plaza, where Portuguese ­were coming and g­ oing, some directly beneath his win­dow, on the sidewalk. Fausto filled up a bucket of ­water and poured it out from up t­ here. Shortly thereafter, the police w ­ ere knocking on the door of Fausto’s room. It was a challenge to convince the police that it had not been done on purpose and that the liquid was ­water and not something ­else. Even so, Fausto had to stay locked up in his room, since p ­ eople w ­ ere waiting outside the h ­ otel to beat him up. Fi­nally, Vasco was about to leave on its return voyage, and they ­were ­going to leave without Fausto, without Jaguaré. ­There was no appeal, nothing that could make Fausto change his mind. Jaguaré, indeed, was the one who almost faltered. At the time of Vasco’s departure he could not contain himself and began to cry. If not for Fausto, he would have boarded the steamship; at that moment, he did not want to know about Barcelona’s pesetas. Fausto, however, was t­ here, frowning; it was even frightening to look at him. Raul Campos began to panic. Fausto and Jaguaré would be greatly missed; fortunately, Vasco was four points ahead in the championship. As it turned out, it was not enough for Vasco to be four points ahead in the championship. With Valdemar “Chuca-­Chuca” in the goal and Nesi, old Nesi, at center-­ half, it was no longer the Vasco of Jaguaré, who spun the l­ittle beast on his fin­ger, and of Fausto, who took control of the field. América came back from ­behind and took the lead, so Vasco lost the championship. The price of Fausto’s rebellion.

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Chapter 4

The Social Ascension of the Black Man

1. What had happened to Vasco could happen to any other club. A club would have a Fausto, would be counting on him, at what­ever moment he was needed, and then he would be gone. It was no use to have a four-­year apprenticeship, followed by one year on the second team, during which time the player would not be allowed to switch clubs. On the contrary, the players felt themselves to be imprisoned, chained, and condemned to the galleys. More than that: slaves. Many players called themselves slaves, feeding the indignation growing inside them. At some point a player c­ ouldn’t take it anymore, and this would be enough. When he had reached his limit, the player would discover, to his surprise, that nothing chained him to the club. Such was the case of Fernando Giudicelli. He was one in the group that accompanied Vasco to Eu­rope. For the ­others—­Benedito, Carvalho Leite, and Nilo, players for Botafogo, invited along just like Fernando Giudicelli—­Vasco’s excursion was a vacation. For Fernando Giudicelli it was freedom. The o ­ thers would return with Vasco, while Fernando Giudicelli would remain ­behind. For this reason, on the day of departure, playing his last game for Fluminense, he beat up a poor soccer referee. No one expected anything like this, much less from Fernando Giudicelli, for he was not on Fluminense for no reason. He was elegant, well mannered, an Arnaldo Guinle wannabe, known as the Arnaldo Guinle of the Sloper.1 So it was Fernando Giudicelli that came for Leandro Carnaval, fists flying, kicking, with the hate and fury of a Fausto dos Santos, the indignation of the white man equal to that of the black. Every­one froze, not understanding exactly what was happening and not wanting to believe what they ­were seeing. Only ­after Leandro Carnaval had been thoroughly thrashed did they grab hold of Fernando Giudicelli’s hands. Fernando Giudicelli d ­ idn’t even wait to be ejected from the field; he left ­running for the locker room and quickly changed his clothes, so quickly that he forgot to remove his cleats. A taxi was waiting for him at Fluminense’s door; Fernando Giudicelli appeared inside it still wearing his cleats, woolen socks, ankle and shin guards, as if he ­were g­ oing to another game.2

He was ready to play another match, other matches, but somewhere e­ lse. That scene in Fluminense’s stadium, him bashing in Leandro Carnaval’s face, was a goodbye. A farewell he was addressing to Brazilian soccer. The goodbye of someone who is leaving with no intention of coming back. He had a plan worked out, and no one was g­ oing to make him diverge from that plan. His name was Fernando Giudicelli, and as a Giudicelli, an Italian name being a kind of “Open sesame!” he could play for a Lazio, a Bologna, a Torino. South Amer­i­ca, Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil w ­ ere becoming the g­ reat wellsprings of Italian soccer. For whoever played a ­little ball and might be the son of an Italian, if not actually the son of an Italian, meaning dual nationality, it was guaranteed. ­There was no lack of clubs searching for Argentinian, Uruguayan, and Brazilian players, so long as they ­were white and had Italian names. ­Every ship that passed through Rio, en route to Italy, would take one, two, or three players from Buenos Aires, from Montevideo, from São Paulo, for the clubs of Rome, Genoa, and Turin. The papers would publish editions with big letters about the soccer emigrants, with suggestive titles on the cover. Star players worth their weight in gold. They ­were worth gold, millions and millions of lire. When compared with the signing bonuses, the salaries, the tips paid by the Italians, the bonuses offered by Brazilian clubs established the difference between wealth and penury. This was what Amílcar Barburi was exploiting, making his own advertisement for Italian soccer.3 Mussolini had promised a stadium to the club that took the Italian championship, a stadium worth millions of lire for a championship. The player who lived on bonuses would have eyes as wide as saucers listening to Amílcar Balburi tell tales worthy of The Thousand and One Nights. A star player could get rich in no time. This was the vision of El Dorado that floated before Brazilian players’ eyes—­those with an Italian name, that is. The Brazilian players with Italian names would not hesitate; they would pack their bags. In his comings and ­goings, Amílcar Balburi never left alone; he would always take a player with him, who would leave b ­ ehind being Brazilian. For Mussolini’s Italy, soccer immigrants w ­ ere Italians returning to the fatherland. Only Italians could play in Italy. And off they would go to Rome, to Genoa, to Turin, many Argentinians, Uruguayans, and Brazilians. The ­great clubs of Buenos Aires took fright, as all of them had players with Italian names. If this continued, what would become of Argentinian soccer? ­There was only one remedy: professionalization. Professional soccer was born 162  Chapter Four

in Argentina. Montevideo could not resist; almost attached to Buenos Aires, separated only by the ­waters of a river, the ­great clubs of Buenos Aires ­were taking players from Montevideo. The wave of professionalization was spreading, approaching Rio, São Paulo. ­Every day the papers carried news: such-­and-­such Italian club was a­ fter a certain Brazilian player. Sometimes they ­were not ­after the player; instead, the player himself was saying it to scare his club. The club, frightened, would loosen the strings of its money purse. Only a player with an Italian name could do this. The number of players with Italian names was not r­ eally so large. T ­ hose who had an Italian name, the key to glory and fortune, almost all lived in São Paulo. In Rio t­ here ­were few, very few indeed. A Fernando Giudicelli ­here and ­there. The Rio clubs ­were even liking the fact that Italian soccer was superseding paulista soccer. The more players who emigrated from São Paulo to Italy, the better for soccer in Rio. The Rio clubs, precisely for this reason, ­were not worried. They felt themselves to be safe, sheltered, ­free from danger. They only ­stopped feeling that way when Jaguaré and Fausto stayed in Spain. Even the players who ­didn’t have Italian names, even the players who ­were not white, even the mulattoes and blacks, like Jaguaré and Fausto, could leave. It was enough to play soccer well, to want to go to Eu­rope. The white player, still, had every­thing ­going for him. He was white; if he changed his name, if he arranged an Italian last name, nobody in Italy would take a second look. Such was the case of Amphilóquio Marques, “Filó” of the paulista side, of the Brazilian side. Who in São Paulo ­wasn’t aware, what with the newspapers exhausting themselves publishing his biography, that Filó was the son of Portuguese? And yet he managed to play for the Azzurri, posing for the photog­ raphers with his arms upraised. That man t­ here, with upraised arms, was not Filó, Amphilóquio Marques—it was Guarisi, Amphilóquio Guarisi. Many a player, with the most Brazilian of names, took the boat to Italy with a false passport. Demósthenes Magalhães, ­brother of Mário Magalhães, with his name in the headlines, transformed, suddenly, into Demósthenes Bertini, whom no one had ever heard of. All it took was Fernando Giudicelli returning from Genoa as an emissary of Italian soccer. He found Demósthenes Magalhães playing in the position that he had left open, center-­half of Fluminense. Fluminense had already lost one center-­half, and it was about to lose another. Demósthenes was from Ilha do Governador. He had started out on Jequiá, a modest club; from Jequiá he transferred to Fluminense, a rich, prestigious club. But the wealth of Fluminense did not benefit Demósthenes. He continued as he had before, with one set of clothes, already shabby, sometimes without The Social Ascension of the Black Man  163

even 400 reis to take the ferry. Fernando Giudicelli painted a rich picture of what his f­ uture could be. Fortune awaited Demósthenes Magalhães in Italy. Demósthenes Magalhães made up a list of ­things he needed before he would get on the boat. He would need every­thing—­clothes, shoes, socks, underwear, shirts, ties, a b ­ elt, suspenders, even a toothbrush with toothpaste. Which was worth a Bertini, a Zacconi, in one’s name. Benedito de Oliveira Menezes would be Benedito Zacconi, adopting the name of his father-­in-­law. The father-­in-­law, Zacconi, would become the f­ather of his son-­in-­law. His wife became his ­sister. This was whites taking advantage of being white, not concerning themselves with the rest, changing their name, their country.4 Mulattoes and blacks w ­ ere the ones who did concern themselves with their native land, making a point of preserving their names from the baptismal font, making even more of a point of remaining Brazilians. Jaguaré and Fausto did not play anything but friendlies in Spain ­because of this, ­because they refused to sign a piece of paper, the request for naturalization. They w ­ ere Brazilians, and no amount of money could convince them other­wise. Jaguaré ­didn’t even manage to spend five months in Spain. Barcelona was putting the pressure on: ­either he and Fausto became naturalized Spaniards or nothing d ­ oing. Of a thirty thousand pesetas signing bonus, Jaguaré and Fausto received only the first payment. Even as they w ­ ere paying them wages, Barcelona was informing them that they needed to make a decision. Jaguaré was getting to the point where he ­wouldn’t be able to afford the trip home. He returned before his money ran out, but at that point Vasco wanted nothing to do with him. Jaguaré’s arrival at São Januário was also badly timed, on the day of the Vasco-­Botafogo match, a match that would decide the championship. If Vasco w ­ ere to lose at São Januário, it was goodbye to the championship title. The Vasco fans had pinned the blame on Raul Campos, Raul Campos recruiting and not bringing Jaguaré and Fausto. Why ­hadn’t he just given them all the money at once, if it was money they wanted? But seeing Jaguaré taking on airs of importance, chomping on a cigar, they forgot about Raul Campos; ­here was the man who was ­really to blame. Jaguaré was obliged to leave São Januário ­under a hail of boos and shouts of “Get out, get out!” He hailed a taxi and ordered the chauffeur to head for Campos Sales, where he rooted for América. América defeated Bonsucesso, and Vasco lost to Botafogo; in this way, Vasco would learn to place more value on a Jaguaré, on a Fausto.5 Without a Jaguaré, without a Fausto, on the team, they would not be lifting any championship cups. But though Jaguaré was ­there, not in Spain, Vasco was pointing to Jaguaré as an example. This would be what a player would 164  Chapter Four

get for leaving Vasco, where he had every­thing—­a home, food, his clothing washed and starched—­for Barcelona. Neither Barcelona nor Vasco. Despite this, Jaguaré ­couldn’t stop talking about Barcelona. “Boy, you should see it!” It was enough to be a soccer player to live the life of a prince. So why ­wouldn’t he go ­there? He would go ­there, yessir, and he ­wouldn’t go alone; he’d go with Leônidas. The newspapers wrapped themselves in the flag, that ­little black with the upturned nose, who had taken Nilo’s place, heading for Eu­rope. Another one. But Leônidas ­didn’t even show up at the docks. When Jaguaré showed up, it was only to be arrested. He had been drafted, had not performed his military ser­vice, and ended up flagged as a deserter. A good pretext for him to stay. Had he left, how would he make a living? Only if he signed ­those naturalization papers, the papers he had not wanted to sign for anything in the world, neither he nor Fausto. Fausto might not even be ­there anymore. Leônidas had done well by not listening to Jaguaré. Barcelona might have been very good for ­others, but Leônidas i­magined himself in a strange land with no money. And black, on top of every­thing ­else. If he ­were white, son of an Italian, or even not an Italian’s son but simply white, he would change his name and go to Italy. A black man needed to take care; other­wise, he would be deceived like Jaguaré. The poor man mistrusts a big handout. A 30,000 pesetas transfer fee, 1,000 in salary, and a 1,500 signing bonus? A 1,500 signing bonus, who had ever heard of such a ­thing? It seemed more like the tale of a con artist. And then, Barcelona h ­ adn’t sent him any proposals. Jaguaré was the one who had offered to pay his ticket. “Just go, get t­ here, show what you can do with the ball; the Spanish have never seen anything like it.” Leônidas ­didn’t want to get involved in adventures; he was afraid, as he had only just begun. Six months before he had been an unknown. It had been necessary for Nilo to go on tour in Eu­rope with Vasco for him to make his debut. The Brazilian championship had begun; as long as Vasco had not returned, Leônidas could fill the hole left by Nilo. He had his place in the starting lineup, his chance. The fans liked him right away; Leônidas was ­doing t­ hings that no other player did. Not even Nilo. Nilo would wait to be given the ball to score a goal, but not Leônidas, who was always a­ fter the ball, ­running, not stopping, sweating his shirt through, killing himself on the field. And he was inventing moves. Suddenly he would do a handstand, and just like that, upside down, he would grasp the ball between his feet, then do a somersault. A spectacle. Before that, no one had ever dreamed of a starting lineup without Nilo; now, no one dreamed of one without Leônidas. Even Nilo returning and The Social Ascension of the Black Man  165

scoring two goals in the Rio Branco Cup of 1931, the only two goals in the game, was not enough. The public wanted Leônidas, demanded Leônidas. Nilo ended up understanding, feigning injury at the time of the game. He had been tapped as a starter in the Brazilian championship final. He entered the field, ready to play, only to hear the crowd insistently chanting “Leônidas, Leônidas, Leônidas!” Nilo kicked the ball, began limping, and shortly left the field, with the crowd still shouting for Leônidas. Every­thing had been well arranged. Leônidas only changed his clothes ­after Nilo said he c­ ouldn’t play. The cries of the crowd could be heard in the changing room, calling for Leônidas. Shortly thereafter, Leônidas made his appearance, jumping, shaking his arms like a monkey, receiving an ovation the likes of which had never been seen before. Once the game was over, ­t hose in the grandstands and general seating jumped down onto the field and carried Leônidas in triumph. Of the three goals in the carioca victory, two had been scored by him.6 Leônidas, however, did not feel safe. As a player from a small team, Bonsucesso, he was still being considered. When the question arose of who the best left-­midfielder in the city was, some said Nilo, ­others Prego, ­others Leônidas. Domingos, now ­there was a player no one argued about any longer, every­one in agreement, the best back of all time in Brazil. Not just in Brazil, in the world. If Domingos, “the Doctor,” “the Master,” did not believe in soccer, then just imagine how Leônidas felt. Domingos wanted a guarantee for the ­future. A job as a mosquito killer, for instance. A black man, barely able to sign his name, could not hope for anything better. He was a mosquito killer in full glory, g­ oing from h ­ ouse to ­house with his ­little yellow flag, with his watering can full of Creolin.7 He was earning a pittance, but he was surviving, and when the end of the month came, he had his money. The money from the Department of Public Health was certain; from soccer, it came and went. Domingos, playing for Bangu, could not count on soccer for a living, despite being Domingos. The beast only improved a bit with a victory. And that depended on the victory. A victory against the big clubs might earn a rooster. Against the smaller ones, a turkey, or if Bangu lost, a rabbit. For that reason, Domingos preferred being a mosquito killer. ­There is a picturesque episode from Domingos’s life that shows well what ­little regard he held for soccer. Bangu was ­going to take its team on an excursion. Togo Renan Soares, who was coaching the team of “pink mulattoes,” as Bangu was known, tried to convince Domingos to request a leave from his job. Domingos absolutely refused; he ­wouldn’t leave his job for soccer. It did 166  Chapter Four

no good for Togo Renan Soares to ridicule the job that Domingos had, on the contrary. A player like Domingos, a mosquito killer. And what was worse, taking a job like that seriously, thinking that was his ­future. Domingos replied that it was better to be a mosquito killer than a soccer player. If he w ­ ere to live off soccer, he would die of hunger. Shortly thereafter, Domingos left Bangu, a small club, for América, a big club. But it w ­ asn’t b ­ ecause Togo Renan Soares had convinced him. He had in fact left his job, but it was to work in Gabriel Nascimento’s lumber mill, a lumber mill that was located on Frei Caneca Street, almost directly across from the prison. This job paid 500 mil réis a month, much more than his job as a mosquito killer. Soccer could serve, at best, for that: to give a good job to a player. So much so that Domingos d ­ idn’t take advantage. At the beginning of the workday, ­there he was, to the ­great shock of his boss, who had given him the position as a soccer player and not as a worker. Domingos ­wasn’t complaining, satisfied with life, with axe in hand, cutting firewood. He wanted his boss to be satisfied with him. So that when he ­stopped playing soccer, he ­wouldn’t lose his job. For this reason, he worked, never refusing to do a job, putting in more effort at the lumber mill than on the soccer field. On a soccer field he ­didn’t even break a sweat; he would play almost at a standstill, in slow motion. The other players, a­ fter eighty minutes, had their hearts in their mouths, but for him nothing ­doing, as if he h ­ adn’t played at all. In the lumber mill, he would sweat. When the day of work was done, it seemed he had been beaten up, his muscles w ­ ere so sore. And his boss was more and more enchanted with him. It was necessary for Vasco to put 5 contos of réis in small bills into his hands. Domingos had never seen so much money in his life. And that was just the beginning. Vasco gave him 5 contos of réis to sign the amateur registration form, and another 500 mil réis a month. This not including the beasts. And he d ­ idn’t need to work; he could stay at home resting up, to play better on Sundays.8 And he ­didn’t need to play e­ very Sunday. He played when he wanted to, in order to not lose his form, while his one-­year transfer period on the second team lasted. ­Because players who changed clubs would be punished for an entire year; they could only play in the preliminary game before the official match. Vasco gave him all of that, the 5 contos bonus, the 500 mil réis a month, so that he ­wouldn’t lose his patience, would wait. Like that, with the money in his pocket, ­there was no danger—­Domingos would wait. For him, a year more, a year less, was of no importance. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  167

Nobody was g­ oing to take his position on the starting lineup. What harm could a year on the second team do? It was as if he w ­ ere on vacation. Leônidas, on the other hand, did not think like that. He wanted to go to América, with América offering him the world and more, but he ­d idn’t go ­because he was afraid the fans would forget him.9 The preliminary game would begin early, with almost no one around the field; general admission and the grandstands would fill slowly, since what every­body r­ eally wanted to see was the official match. T ­ here would still be a fair amount of time before the preliminary game ended, and the crowd would become impatient, g­ oing so far as to demand that the referee end the game early. And Leônidas loved to play, to do handstands on the field. That was how he won applause and guaranteed himself two or three columns of newspaper coverage. If he went to the second team, goodbye applause, goodbye newspaper columns, goodbye starting lineup. Having to choose between the white Nilo and the black Leônidas, the Amea Soccer Commission would not hesitate: it would call up Nilo for life. Even so, he had his moments of “­Will I or ­won’t I?” So much so that he signed up to become an América member, thought better, signed up again, repented, then signed up once more, only to end up staying with Bonsucesso, on the first team. The p ­ eople of Campos Sales w ­ ouldn’t leave him alone, g­ oing a­ fter him, insisting that Bonsucesso was no team for a Leônidas, that the likes of Leônidas was deserving of América. Leônidas agreed, but the devil was the transfer penalty, a year on the second team. And the Campos Sales p ­ eople insisting that a year goes by before you know it, Leônidas still had plenty of soccer years ahead of him, and he could perfectly well wait a year. Leônidas c­ ouldn’t resist the sweet talking; he asked for a pen and signed the membership, Leônidas da Silva, in neat letters, with good calligraphy. América made themselves a collection of Leônidas’s membership papers. One, two, three. Leônidas ­couldn’t turn back anymore. But he did turn back. He ­didn’t show up at Campos Sales again. Aníbal Pereira Bastos, the director of Bonsucesso, went ­there in his name, to ask América to rip up the papers he had signed. América d ­ idn’t rip up the papers; they kept them in a drawer to show them to whomever came along, to Campos Sales, to say of Leônidas, “That two-­ faced boy, that shameless Negro, that dirty black. When a black ­doesn’t dirty ­things on the way in, he does it on the way out.” América ended up forgetting they had blacks on their team. They w ­ ere looking for a way to offend Leônidas, and out came color. Two-­faced boy, shameless Negro, dirty black. And the philosophical consolation of the saying “When a black ­doesn’t dirty t­ hings on the way in, he does it on the way out.” 168  Chapter Four

And the black players on América? América’s blacks d ­ idn’t take offense; they knew that it w ­ asn’t about them. The proof that it w ­ asn’t about them: América ­didn’t send them away; it was satisfied with them. If Leônidas ­were on América’s team, he ­wouldn’t be a two-­faced boy, a shameless Negro, a dirty black. This was all ­because he had stayed with Bonsucesso, h ­ adn’t gone to América. The fight over a player. It was the second one América had lost, one ­a fter the other. First the fight for Domingos, América and Vasco; then the fight for Leônidas, América and Bonsucesso. That was what hurt the worst for América: to have lost Leônidas to Bonsucesso. If he went to Vasco, so be it. Like Domingos, Leônidas had the right to choose the team that offered the most. América h ­ adn’t been angry with Domingos. Domingos had behaved correctly, anyone would have done the same. América gave more than Bangu, so he had left Bangu and gone to América. Vasco was offering more than América, so he left América b ­ ehind for Vasco. Between 500 mil réis a month, nothing more, and the same 500 mil réis a month plus a signing bonus of 5 contos, who would hesitate? And on top of that, the 500 mil réis a month from América w ­ ere earned from the sweat of his brow at work, hard work at the lumber mill. Domingos cutting firewood all day long. A club ­couldn’t count on players who had to work to earn a salary. They could count on them at first, but not ­later on. How many players had abandoned soccer for a job? Such was the case of Mineiro. He was earning 200 mil réis a month in Campos. He had come to earn 300 mil réis a month in Rio, when América had arranged a position for him at the Mayrink Veiga radio station. On practice days he would leave work early; indeed, América was paying him precisely for this. Mineiro ­didn’t miss a practice, and he played ­every Sunday, killing himself on the field. América was pointing to him as an example. Too bad he was black. If he ­weren’t black, he ­could’ve gone to the eve­ning dances, to América’s parties. As he was black, he had to remain down in the hall, in the bar, playing billiards. He ­didn’t say anything, but he felt it on the inside. It was no use for him to play his hardest, to give every­t hing he had for an América victory. What was worth it was to put in more and more effort at work. And Mineiro was moving up at Mayrink Veiga, receiving a raise in his salary from time to time. They w ­ eren’t giving him a raise for playing soccer; it was a raise for his work on the job. So Mineiro had no doubts—­between work and soccer, he preferred work. While América wished him to leave work early on Wednesdays for practice, he would leave only when the workday was done. América should have taken the example of Mineiro as a lesson to pay Domingos up front, so he’d just play, not work. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  169

2. That was what Vasco did. And Domingos did not deceive América. A ­ fter spending six days at the lumber mill, from December 26 to 31, he showed up at Campos Sales and was frank. ­Either América would give him what Vasco would give him, 5 contos as a signing bonus, 500 mil réis a month with no lumber mill or anything e­ lse, or he would go to Vasco. But not Leônidas: he signed a membership form, another, and then another, making a fool out of América three times. On top of that, ­there was no advantage at all to staying with Bonsucesso, a small club, which c­ ouldn’t give him half of what América was offering. Anybody associated with América, from the president to the humblest of fans, turned against Leônidas. Leônidas d ­ idn’t have to wait long for the vengeance of América, the big club. ­There was soon a demonstration of it in a game of the national side. The players from América, Sílvio, Hildegardo, Hermógenes, Oscarino, and Válter, refused to enter the field with Leônidas.10 It was the Soccer Commission who had chosen them. Almost the entire starting lineup was from América, as América had won the 1931 championship. The game was in Santos, and the América players only revealed that they ­wouldn’t play with Leônidas right before the start of the match. They pulled Leônidas off the side and sent him packing back to Rio. And that was just the beginning. A practice for the national side was scheduled. Leônidas showed up, and the América players ­stopped training, leaving the practice, one by one. And when the championship rolled around, the first game between América and Bonsucesso took place at Campos Sales. The second Leônidas received the ball, he was greeted with jeers. “Boo! Boo! Boo!” was not enough for ­these fans, who added, “Black boy, shameless Negro, dirty black!” Leônidas eventually c­ ouldn’t take it anymore and responded with an ugly gesture, which caused a riot. Sílvio Pacheco, América’s keeper, immediately attacked him with punches. The crowd invaded the field, with screams of “Lynch him! String him up!” The police surrounded Leônidas, and play was interrupted for a while. And then came the board of directors of América, to speak with the referee, Luís Neves. América would not continue with the match if Leônidas remained on the field. The referee ­hadn’t seen Leônidas make an ugly gesture, only Sílvio Pacheco slugging Leônidas. So the game ­wasn’t about to restart, and the crowd was threatening Leônidas and the other Bonsucesso players. Bonsucesso ended up taking Leônidas out of the match. They took out Leônidas, ­going down to ten players, more black than white, and continued 170  Chapter Four

the match that way, ­until the end. And they defeated América four to two, each player playing for both himself and for Leônidas.11 Whoever opened a newspaper the next day, and more so in the next two or three days, would be reading headlines exalting Bonsucesso. One of them referred to the team of blue shirts as “the Miracle of ’32.” Another elevated the small team from the North Highway to an “Acad­emy of Soccer.” The suburbs already had a factory of players: Bangu. Now they ­were adding to that a soccer acad­emy: Bonsucesso. The influence of Gentil Cardoso’s blackboard. On practice days and game days, the Bonsucesso players would stay a l­ ittle longer in the changing room, sitting on benches, like schoolchildren, while Gentil Cardoso chalked up “M”s and “W”s on the blackboard. No one had ever seen the likes of it before: a coach teaching soccer, as if soccer ­were something that could be taught. And on top of that, a black coach. A black man enamored with the En­glish, ­England this, E ­ ngland that. Mister Welfare, an En­glishman, barely ever spoke of ­England. At least in the presence of the whites, mulattoes, and blacks of São Januário, all convinced that soccer was purely Brazilian. And the rest was just idle chatter. If Mister, someday, ever thought of drawing an “M” or a “W” on a blackboard, he never acted on it. Vasco’s players would not lower themselves to the ridicu­lous act of learning soccer. The Bonsucesso players, modest, anonymous, never having been on a national starting lineup with the exception of Leônidas, believed that Gentil Cardoso knew more than them. He had earned this distinction, traveling the world as a sailor, visiting London and having the opportunity to see Arsenal play. It mattered l­ ittle that he was black. Bonsucesso was hardly lacking in black players. Seven on the team. The five attackers who, on the field, formed Gentil Cardoso’s “W,” the two wingers, Carlinhos and Miro, and the center forward, Gradim, out in front, the two midfielders, Prego and Leônidas, in back, all black. The blacks on Bonsucesso understood the language of Gentil Cardoso; the ones who d ­ idn’t understand w ­ ere the whites on other teams. While Bonsucesso kept winning, Gentil Cardoso could continue to draw on the blackboard. But the moment he lost his first match, every­body started piling criticism on him. The papers published images of Gentil Cardoso at the chalkboard. Along with the “M” and the “W,” they put an “I” and an “X.” And they no longer called the team with the indigo blue shirts “the Miracle of ’32,” the l­ ittle club on the North Highway the “Acad­emy of Soccer.” Leônidas went back to being the black boy, the shameless Negro, the dirty black. The enormous fan base of América setting the example, not leaving The Social Ascension of the Black Man  171

Leônidas in peace. It was easy enough to say “­Don’t pay attention,” “It ­doesn’t ­matter,” but Leônidas would end up losing his head. The Leônidas of 1931, a good guy, friendly with journalists, the Leônidas who’d buy a round of beer for his friends on his birthday, became the disgruntled Leônidas of 1932. He ­couldn’t h ­ andle another boo, another comment in the press, one ­after another. When an opponent wished to defeat Bonsucesso, they knew the way in advance. It was to mock Gentil Cardoso’s blackboard, to recall the story of Leônidas and the necklace.12 A ­woman had gone to the police to press charges against Leônidas. The newspapers opened their stories with “Leônidas does it again.” Bonsucesso silenced the ­woman with 40 mil réis, the price of the bead necklace, but they ­couldn’t silence the newspapers and the other clubs. The other clubs being of the opinion that a player the likes of Leônidas should not even be allowed on the soccer field. Leônidas would come on the field, and soon enough a wag from general admission or the grandstands would be asking him for the necklace. He was a marked player. It’s no won­der that often, at match time, he would remain in the changing room, “I ­won’t play,” “I w ­ on’t play.” So ­there went Gentil Cardoso to request that the journalists stop beating up on Leônidas. The journalists would promise, and Leônidas would try to start over fresh, showing up on the field with a smile from ear to ear. But what­ever he did, someone would shout, “Look at the necklace.” Leônidas would pretend he ­hadn’t heard, but it would be repeated once, twice more, ­until he lost his head, making an obscene gesture to the crowd. Which would end the game amid shouts of “Throw him out, throw him out!” All one could see w ­ ere fans who wanted to jump the fence to beat him up. Leônidas was waiting for the police to arrest him, for the referee to boot him off the field. Only then would he be ­free to play some more in Jaguaré’s festivals. B ­ ecause Jaguaré had settled in Rio; he d ­ idn’t talk about returning to Spain anymore. If he ­were to return, he would no longer find Fausto ­there. Fausto had had to move to Switzerland, as he was playing for a club in Zu­rich. Jaguaré needed to make a living, so he or­ga­nized special teams and promoted festivals. His all-­star team would often change names; at one point it was called Modestino, ­later it was São Sebastião. Once in a while the papers would announce one of ­these festivals, sponsored by a club from the suburbs or a carnival bloco.13 The carnival bloco I ­Can’t Be Both­ered sponsored one festival, which had as its highlight a game between the all-­star teams Astralo and Modestino. The Astralo All Stars ­were more or less the América team. Playing on Astralo, the América players ­were not both­ered to see Leônidas on the other side—­ quite the contrary. 172  Chapter Four

With Leônidas on the other side, the festival would earn more. With Leônidas, Domingos, and Jaguaré. Too bad Fausto was in Switzerland. If not, then all the g­ reat black players of Brazilian soccer would be playing for Modestino, for São Sebastião. None of them w ­ ere troubled by the threats of the Brazilian Sports Commission (CBD). The CBD opened inquiries, gathered newspaper clippings, each with a list of players on the all-­star teams, but newspaper clippings w ­ ere not documents. But maybe o ­ thers would be intimidated. If Domingos w ­ ere intimidated, the CBD would be satisfied. The CBD d ­ idn’t want to eliminate Domingos; they wanted to eliminate Leônidas. Leônidas, however, would never play alone, having the com­pany of a number of players from other clubs. Domingos, for example, ­wouldn’t miss a single one of Jaguaré’s festivals. It ­wasn’t nothing, another 50, another 100 mil réis in his pocket. The profits of the festival w ­ ere shared among the players. The players would make comparisons. They received about the same to play in the carnival bloco I ­Can’t Be Both­ered as in a big Amea match. The CBD was alarmed—­the way ­things ­were ­going, professionalization was right around the corner. And indeed, it was well on its way. The proof was that one fine day Jaguaré showed up at São Januário again and he w ­ asn’t booted out. On the contrary: he received an ovation, was able to go to the changing room and get changed, like in the old days, to appear on the field to train, with a Barcelona shirt and leather gloves. Jaguaré had an explanation. Over in Eu­rope, the goalkeepers would only play with leather gloves. And every­body’s mouths ­were agape. A success. It was true that Jaguaré said that he could play whenever Vasco wanted, that he had a letter from Mr. Jules Rimet, president of FIFA, that certified his amateur status. Vasco, however, had not called Jaguaré up to play as an amateur. They ­were in fact preparing themselves for professionalization, which was at the doorstep. In São Januário, they ­were already talking about sending somebody out to look for Fausto. And nobody found this strange anymore. Even Fluminense had convinced themselves ­there was no other way. Since 1924, eight years ­running, they ­hadn’t won a championship. They ­were also the team who paid the smallest beast. They would put a trea­sury employee at the door. Players would jump out of their taxis, the employee would ask how much the beast was, and then pay them. Fluminense had thought that their players d ­ idn’t want anything more. First Fernando Giudicelli had to return from Italy to snatch up Demósthenes Magalhães. Fluminense began to suspect that their players ­were the same as ­those of the other clubs. If not the same, similar. Luís Vinhaes, who was saying that the way t­ hings ­were, Fluminense would never be champions again, called a meeting of the players. Afonso de Castro The Social Ascension of the Black Man  173

posed the question: Did the players prefer the beast in the way in which Fluminense was awarding it or the way the other clubs did it? Only Prego, who had never received a beast in his life, remained s­ ilent; this was no business of his. The rest responded, “The way the other clubs did it.” Even Veloso, “the Keeper with the Silken Hands”; Albino, almost a l­ awyer; and Ivan, almost an engineer. And Rieper and Alfredo and De Mori. Fluminense, tired of losing championships, became a pioneer of professionalism. By professionalizing, they would be fighting on equal ground with the other clubs. They ­wouldn’t lose any more players, as they had lost Fernando Giudicelli, as they had lost Demósthenes Magalhães—­two franchise players, as they ­were called—in one year. And they could assem­ble a ­great team, one that was able to bring home championship trophies, g­ oing out to scout players in the small clubs, in the suburbs, in other states, wherever they might be, whites, mulattoes, and blacks. For in the context of professionalization, it d ­ idn’t hurt Fluminense to put a mulatto or a black on the team, as long as he was a g­ reat player.14 Preferably a white, but if a mulatto or a black, only a g­ reat player. Not a Leônidas, of course, not b ­ ecause of his color but b ­ ecause of the necklace. Fluminense had no desire to hear, when one of their players entered the field, some wag from general seating or the grandstand asking for a necklace or something of equal value. A Leônidas, no, but a Domingos, yes. Not that Fluminense intended to take Domingos from Vasco. Fluminense recognized Vasco’s rights, acquired with that 5 contos bonus, t­ hose 500 mil réis a month. Beyond which Domingos d ­ idn’t even want to wear the tricolor jersey anymore. He had wanted to wear it in a previous era, as an amateur, without earning anything, to be the first black man to play for Fluminense. It had been Domingos’s dream to sign on at Fluminense as a black man, with Fluminense forgetting he was black, or remembering in order not to pay attention to it, wanting him just like that, believing that he deserved an exception. A team of ten players from good families, following the tricolor tradition, and one black player, Domingos. The opportunity passed him by, never to return. Now any black player could play at Álvaro Chaves, and now that it was the same as other teams, Fluminense held no interest for Domingos. For money, he’d play for Vasco. Flamengo would not have Domingos; they would, nevertheless, have blacks like him. And without leaving b ­ ehind what they w ­ ere, a club of whites, of elegant folks. They would put a black player on the team, and it would remain the aristocratic club of Laranjeiras. The black man would play, would help Fluminense win, and with the game over, he would change his clothes and leave. ­There was no danger of a black 174  Chapter Four

man spending time at the club headquarters, showing up at a soirée, at a Fluminense gala ball. The professional player, white, mulatto, or black, was an employee of the club. The club would pay, take from ­here and dole out ­there. The player would stay in his place, more in his place than ever. Naturally, between black and white, Fluminense had to prefer the white. If it w ­ ere pos­si­ble to have an all-­white team, all the better. And maybe it was pos­si­ble. ­There was no shortage of good white players. If it ­wasn’t pos­si­ble to have a team of whites, ­they’d place a black, maybe two, not overdoing it. At the end of the day, Fluminense was Fluminense, and Fluminense it was. You could still compare the social grandstand of Fluminense to a corbeil of flowers, as t­ here ­were many young ladies. What one no longer saw ­were hats. Young ladies went to see soccer without hats, more at home, sportingly. It was tough to imagine t­ hose fine young ladies, so elegant, so beautiful, rooting for a black man. And if Fluminense w ­ ere to put a black man on the team, they would have no other choice but to root for him, to shout the black player’s name, “aí Dominguinho.” B ­ ecause a good fan would begin to address the player in that way, by the diminutive, maternally. Once in a while a “my son” would slip out. Fluminense playing, the young w ­ omen wanting Fluminense to find victory, appealing to the saints, to the players. For this reason, Fluminense had to be careful, to place a black player on the team only as a last resort, when they ­couldn’t find a single white player that could play as well as him. If not, the young ladies would be obliged to ask a black player to score a goal, to request that he not let the ball get by him. To ask, to plead. Which Fluminense needed to avoid at any cost. It ­wouldn’t be very easy. Blacks ­were on the rise. The Copa Rio Branco side was full of blacks: Domingos, Oscarino, Leônidas, Gradim, and Jarbas. The CBD had never before sent abroad a side with so many black players.15 Let us mention in passing: they had done every­thing to whiten the side. To put Russinho or Carvalho Leite in Gradim’s position, to put Nilo or Prego in Leônidas’s place. Renato Pacheco, the president of the CBD, went so far as to bar Leônidas from playing. He was able to embark with the o ­ thers—it would have been a scandal if he h ­ adn’t; he had been the best midfielder in training, so he was called up but ­couldn’t play. It was something Renato Pacheco would not allow: Leônidas wearing the jersey of the CBD. The story of the necklace. And when he did end up playing, Leônidas scored the two goals of the Brazilian victory, and the CBD had to forget about the necklace.16 Nobody recalled the necklace anymore, and even if they did, Leônidas had scored the two goals of the Brazilian victory; nothing ­else mattered. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  175

The CBD associated itself with the praise for Leônidas; every­body only wanted to hear about Leônidas and Domingos. One had scored two goals, the other h ­ adn’t let a single ball past him. The symbols of Brazilian soccer: Leônidas and Domingos. ­There was another: Fausto. But Fausto was far away and had not played in the Copa Rio Branco. So Domingos and Leônidas monopolized all the attention. Principally Leônidas. At the victory parade, t­ here was no room to walk on Rio Branco Ave­nue, like a third day of carnival.17 Leônidas perched on the lowered roof of an automobile, embracing the Rio Branco Cup. Amid shouts of “Leônidas! Leônidas! Leônidas!” Domingos was practically hidden, in the back seat of another taxi, greeting the p ­ eople, nodding his head to the right, to the left. Leônidas was receiving more applause; he would receive more money. Nacional of Montevideo was ­a fter Domingos, starting with an offer of 10,000 pesos oro, almost 80 contos for a one-­year contract. Peñarol, wanting Leônidas, had not gone beyond 5,000 pesos oro. Leônidas would go to Peñarol, Domingos to Nacional. It ­hadn’t helped Vasco to give Domingos the 5 contos signing bonus, the 500 mil réis per month. Domingos had opened his eyes. He was a professional soccer player; he would stay with the club that offered him the most. Vasco w ­ ouldn’t even pay him half of what Nacional would. Maybe ten contos for a signing bonus, maybe a conto per month. Domingos still waited; he ­didn’t go to Montevideo immediately. He wanted to spend carnival in Rio, to see how far Vasco would go. Vasco was hurrying its professionalization to keep Jaguaré once and for all, to not lose Domingos, to send someone looking for Fausto. It seemed that ­there would be no difficulty in it. If the most elite club, Fluminense, agreed, then which club w ­ ouldn’t? Professionalism was spoken of openly. So openly that the São Paulo clubs no longer felt the need to hide that they w ­ ere paying salaries to their players. The salaries ­were not large, but the beasts for a win would go up to 300, 400 mil réis. If they d ­ idn’t, paulista soccer, full of players who w ­ ere Italians’ sons, would be bereft of stars. The immigration wave to Italy had diminished a lot. Only once in a while would a paulista player, always a veteran, take a steamboat and go to Rome, Genoa, or Turin. The young players would stay. One example was Romeu Peliciari. João Chiavoni, emissary of an Italian club, said, “Romeu ­will follow me.” Palestra made an effort, but Romeu did not follow; he stayed. 176  Chapter Four

It’s true that some clubs facilitated emigration. Sírio, for example. They had s­ topped paying the players, with salaries being one, two, three months late. Petronilho complained that he ­hadn’t been paid in four months.18 Also, when a club ­wasn’t paying, the player would strike; he ­wouldn’t play. Petronilho had his bags packed; he had closed a deal with San Lorenzo de Almagro, of Buenos Aires. In any case, it was good that the Brazilian clubs ­weren’t losing any more time. Petronilho to San Lorenzo, Domingos to Nacional, Leônidas to Peñarol. The moment for the vote having arrived, Fluminense was in ­favor, Botafogo against. The explanation: Fluminense ­d idn’t have a team; Botafogo did. They had taken the championships of 1930 and 1932. ­A fter waiting twenty years for a championship, they w ­ ere championships once again. And they could be champions again and again, with every­t hing remaining as it was, the players being required to remain for a year on the second team if they switched clubs. Botafogo did every­t hing to prevent any change. They got Flamengo, champions of the second round of the 1932 championship, who also had a team, and São Cristóvão in their camp. For a ­little while. Fluminense, Vasco, and América founded a professional league without Botafogo, without Flamengo, without São Cristóvão. Flamengo d ­ idn’t waste much time before also leaving Botafogo and São Cristóvão ­behind.19 Botafogo suddenly found themselves nearly alone, threatened by e­ very ­great club, ­every ­great club ­after their players. Fortunately for Botafogo, many players ­were not ­eager to become professionals. Whites, to be clear. The white player, from a good f­ amily, ­wasn’t just afraid of being a professional; he was ashamed of it. The fear was about losing that ­grand lifestyle of the amateur. The player as boss in the club, playing as a f­ avor, every­one begging him to play, and he acquiescing to their pleas. He would end up on the field, sacrificing himself once more. If he played badly, nobody could say a word. “I’m an amateur; I ­don’t owe anything to the club.” The club was the one in debt to him. W ­ ere a professional to miss a certain goal or to let a ball get past him for a goal, that was a ­thing to see. Such was the case of Jaguaré. As long as he d ­ idn’t sign a contract, he had the right to spin the l­ ittle beast on the tip of his fin­ger. He drew his name, Jaguaré Bezerra de Vasconcelos, on top of a few stamps, and then the first ball that went past him ended him at São Januário. Jaguaré was at a loss to understand exactly what was happening. Looking terrified, to the right and to the left, all he could see was ­people balling their fists, threatening, and all of them with the Vasco shield on their chests. “Clown! Join the circus, you clown!”20 The Social Ascension of the Black Man  177

White players from good families w ­ ere afraid of not being respected, of becoming a Jaguaré. Fluminense made it clear—­a professional is the employee of the club. So forget about Botafogo. A player would leave General Severiano, head over to Álvaro Chaves, and die for them. It was of ­little importance that they had helped Botafogo win a championship, like Benedito and Álvaro. Botafogo sought to forget that the player had worn its jersey. Celebrating the ­others more, ordering that a gold medal be minted for each of them. Regarding t­ hose who had left, nobody was allowed to say a word at General Severiano. Like a ­father of the old school, who would shut the door in the face of a ­daughter who had married without his consent or had done something worse. White players from good families w ­ ere ashamed of not being good lads anymore.21 Every­body saw them as amateurs, and all of a sudden they w ­ ere professionals, living off the club. Living off the club being, for the amateurs, almost the same as living off a ­woman. They ­were sort of becoming pimps. They w ­ ere living off the club, getting paid, but it was hidden to the outside. The club would deny it: “That guy? He never took advantage.” A pure amateur, with hardly a peer. Nobody could prove the contrary. And ­later, however much the club would give, it ­wasn’t much, or at least every­one thought it ­little, a trifle: 50, 100 mil réis for a victory, designated for travel money, to pay for a taxi. The club would pay for a taxi, round trip, even if the player took the tram or lived right next to the field; in the sorting of accounts, the club would always end up in debt to the player for eighty minutes of ­r unning around, sweating his shirt through, killing himself on the field. For this very reason the fans, embodying the club, when approaching a player, would feel themselves to be insolvent debtors before a generous creditor. Total gratitude. This was the basis of the consideration the player deserved. At a party, all dressed up in his tuxedo, he was an honored guest. Young ladies all around, making a point of dancing with him. The professional, an employee of the club, had to stay out. The dancing soirées, the gala balls, w ­ ere influential in the strug­gle between amateurism and professionalism. The ballroom had been, for a long time, a prolongation of the field. The moment a game ended, in Álvaro Chaves, in General Severiano, the orchestra would begin to play, and the players would flee from fans’ embraces, run to the changing room, and try to change their clothes quickly in order not to miss the dance. Principally at Fluminense and Botafogo. Which explains the strug­g le involved, in the period of transition from semi-­amateurism to professionalism, in making a player from Fluminense or Botafogo sign a contract. It was not a ­matter of lack of ­will. Certain players 178  Chapter Four

from good families, or even ­those who passed themselves off as such, liked the party life, and had played their ­whole lives the part of good lads. Previously it had seemed easy, the easiest t­ hing in the world, to sign a contract. Osvaldo Veloso, known as “the Goalie with the Silken Hands,” had said that if professionalism ­were to come, he would be open to becoming a professional. Not for money but to demonstrate that being a professional was no dishonor to anyone. When professionalism came, Veloso did not sign a contract.22 Not he or Albino or Ripper or Alfredo or De Mori or Teófilo. With Fluminense thinking that they would all sign except for Prego, the only one who ­didn’t take the beast, a 100 ­percent amateur. Only Ivan Mariz had the courage. To complete his studies with money earned by his own efforts, to be able to wait before finding a job a­ fter graduation without depending on anybody. ­Others, when they talked about signing a contract, said it was to donate the money to a charitable organ­ization. If not all of it, then half. They wished to be, as professionals, more amateur than ever. More good lads. Making the sacrifice of playing for money in order not to cease being of ser­vice to the club. This was a white ­thing. Blacks had nothing to do with it. Vasco had only to send the money for travel from Zu­rich, and Fausto was on the first steamboat, returning like a prodigal son. Now was the era of the black man indeed. Attending a training session of Fluminense, of Flamengo, of América, of Vasco, black players ­were multiplying on the track. Fluminense’s preference was to see the whites first. Still sustaining the princi­ple of blacks only as a last resort. Flamengo, not at all—­they gave way quickly, placing on the team the mulatto Roberto, from São Cristóvão, and the black Jarbas, from Carioca. Black players appeared more at Vasco, at América, feeling themselves at home in São Januário, in Campos Sales. All at once, six black players from Andaraí went to train at Campos Sales. A back, Baiano, and five attackers, the entire attacking force: Chagas, Astor, Romualdo, Palmier, and Bianco. It’s no won­der, then, that a team composed almost entirely of black men ­were the 1933 champions. To give an idea, eight mulattoes and blacks ­were on Bangu’s team: Sá Pinto, Paulista, Santana, Médio, Sobral, Ladislau, Tião, Euclides, aka “the Tatibitate.” Bangu had never won a championship. It was a small suburban club; when it produced a player, the other clubs would descend upon him, and the player would end up leaving, for Vasco, for América. So how could Bangu compete with the teams of the city? Only if they left it alone, w ­ ere not concerned with it, did not covet its players. Which happened in 1933. Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco, and América, all convinced that Bangu would go nowhere. If Bangu h ­ adn’t won a championship in the amateur era, The Social Ascension of the Black Man  179

why would it be any dif­fer­ent in the professional era? A team that cost a mere trifle. Signing bonuses, forget about it. Salaries of 300, 400 mil réis at the most. But for the mulatto and black players of Bangu, that was a lot—­they had never seen so much money. Tiã­o’s ­father, an old black man, would be waiting on him ­there in Bangu. With the beast from a good victory, 100 mil réis, Tiã­o’s ­family could get by for a number of days. The old black man w ­ asn’t enough, though—­Tião with money in his pocket might stray from the good path. It w ­ asn’t just the old black man, Tiã­o’s f­ ather, who was looking out for him. T ­ here ­were also Luís Vinhaes and Lieutenant Rincão. Luís Vinhaes had left Fluminense, tired of struggling with white players from good families putting on airs. The black players of Bangu ­were another ­thing altogether: s­ imple, modest, with open souls and without complications. Respecting Luís Vinhaes, obeying him with their heads down. Vinhaes had taken a side of unknowns, the Copa Rio Branco side, with a number of black players like them, and had thrice defeated the Uruguayans, world champions. For that reason, Vinhaes’s word was law in Bangu. Bangu had to arrange a ­house for its players. The players could not be left on their own, before and a­ fter training sessions and games, getting in trou­ble in bars, drinking cachaça.23 The Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil would not hear of it. The En­glish Chalet, in Moça Bonita, was vacant. The order came down to clean up the En­glish Chalet, which overnight became the home of the players. The players would spend the day t­ here, beneath the orange trees, far away from all temptations, in par­t ic­u ­lar ­t hose of the bars and cachaça. Only on Thursdays, before practice, did Vinhaes permit visits. The families of the players—­parents, b ­ rothers, wives, girlfriends—­would appear, spreading out with them across the yard, forming ­little groups. It looked like they ­were all having a picnic. Beyond that, nothing. No one would enter and no one would leave without special permission. At night one could see the soldiers of Lieutenant Rincão, ­rifles on their shoulders, walking back and forth, the sentinels of the En­glish Chalet, of the Bangu team.

3. The players would retire to bed, religiously, at ten ­o’clock. The keeper and the backs in one room, the halfbacks in another, and the attackers in a third.24 This was Luís Vinhaes’s idea: to build camaraderie among the players who would play together. Euclides “the Stutterer,” Zezé, Mário, Camarão, and Sá 180  Chapter Four

Pinto would be in beds almost back to back. As long as sleep d ­ idn’t come, they would chat. About soccer, of course. As long as the championship lasted, the inhabitants of the En­glish Chalet could not think of anything ­else. They ­didn’t have time. At 7:00 a.m., Vinhaes would ring the ­little bell. The players would get up, put on their tennis shoes, throw on their shorts, trying to hurry, since they knew Luís Vinhaes was waiting for them in the street. They ­didn’t drink any coffee; coffee would come afterward. ­Every day it was the same t­ hing. They only found it strange the first time. Also, Luís Vinhaes had not said anything about it, guarding the secret ­until the last moment. Then he pointed at an elevation in the background of the local landscape, Engenho Hill. It was more of a slope than a hill. It was a long way out, however, a league t­ here and back, with the players thinking that ­they’d never make it, that they ­couldn’t stand it. Luís Vinhaes quickly turned his back to them and set out. The way out would be like that, in a march. The return, not at all. Luís Vinhaes would run down the slope, without waiting for anybody, and he would continue ­running, never turning around to see if the players w ­ ere coming a­ fter him. They w ­ ere coming, t­ here was no doubt about it. The sun was already high, beating full on the heads, chests, and nude backs of Vinhaes and the players, every­body sweaty, red, on fire. When they arrived at the En­glish Chalet, they would find the t­ able set. But they needed to rest a ­little, to cool off, to get ­under the shower. Before breakfast, the egg yolk. Luís Vinhaes would place an egg yolk, raw, on a tablespoon, squeezing a l­ittle lime juice on top. The players, lining up, would approach one by one, each one opening his mouth and swallowing the egg yolk. And then they could sit down around the long ­table and eat their ample breakfast, with a lot of bread and a lot of butter. With breakfast done, ­they’d head to the yard. He who knew how to play guitar would strum some chords, while the ­others stretched their legs beneath the orange trees, taking advantage of the shade, which had the freshness of a clean handkerchief, chatting with their eyes on the sky, perhaps in search of a plane. It was not rare for an airplane to appear. When one did appear, it would fly low, managing to knock down ripe oranges through the displacement of air. On purpose. The Afonsos airfield was near Bangu, so ­there ­were plenty of aviators rooting for the factory’s team. Thus the flybys, when the planes seemed as if they would crash into the yard of the En­g lish Chalet. The players, down below, would run, pointing upward, like c­ hildren. The aviator had promised: “Tomorrow I’ll pick some oranges for you.” And pick them he did. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  181

Oranges would end up covering the ground of the yard. In this way, time would pass quickly, and the players would hardly notice the hours passing ­until lunch. The l­ ittle bell would ring at noon. Only once it rang did the players realize they w ­ ere starving. They would devour lunch. Some of them—­the Stutterer, Camarão, Ferro, Santana, Médio, Ladislau, and even Tião, despite never gaining any weight, always thin—­only ate off deep dishes. They would fill up a deep dish with beans, never passing up on their beans, their dried meat, their fried cassava flour. Luís Vinhaes had to give up on the idea of a menu “à Fluminense,” French food. The players would find it odd, ­going to the point of complaining. The remedy was to make feijoada ­every day.25 Country food, with a lot of greens and a lot of meat. The slices of beef bloody, rough cut, enormous. T ­ hose who ate from a deep dish would get seconds of the beef. When they had finished eating, it seemed as if they ­hadn’t eaten at all—­ the deep plates would be clean, white, brilliant. Luís Vinhaes, at the head of the ­table, would smile, satisfied with life. Eating well, training a lot, ­these players would give p ­ eople something to talk about. At ­every training, in ­every game, ­there was a noticeable change for the better. The early morning run had become a breeze. They had all become so used to it that they would go ­there and back, from the En­glish Chalet to Engenho Hill, r­ unning. T ­ hose who ate from the deep dishes, ­running more, Luís Vinhaes making a point of egging them on. He d ­ idn’t want any player to gain weight, to end up heavy. The big ones, Camarão, Santana, Médio, and Ladislau, w ­ ere all muscle. And Bangu began to win game ­after game, taking the lead in the championship, putting themselves in position to win it against Fluminense. Vinhaes had left Fluminense, had gone to Bangu, and when it was all over, it had come down to this, as if fated: Bangu vs. Fluminense. The blacks from up ­there, the whites from down ­here. On the day of the match, many p ­ eople from Bangu, who had not come to the city in years, came down nice and early, to guarantee their spots in the general seating and in the grandstands of Fluminense. Bringing a bundle of food. And a packet of fireworks. The fans of Bangu had reminded one another, “Bring fireworks!” And they kept the secret to themselves. Nobody outside the Bangu fans could know; other­wise, their plans would be ruined. The tricolor fans ­didn’t suspect a ­thing, arriving with empty hands, just ready for the rhythmic clapping, ta-­ta-­tá, tá-­tá-­tá-­tá. Fluminense would enter the field to applause, as usual, with the customary “Hurrahs.” And the workers of Bangu, the soldiers of the Vila Militar, waiting. Every­thing prearranged. Luís Vinhaes would be the first to appear, wearing dark cashmere. Every­ body e­ lse in white, since summer had arrived, while he was in cashmere, 182  Chapter Four

sweating. It was, however, the navy blue cashmere that he had worn at the Rio Branco Cup, his lucky, victorious clothes. As soon as Luís Vinhaes appeared, whoever had a rocket, a spinner, a smoke bomb, would throw it, and the Fluminense stadium would ­tremble with the explosions. A ­thing that had never been seen, and that perhaps would never be seen again. The Bangu team had arrived at Fluminense’s stadium at the last minute. They had left Bangu in a special train car. The players got on, one by one, every­one serious, grave, focused. Not even the “Hurrahs,” the shouts of “What can stop, can stop, can stop Bangu? Nothing!” brought smiles to their ­faces. During the r­ ide over, Luís Vinhaes spoke l­ ittle. Speak about what? It would just be about the game. Yet the less spoken about the game, the better. “­Don’t think about the match; pretend that it’s not happening ­today.” Easy enough to say. Who could think of anything ­else? But it was necessary; Vinhaes had to find a way. So when they arrived at the Pedro II station, he d ­ idn’t take the Bangu team to Álvaro Chaves Stadium. Sitting in the changing room, locked in, barely able to breathe, hearing the noise of the crowd, the players would get more ner­vous. Vinhaes distributed the players among some taxis he had hired and told the d ­ rivers to take them to Quinta da Boa Vista. They still had two hours before the match started. Plenty of time to distract and to rest the players. Luís Vinhaes set an example, lying down on his stomach in the grass near the lake, with the players around him, chatting about other topics. A ­ fter a l­ ittle while, nobody was thinking about the match. And when somebody thought of it, it was like Tião, remembering his f­ ather all of a sudden. His ­father would be at the station, waiting for the train, in order to receive the beast of the victory. Tiã­o’s ­father, all the parents, all the siblings, wives, girlfriends, friends of the players. If Bangu ­were to win, ­there would be a carnival up ­there, a São João festival, all the parties of the year combined into one. Which helped the Bangu players, the three white and eight mulatto and black players on the team, to understand that it was not just Tiã­o’s ­father who was expecting the victory of Bangu. It was every­body up ­there. And it was more to give Bangu a festival day that they ran on the field, from the first to the last minute. Fluminense’s white players ­were not prepared for this. One goal by Bangu, followed by another, another, another; it seemed as if Bangu would never stop scoring, and that their fans would never stop launching fireworks. Once the game ended, one could see just how many ­people had come down from Bangu. The field filled up with fans from up ­there, who carried the champions in triumph, jumping, shouting, crying. It was a preview, a small preview, of what would happen in Bangu. Up t­ here, as they said. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  183

Which was already happening. Something easy to imagine: the station adorned with flags, a band playing in the casino, all the h ­ ouses lit up and empty, the p ­ eople in the streets shouting, “Bangu, Bangu!” The players wanted to make their arrival up ­there, but they delayed, ­going out to eat at Minhoca, which was in Tiradentes Square, so as not to rush their return. They wanted to arrive in Bangu, every­body was waiting for them, but still they did not leave. Half past eight was when they got up from the ­table, convertibles with their tops down awaiting them, as if for a carnival parade. ­There ­were not many—­seven altogether. Enough for the players, the directors, and the fans who had remained in the city. The one in front had the Bangu flag on its hood, with fans hanging off the side setting off Roman candles. As the parade got farther and farther away from the city, ­there ­were more and more p ­ eople in the train stations and the suburban streets. This cele­ bration did not just belong to Bangu but to the urban periphery. The old rivalry between the “up t­ here” and the “down h ­ ere.” Bangu, the urban periphery; Fluminense, the city. More ­people in Madureira than in Méier, even more in Bento Ribeiro than in Madureira. In Realengo, on the Piracuara Bridge, the automobiles had to stop. From ­here on they proceeded at a snail’s pace, practically pushed by the crowd, to Bangu. In Bangu, the players ­were lifted from the tops of the cars and carried on the shoulders of the crowd to the casino. Ladies and gentlemen unwound themselves from each other, and the band s­ topped playing, as it was time for the national anthem. And the cele­bration continued through the night and into the dawn. In the casino, completely packed; in the streets, in the church square, in the train station, in the bars. The ­owners of the bars in Bangu still remember that night fondly. Nothing remained on their shelves, not beer or vermouth or cachaça. The young w ­ omen w ­ ere dancing. Men danced in circles ­here and t­here, holding hands, like boys again. One circle had a dia­meter of more than three hundred meters, g­ oing from the station to the door of the casino. It would have been like ­children at play ­were it not for the swigs of liquor being taken by the dancers e­ very so often. The result: a general bender. Many a Bangu fan ended up sleeping in the street, on the sidewalk, or even in the door of the church. A l­ ittle garden bridge in the square became a hostel. On the following day, it was common to see m ­ others seeking out their sons, and wives their husbands. The husband, the son, would be found dead to the world, with flies crawling on them, in a deep stupor. The factory whistle was blowing, calling employees to work, like an alarm clock. More than five hundred workers ­were absent, so the factory almost had to shut down. Effects of the partying. 184  Chapter Four

The management of the Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil ­were not surprised; they understood, ­after all: Who was ­going to think about work the day a­ fter Bangu won the championship? Not to mention that the man­ag­er of the factory was the president of Bangu, Francisco Guimarães, a naturalized Brazilian of Portuguese origin. It was he who had the factory whistle blown at two in the after­noon to end the workday. It ­wasn’t fair that some worked and o ­ thers did not, when every­one was g­ oing to receive the same pay. Francisco Guimarães’s idea was to pay the day’s salary to the five-­hundred-­ odd workers who ­were absent. The absent workers, however, refused to take the pay for work they h ­ adn’t done. As a tribute to Bangu. Bangu deserved much more.26 The likes of all this had never been seen before. For the whites who had stayed out, fearing the loss of the privileged position of the amateur, feeling ashamed about leaving ­behind the status of good lads, it was a shock. The fact that a player could sign a contract, receive money from the club, “live off the club,” as they called it, and yet this did not diminish his popularity or lower his status in the eyes of the fans—­quite the contrary. The fans—­ depending in the same way on the player, on a defensive play by the keeper, a clearance by the back, a takeaway by the halfback, a goal by the attacker—­ preferred the professionals, t­ hose who ­were paid to play. They preferred it so much that they no longer attended amateur matches. ­Unless perhaps they w ­ ere preliminary games. The amateur, with all his elegance and class, was relegated to a secondary stage; he had become a preliminary player, filling in the time before the main match would begin. Bit by bit the stadium would fill up. The fuller, the worse for the amateur. The amateur r­ unning around, sweating his shirt through, killing himself, the fan not even paying attention. Not even to the idols of yesteryear. Other players had taken their place. All one had to do was open up a newspaper. On the sports page—or better yet, on the sports pages, ­because one page ­wasn’t enough anymore—­one could no longer find features on the Keeper with the Silken Hands but rather on the Stutterer, clumsy, with monkey arms, hands hanging down beneath his knees. Who was to blame? The Keeper with the Silken Hands and o ­ thers like him. With the best white players playing in the preliminary games, the mulattoes and blacks took advantage, winning fame and fortune. Nothing more natu­ral, therefore, then the year 1933 being a glorious one for the mulatto and black players. Bangu, champion of the city, with eight mulattoes and blacks on the team. Without counting the other mulattoes and blacks who ­were becoming famous, ­there and elsewhere, such as Domingos and Petronilho. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  185

In Montevideo, Domingos had become a major attraction of Uruguayan soccer. T ­ here ­were tele­grams, newspaper clippings, and magazines arriving from Uruguay. Sometimes entire pages ­were devoted to Domingos, from top to bottom. Cartoonists would go to the Centenary Stadium to catch Domingos in candid poses. Domingos huddled in the corner, before the game, with a rubber cape on his shoulders. Domingos playing. An animated cartoon. Every­thing Domingos did raised interest and merited journalistic coverage. The Uruguayan journalists even took upon themselves the calculation of a statistic. In order to know how much of the crowd was ­there just to see Domingos. When Domingos ­didn’t play, five thousand fans would stay home, believing that ­there was no interest to the game without him. When Domingos was playing, t­ hose five thousand additional fans would show up. In Buenos Aires, Petronilho almost matched him. The Argentine columnists w ­ ere exhausting their repertoire of praises whenever they had to write something about him—­“el bailarin,” “el artista de la pelota,” “el malabarista”—­ until arriving at the supreme admiration: “phenomenon!”27 It’s true that Leônidas, hero of the Rio Branco Cup, was playing on the Peñarol reserves team. The Uruguayans, En­glishmen of South American soccer, did not much appreciate Leônidas’s playing style, what with his frequent bicycle kicks. Domingos seemed En­g lish or rather Uruguayan, more Uruguayan than En­glish ­because he was black. He could have played on the Uruguayan national team like just another Gradim, another Andrade. Leônidas, no. And then Leônidas had scored ­those two Brazilian goals against the Uruguayans. The Uruguayans had not forgiven Nilo for the 1931 cup—­“He only scored two goals”—so they ­weren’t ­going to forgive Leônidas for the 1932 edition. Thus, it was the reserves team for him. Vasco actually liked that Leônidas was on the Peñarol reserves squad. That way it would be easier to bring him back. ­Because Vasco wanted to bring together, in São Januário, the best black players of Brazilian soccer. They already had Fausto, one of them. They ­were missing Domingos, Leônidas, and Gradim. Vasco d ­ idn’t even think about Valdemar. São Paulo ­wouldn’t release Petronilho’s b ­ rother for any amount of money. But Vasco could think about Gradim. A player too g­ reat for Bonsucesso. ­Because this had already been heard of: a player becoming greater than his club. They could think about Leônidas, disillusioned with Montevideo. They could even think about Domingos. Merely a question of price. Vasco would spare no expense to prevent from happening again what had occurred in 1933: Bangu city champions. The big clubs reacted by resolving to spend more, to form strong lineups. Principally Vasco and América. 186  Chapter Four

The bud­get of Vasco increased by 700 contos, that of América by 450. For that era, it was scandalous. One club distributing 700, another 450 contos to its players. The more spent, the better for the club. The clubs that ­didn’t spend, the amateur clubs, lost out. Their members ­were deserting, and their fans ­weren’t showing up at their fields. Botafogo found itself reduced to three hundred members, from the thirty-­five hundred it had had. And what was more: facing the threat of having no team at all. The players ­were weary of subsidizing the good lads, of playing before empty stands, of not seeing their names in the papers. Threatened with losing their amateurs, their white players, Botafogo went ­after the players of the other clubs, without regard for color anymore. They took Leônidas from Vasco, Valdemar from São Paulo. It mattered l­ittle that they w ­ ere black. They w ­ ere black, but they w ­ ere the best strikers in Brazilian soccer. So it d ­ idn’t hurt; it could only help. Naturally t­ here w ­ ere ­those at General Severiano Stadium who sought to prevent this from happening at all costs. Such was the case of Paulo Azeredo. So much so that Botafogo had to disguise itself as the CBD. As the CBD, it did every­thing: went out to search for players from Vasco, Fluminense, Palestra, São Paulo, offering to each, beyond more money and a trip to Eu­rope, a ­great reason to break his contract: patriotism. Brazil was on the threshold of a second world championship, needing a side fit for the “march on Rome.” The CBD appealed to the patriotism of the clubs and of the players. The CBD, not Botafogo. Botafogo acted from the outside to be able to enter, respond to the appeal, set an example, putting all its players at the disposal of the CBD. Among the players of Botafogo, ­there was not one mulatto or black; every­ one was white. It was the CBD that had signed Leônidas and Valdemar.28 Botafogo had had nothing to do with the two coloreds, a word that had recently entered the lexicon of the sports columns. It substituted for the word “black” in special cases. For a Leônidas, a Valdemar, a Domingos, a Fausto: “colored,” not black. Even with the “colored” designation, Leônidas and Valdemar did not wear the black and white shirt of Botafogo but the white shirt with blue collar of the CBD. This ­didn’t deceive anyone; every­body knew that the CBD and Botafogo ­were the same ­thing, the organ­ization embodying the club, the club embodying the organ­ization. With the world championship over, the moment would arrive for trading shirts, trading names. The CBD side would become the team of Botafogo, with Leônidas and Valdemar, two black men. Against the wishes of Paulo Azeredo. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  187

Had it been e­ arlier, forget about it. Before he built the colonial-­style headquarters, Botafogo was hosting parties on par with t­ hose of Fluminense. It’s true that ­there ­were hardly any more high teas, dancing soirées, or gala balls at General Severiano Stadium. The blame rested with soccer. Something that Paulo Azeredo did not quite understand. The power of soccer to fill, or empty, the ballrooms of Botafogo. The headquarters ­were not the key. The difference was made by soccer, the championship. As in 1930 and 1932, when Botafogo was champion and reached a membership of more than thirty-­five hundred. Paulo Azeredo was thinking the boost in membership was b ­ ecause of the colonial-­style headquarters, but when it all ended, it was b ­ ecause of soccer. Conversely, it was enough for Botafogo to begin playing with small clubs, while Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco, América, and São Cristóvão joined the Carioca League, for almost no one to come to the matches or to dance at the parties of General Severiano Stadium. Paulo Azeredo agreed that Botafogo needed to do something, to leave ­behind amateurism. Amateurism had gone out of style. They needed to sign players, but white players, rather than a Leônidas or a Valdemar. And ­there was no shortage of crack white players, just as good as the black ones. Palestra had taken the Rio–­São Paulo championship with a white team. Regarding this, Carlito Rocha had to explain: sure, the CBD—­that is, Botafogo—­had tried to take ­those players from Palestra. But Palestra had hidden Tunga, Gabardo, and Romeu on a ranch, guarded by hired guns. Any club emissary that might have approached was liable to take a bullet. But then a g­ reat team could not be contemplated without Leônidas and Valdemar. Fortunately for Paulo Azeredo, Botafogo could, for a time, put Leônidas and Valdemar on the team without needing to sign them, requesting that they be loaned to them by the CBD. The CBD loaned just one, Valdemar. Vasco had left the Carioca League and gone to the CBD with Leônidas’s contract, the contract that Leônidas had broken to go with the Brazilian side to the world championship.29 Paulo Azeredo was pleased that Vasco considered Leônidas one of its players. This meant one less black man wearing the shirt of Botafogo. When Botafogo took the field, Valdemar de Brito came amidst ten white men. The ten whites ­were Botafogo players; the black man was not. Which indicated that Botafogo had not changed. The proof they had not changed: they made no effort to hold on to Valdemar de Brito, and allowed him to leave for San Lorenzo. Valdemar de Brito assumed it was b ­ ecause of money, that Botafogo could not afford what San Lorenzo would pay. 188  Chapter Four

­Because of money, Domingos had gone to Boca Ju­niors, with Boca Ju­niors spending nearly 50,000 pesos, 200 contos, to have him on their team. B ­ ecause of money, Fausto went to Nacional. Of the g­ reat black soccer players, only Leônidas remained. Even he announced, once in a while, that he had his bags packed. But he stuck around, waiting for Carlito Rocha to convince Paulo Azeredo. It was necessary for Botafogo, despite having Vasco, São Cristóvão, and Bangu on its side, to feel threatened again. Fluminense was bringing to Álvaro Chaves the greatest São Paulo players—­Batatais, Machado, Orozimbo, Gabardo, and Hércules. Flamengo was filling the city with billboards, “Once Flamengo, Always Flamengo,” “The Most Beloved Club of Brazil.” The Fla-­ Flu was turning into the g­ rand attraction of Brazilian soccer.30 If Vasco continued to lose players like Domingos and Fausto, if Botafogo did not keep Leônidas, who was g­ oing to come see the games of the Metropolitan Federation? Especially on the day of a Fla-­Flu. When Botafogo arranged a good match, Flamengo and Fluminense would schedule a Fla-­Flu on the same day. It took Carlito Rocha from eight in the eve­ning to three in the morning to convince Paulo Azeredo. Botafogo could not pass up an opportunity like this. A player like Leônidas would stay for less than twenty contos. Any cheaper, and he’d be f­ ree. Paulo Azeredo was repeating “Anything but that” as the hours passed by, as w ­ ere Botafogo members outside, awaiting a decision. Paulo Azeredo reached the point of wanting to go home, to sleep, but Carlito Rocha ­wouldn’t allow it, holding him by the arm and leading him back to his chair. Paulo Azeredo had to stay; he could not leave before making a decision once and for all. And Paulo Azeredo was getting tired, closing his eyes, unable to properly listen to Carlito Rocha. Carlito Rocha would shake him awake—­Paulo Azeredo had to listen—­Paulo Azeredo would open his eyes and listen. It was fine, he conceded, but with one condition—­Botafogo had to change its shirt. Or, rather, it would have two shirts: one, the old glorious one, from 1910–30 and 1932, for the amateurs; the other, the new one, for the professionals. That way, it w ­ ouldn’t m ­ atter to him if Leônidas w ­ ere wearing the Botafogo shirt. Carlito Rocha did not accept the suggestion: Botafogo’s shirt was black and white, the one and only. In the wee hours of the morning, exhausted, overcome by weariness, Paulo Azeredo admitted defeat. He descended the steps of Botafogo, his head down, to encounter the fans, who, already aware of the news, ­were shouting for Leônidas. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  189

The Botafogo fans wanted Leônidas. The proof was in the fact that, on the after­noon of the same day, when Leônidas appeared at General Severiano Stadium to train, t­ here was a small crowd in the street awaiting him.31 And Carlito Rocha could point out, for Paulo Azeredo, the steps of general admission and the grandstands covered with ­people. It appeared as if ­there would be a match. Notwithstanding the triumphal entry into General Severiano Stadium, Leônidas had not forgotten the months of waiting. Him sitting on “the fence,” without playing, just b ­ ecause he was black. If he w ­ ere white, he would have been wearing the Botafogo shirt long before. For this reason, Leônidas never felt at home in General Severiano Stadium. The only black man on the team. Luís Aranha could walk down Rio Branco Ave­nue arm-­in-­arm with Leônidas; Botafogo, for Leônidas, was not Luís ­Aranha—it was still Paulo Azeredo. So it’s no surprise that in less than a year, Botafogo and Leônidas w ­ ere at odds. The time had arrived for Paulo Azeredo to say “I told you so.” For him, no black man should ever have worn Botafogo’s shirt. This was Carlito Rocha’s idea. For his part, Carlito Rocha wanted to send Leônidas packing and never see him again at General Severiano Stadium. If he waited a ­little while, it was to exact revenge. The revenge of selling Leônidas to Flamengo, an adversary in a strug­gle of life and death, for a song: five contos. In order to proclaim, to the papers, that Botafogo had made the best deal in the world. They had received five contos for a player not worth a cent.32 He w ­ asn’t worth a penny to Botafogo, but to Flamengo, he was worth a fortune. B ­ ecause of the difference that existed between one club and the other: Botafogo was making a point of being a club of genteel folks, while Flamengo was seeking to be a club of the p ­ eople. Which explained the failure of Leônidas at Botafogo and the success of Leônidas at Flamengo. Botafogo had accepted Leônidas almost ­under duress, making an exception for him. It d ­ idn’t work, and precisely for this reason. Making the exception to have only one black man on the team, isolated, demonstrated that Botafogo had not changed, remaining more Botafogo than ever. Botafogo was Vítor, Martim, Carvalho Leite, the “­family silverware,” as the saying went. Or even Nariz, despite having come from Fluminense. It was no ­matter; it seemed as if he had played for Botafogo his w ­ hole life: white, distinguished, a medical student, another Carvalho Leite. One could understand a Nariz, a Patesko, an Aimoré in General Severiano Stadium; one could not comprehend a Leônidas. Looking at a photo­graph of the Botafogo team, one soon noticed that something was wrong. Leônidas was out of place; he did not fit well in a black-­and-­white shirt. 190  Chapter Four

Just as he did not fit well in a tricolor shirt, although Fluminense already had some mulattoes on its team, compromising bit by bit. It was a question of the environment. A black man could join the team but did not, not yet, with Fluminense taking it slow, not forcing its hand, preferring, in the absence of a white, a mulatto. And thus r­ eally choosing mulattoes. First Sobral, who perhaps could pass as a caboclo, then Hércules, who might pass as a moreno, and fi­nally Orozimbo, unquestionably a mulatto, but a light-­skinned mulatto, who ­didn’t draw much attention.33 For Flamengo, no. Before placing a mulatto player on the team, they would place a black one. First Jarbas, then Roberto. While Fluminense was bringing to Álvaro Chaves Street the ­great players of paulista soccer, almost all of them white, many with Italian surnames, Flamengo was bringing to Gávea the g­ reat players of carioca soccer, almost all of them black: Fausto dos Santos, Leônidas da Silva, and Domingos da Guia, Brazilian even in their names. And if Flamengo went to São Paulo, it would be to seek out an Arthur Friedenreich, mulatto, or a Valdemar de Brito, black. Which gave to the Fla-­Flu the physiognomy of the Rio–­São Paulo, a carioca Rio–­São Paulo, ­every Fla-­ Flu becoming practically a Brazilian championship game. It was debated who was more carioca, Flamengo or Fluminense. Flamengo with Fausto, Leônidas, and Domingos; Fluminense with Batatais, Romeu, and Hércules. Playing for Fluminense, Batatais, Romeu, and Hércules had become cariocas. When ­there was a Brazilian championship, they would defend Rio, cariocas for all intents and purposes. The cariocas would forget that Romeu had been born in São Paulo. But between a Romeu Peliciari, white, paulista, and a Leônidas da Silva, black, carioca, the cariocas would stick with Leônidas.

4. Color helped Leônidas, turning him more carioca and, in a certain sense, more Brazilian. Much more Brazilian than Romeu Peliciari, almost blond, with blue eyes. What might have been Rio provincialism transformed itself into Brazilian patriotism, from which the paulistas themselves could not escape, when, having a perfectly reasonable candidate in the paulista Romeu to choose as hero of the World Cup, they ended up choosing the carioca Leônidas instead. Something which Flamengo took advantage of. They wanted to be the most popu­lar club, the most beloved of Brazil, so ­couldn’t leave out black players. Seeking out black players, they ­were also meeting public demand. Choosing The Social Ascension of the Black Man  191

Fausto, Leônidas, and Domingos, already chosen by the ­people as idols. Getting their transfusion of popularity. The Fluminense fans intuited that this was where Flamengo got its strength: from this closeness to the ­people. Flamengo’s destiny was being fulfilled. In the old days, the club had picked up fans unintentionally, training at Russell field, medical students rubbing elbows with street urchins. They had also grown their fan base by getting out on the street, playing reco-­recos, from Flamengo Beach to the Largo do Machado, their very own Esgadanha leading the way.34 Not in order to get close to the ­people: the players just ­didn’t want to dance men with men, which they would have had to do if they stayed in their garage. Many ­people became “Flamengo” ­because of this, understanding Flamengo to be more the Flamengo of the street, celebrating its carnival, than Fluminense, hidden away in its palace on Álvaro Chaves Street, its dances held way up on the third floor, giving the ­people out on the street no ability to extend the party outdoors. But Flamengo was not yet a club of the p ­ eople. It drew the same color line as Fluminense. It became a club of the p ­ eople only when it put an end to the story of just whites on the team, opening the doors of Gávea to blacks. The ­people felt themselves to be Flamengo. ­People of all classes ­were ­going to the field as if to a ­battle of confetti, as if to a St. John’s festival.35 Setting up ­little food stands in the grandstand area, bringing trumpets to the general seating. Throwing confetti was not enough. For the Fluminense fans, throwing confetti was just fine. When the Fluminense team appeared on the field, they received a shower of confetti. The fans of Fluminense wanted to defeat the Flamengo fans with confetti, with streamers, with rubber balloons, the colored ones that you blow up. Each Fluminense member would find, on their seat, a ­little bag of confetti, a packet of streamers, a rubber balloon—­green, white, or red. Every­thing well or­ga­nized, the members’ area divided up, red balloons to the right, white balloons in the center, green balloons to the left. The Fluminense members would blow up their balloons, pick up their bags of confetti, their packets of streamers, and wait for the signals. One signal to throw confetti, another to throw streamers, another to lift their balloons over their heads. Quite beautiful: it looked like a ­giant Fluminense flag made out of balloons. Which did not stop the other side from booing. The Flamengo fans, in general seating, on the grandstand, put two fin­gers in their mouths and whistled. Or yelled, “Rice powder!” The booing, the Fluminense fans could ­handle. For this, ­there was their classic “Uh, uh!” response. But they c­ ouldn’t stand the taunts of “Rice powder.” No sooner would a cry of “Rice powder” go up on one side, than a cry of 192  Chapter Four

“Charcoal powder” would go up on the other, the Fluminense fans wanting to say that they preferred being “rice powder” to being “charcoal powder.” That might have been the case, but they w ­ ere certainly offended by t­ hose shouts. The Flamengo fans, however, ­were not both­ered at all by “charcoal powder.” They ­were proud of the black men who wore the red-­and-­black jersey. Even t­ hose who had been tossed aside by other clubs, like Leônidas. Nobody wanted Leônidas—­except for Flamengo, that is. Despite Carlito Rocha’s advice: Leônidas, not even for ­free; Botafogo was paying him not to play. Flamengo would bitterly regret it, but they could not complain afterward, for they had been warned by a friend. ­Little did Carlito Rocha know that he was opening, quite publicly, the gates of glory for Leônidas. Selling him his transfer for that price. Making Leônidas cost Flamengo only sixteen contos: five for the transfer, eleven for the signing bonus. Shortly he would be worth many times more. Which was what the Flamengo fans w ­ ere trying to calculate: how many times more. The difference between the sixteen contos, which Leônidas had cost, and the who-­k nows-­how-­much he was worth, was a debt owed by Flamengo. A debt that the fans of Flamengo, as Flamengo, recognized and w ­ ere seeking to pay, one way or another, with applause and more applause for Leônidas, with pre­sent a­ fter pre­sent for Leônidas, who was receiving less money. So Leônidas came to receive t­ hings that no other player would. T ­ hings that only the fans could give. For example: an automobile. It was enough for a cigarette com­pany to announce a contest, who was the most popu­lar star player, a Ford as first prize, for the Flamengo fans to start gathering up blank entry cards. For Leônidas, not for Domingos. The Flamengo fan base thought that Domingos d ­ idn’t need it. Domingos was loaded with ­houses in Bangu, with an entire villa of his own; Leônidas had nothing. Just for a four-­month vacation, Flamengo had paid more to Domingos than Leônidas got in two years. The automobile had to be for Leônidas. And so it could be for Leônidas, Flamengo’s fan base gave him hundreds of thousands of entry cards. Which was enough and then some. So much so that Leônidas, with the Ford already guaranteed, assured second place to Hércules and third to Oscarino, fifty thousand entry cards for one, twenty thousand for the other. The Magnólia contest gave a mea­sure of Leônidas’s popularity.36 ­Those 330,000 votes ­were not arranged by the thousand, like t­ hose of Russinho years before, in the Monroe contest, but rather one by one, the Flamengo fans buying their cigarette packs, saving the blank entry cards inside for Leônidas.37 Fans ­didn’t have time to assem­ble a bunch of cards: the Café Rio Branco was twenty steps from the Ave­nue, on the corner of São José and Chile Street. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  193

Leônidas was always ­there, at a ­table near the street entrance, in permanent exhibition. A blank entry card was like a calling card to meet Leônidas. The fans had the opportunity to approach their idol, taking advantage of the occasion, risking a timid handshake, a ­couple of pats on the back. Hands trembling, the fans w ­ ouldn’t dare; they gazed at Leônidas from afar. Leônidas encircled by the members of his electoral machine, who felt themselves in some sense to be the keepers of the Black Diamond. They took him away from ­there. Certain fans, bigwigs from the numbered seats, made a question of a visit from Leônidas, to their bank, their com­pany, their store. If Leônidas went, he w ­ ouldn’t regret it. A check, “pay to the order of Leônidas da Silva the sum of one, two contos,” waiting for him, to be hand-­delivered. With the check, Leônidas could buy entry cards, mountains of entry cards. As if he needed to spend money to win a contest. The check was for his account with the Caixa.38 But he would have to leave his throne at the Café Rio Branco to stroll a ­little, to become, if you ­will, a walking billboard. Boys pointing at him, “Look, it’s Leônidas!” every­one turning about, craning their necks. Wherever he went, ­people would gather. Someone less well-­informed might have thought it was Polar in a Hunchback of Notre Dame or Frankenstein costume, as Polar was the one who used to block traffic.39 One might suspect it w ­ asn’t Polar only due to the joyful atmosphere. Young ladies did not let out yelps of fright, they d ­ idn’t quicken their pace and flee, only to begin laughing ten steps down the street. They would stop, see Leônidas, then continue up the ave­nue, down the ave­nue, happy, seeming for all the world like they had seen a cinematic heartthrob. Not just seen but come to know. To see Leônidas was to get to know him. To see him in the light of day, prosaically, like a ­simple mortal. A good kid, Leônidas, always cheerful, flashing a smile, which would l­ater serve as an advertisement for a lot of toothpaste, shaking every­one’s hand—­naturally, without pretense, as if he ­were not the Black Diamond. Dif­fer­ent from Domingos. Domingos so distant, Leônidas so close, intimate. Which would be enough to justify the preference of the fans. The fans felt that they had never been introduced to Domingos, whereas they w ­ ere intimates of Leônidas. That Leônidas was hiding nothing from them. For that reason, it was a surprise that so many spoke so rudely of the Black Diamond that many ended up convinced that he was no better than a street urchin or worse. One would still hear, from time to time, a reference to a necklace, a watch. T ­ hings that w ­ ere spread around about him. When it came time to throw insults, the fans of the other club had their joke ready. Like that Vasco da Gama fan, who, upon seeing Leônidas enter 194  Chapter Four

the field at São Januário Stadium, yelled as loudly as he could: “­Don’t swipe our clock up ­there on the pole!” ­Those who supported Vasco thought it was funny, looking up at the clock on the pole, only reachable with a fireman’s ladder, while the Flamengo supporters ­were ready for a fight. And in the end, Leônidas was nothing like that. His handshake; his smile, white, open, exposing his soul, convincing anyone of his innocence. Only not knowing Leônidas would allow one to speak ill of him. The slandered Black Diamond. His nickname showed in what regard he was held by his fans. Gold was not enough. Golden foot, Friedenreich foot, nothing ­doing—­Black Diamond. If whoever spread ­these stories about the necklace, the watch, thought it would harm Leônidas’s reputation, they ­were quite mistaken. The Flamengo fans ended up just taking his side all the more. They judged themselves obliged to defend him, on the field, in the street, wherever it might be, as a friend, a ­brother, a member of the f­ amily. And afterward, what was said of him, the good and the bad, to t­ hose who believed and ­didn’t believe, had the virtue of making him more real, more ­human. A lot of folks stood up for him for that very reason, ­because he was made of flesh and bone. Domingos, on the other hand, seemed not to be. So ­little was known about him! Not even a watch or a necklace. He also hardly ever left Bangu. Leônidas down h ­ ere, at the door of the Café Rio Branco, Domingos up t­ here, in Bangu, transformed into a kind of Olympus. He would come down on training days, on game days, and go directly to Gávea, without stopping at the Café Rio Branco or taking a stroll through the city. When he had to do some shopping or conduct some business—to appear, that is, before the eyes of the public when not wearing a soccer uniform—­ those coming and g­ oing on the street went so far as to step aside to allow him passage. His secretary b ­ ehind him. B ­ ecause Domingos had arranged a secretary, an ex–­soccer player by the name of Joãzinho. Joãzinho took care of every­thing, spoke with whomever Domingos had to speak with. Domingos by his side, listening, as long as the conversation did not go in the disagreeable direction of money, something he found repugnant. At that point Domingos would beg ­pardon to take his leave. Which happened ­every time he had to sign a contract. Bastos Padilha, the president of Flamengo, would set a time. Domingos would appear, with En­glish punctuality, “Good after­noon. How are you sir?” nothing about money, nothing about a contract. Bastos Padilha would be in a hurry, wanting to decide every­thing in two minutes. Domingos with his legs crossed, reclining in his chair, waiting The Social Ascension of the Black Man  195

for the slightest reference to signing bonuses, to salaries. When that slight reference came, it was the end of the conversation. Domingos would get up, say, “Would you excuse me, Mr. Padilha,” and call Joãzinho. Then, “My secretary ­will discuss this with you, sir; what he decides is final,” and leave them to bargain freely. Afterward, every­thing would be settled, requiring only his signature. Domingos would take the pen, examine the tip, scratch out his name, the “D” of Da Guia very large, and pass the ink blotter over it. Then Mr. Padilha would give him the plea­sure of drinking a cocktail with him, a proof of high esteem. It was not ­every president of Flamengo who might sit down at a barroom ­table with him. A fan, then, was out of the question. Only a well-­k nown, intimate fan, from a select l­ittle group. Or, on the other hand, from Bangu. In Bangu, at home, Domingos did not insist on ceremony; he would walk all about, raising two fin­gers, greeting t­ hose right and left. Up ­there was one t­ hing, down ­here another.40 A fan down ­here who sat next to Domingos could take pride in the fact, tell it to his friends. It was not just anybody but rather a ­great privilege. Domingos would not cheapen himself; he would not be vulgarized like Leônidas. He distributed his ­favors in a miserly way. Thus, the eternal gratitude of a fan that managed to approach Domingos, to get close to him. To get to know the other Domingos, the one of flesh and bone, h ­ uman like Leônidas. With his weaknesses. Getting tipsy a­ fter just one glass of beer. A reason for his reservedness, his life in Bangu. Domingos not wanting to reveal his weaknesses. In Bangu, t­ here was no harm in him being that other Domingos; every­ body in Bangu knew what he was like and what he w ­ asn’t like. Down h ­ ere, no. For this reason, Domingos preferred to be incognito. That was the impression he gave, of a very impor­tant figure, very well known, incognito. Upon seeing him, t­ here was not the slightest doubt he was someone impor­ tant, someone famous, Da Guia, but one did not feel the happiness of discovery inspired by Leônidas. Whoever saw Domingos would re­spect his incognito status, would pretend they had not seen Da Guia, playing out a comedy along with him. Naturally, Domingos was sometimes unable to flee contact with someone whom he d ­ idn’t know—or ­didn’t want to know. The stranger would sit down next to him—on the train, from Bangu to downtown; in a minibus, from downtown to Gávea—­but he would remain s­ ilent, not speaking a word; he did not admit any intimacy. A ­bitter experience for the journalist Rogério Marinho, when he was still a prelaw student.41 Rogério Marinho, in front of the El Dorado, looking for a 196  Chapter Four

taxi that would take him over to the Andrews, on Botafogo Beach. T ­ here was no sign of a ­free taxi; they all had fares already. Which is when Válter Goulart, Flamengo’s goalkeeper, passed by in his l­ ittle convertible sports car. Inside the car, very serious, incognito, was Domingos da Guia. Válter Goulart s­ topped the car, asked where Rogério Marinho was g­ oing; if it was to Copacabana, he would drop him off at the Mourisco. Ah! It was to Botafogo, all the better; he would drop Rogério Marinho off on the Andrews’s doorstep. Domingos made room for Rogério Marinho. Never had Rogério Marinho felt so distant from another person. Domingos, squeezed in next to him, seemed as if he ­were kilo­meters away. He only opened his mouth at the moment when Rogério Marinho jumped out. So he could give him a pat on the back and say, “Now you can brag that you arrived with Da Guia.” For many, it was the fault of the newspapers. The papers publishing features of two, three columns, sometimes an entire page, about a soccer player resulted in this. One more proof of how ­little one knew of Domingos. Domingos did not just flee from fans; he fled from journalists as well, especially journalists. It ­didn’t bother him if the papers went days without mentioning him; in fact, he preferred it. One runs something good, another something bad, the good t­ hing is quickly forgotten while the bad ­thing remains. He did want to be in the papers but only on special occasions, a­ fter an impor­tant game, in which he was the greatest presence on the field. In that case, it was worth it. Now, to publish his name, his picture, for the mere sake of publishing it, just to fill space—no. No for Da Guia; yes for Leônidas. For Leônidas, it was fine despite every­thing—­the necklace, the watch. And did not stop him from visiting the vari­ous newsrooms. The journalists counted on Leônidas to close out a page. “The Black Diamond in a Visit to Our Newsroom.” And, essentially, in a visit to every­body’s home. Wherever a newspaper went, Leônidas would go t­ here, too. A fan would open the sports page and ­there would be Leônidas, smiling up at him, like an old friend. The fan could cross his legs, lean back in a chair, and not even take the toothpick out of his mouth in order to have a chat with the inventor of the bicycle kick. Without the slightest ceremony. Popularity does not allow for ceremony but rather feeds on intimacy. Fame is what is ceremonious. It stays up t­ here on high, like Domingos. Not even allowing the confidence of a nickname. “Black Diamond” for Leônidas; for Domingos, “Doctor,” “Professor,” “Master.” The fans would admire Domingos from a distance, preserving the proper re­spect. Something that did not exist between the fans and Leônidas: re­spect. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  197

The fans simply liked him. For this reason, they would make excuses for what he did all the time. Even a missed goal, a goal begging to go in, all that was needed was a tap. If Domingos w ­ ere to miss a shot, it would be a shock, an “Oh!” The fans of the other club, then, would not miss the chance, which might not come again, of an “Uh!” for Domingos. It just w ­ ouldn’t do for Domingos to curse his luck, to lose his head, like Leônidas. No one would forgive the h ­ uman, flesh-­and-­ blood Domingos. To f­ ree himself of the “Uhs,” Domingos would have to be more Domingos than ever. Stopping the ball two meters from an open goal, inviting every­one to come and take the ball from him. Something he did in a Botafogo versus Flamengo match, in Álvaro Chaves Stadium. The crowd went ­silent; it seemed as if the stadium had emptied out all of a sudden, that the game had ended long before. Botafogo’s forwards charged Domingos; Domingos, at this point, started to move, slowly, swaying his body, ­doing dribbles of half a millimeter. He dribbled past one, two, three, four, five, waited a moment, to see if anyone e­ lse was coming; nobody e­ lse came, and he banged a pass of fifty meters, on target, then half turned to find the high-­society section of the stands, decked out with young ladies, with flowers, the same corbeils of twenty or thirty years before, complementing him with a bow. Further, even the young ladies jumped up to give him a standing ovation. The advantage of a ­little m ­ istake. It was good to err once in a while. If not, in no time at all the Da Guia-­esque perfection would end up impressing nobody. It was already impressing less. In a previous era, the fans would go so far as to put their hands in their pockets, retrieving from within notes of 5 mil réis to buy another ticket—­they did not want to cheat the league, they had already seen 4.4 mil réis worth of game—­a play by Domingos was worth the price of a grandstand seat.42 The fans would no longer buy another ticket; they remained in their seats, considering every­thing Domingos was d ­ oing to be completely natu­ral. When Leônidas did any l­ ittle ­thing, however, they would almost bring the stadium down with cries of “Leônidas! Leônidas! Leônidas!” It hardly mattered that no one had quite seen the Black Diamond’s play. Through a kind of magic, abracadabra, the ball was in the net; the rest was of no interest. One would go to discuss how it had been, or how it ­hadn’t, ­after the match. Leônidas’s play, not Domingos’s. ­After all, who would not know what Domingos’s play had been like? The photog­raphers even adjusted their lenses, set up their cameras; it seemed that they w ­ ere g­ oing to take a posed photo­ graph. Nothing like the frenetic rush to catch an instant of Leônidas, now or never. 198  Chapter Four

The print of Domingos would come out clear. One could see every­thing; it d ­ idn’t need any refinishing. That of Leônidas would come out fuzzy, requiring a touch-up. The touch-up of fantasy. Fans loved to give their own touch-­ ups, putting something of their own in the description of a pass. With Leônidas, one could fly freely on the wings of imagination. Domingos was the one who left nothing to the fan’s imagination. That’s the way it was; it could not have been any dif­fer­ent. One also did not miss a single detail of a Domingos play. While the ball was not at his feet it was a mad rush; it was hardly in one place before it was in another. When Domingos’s foot made contact with the ball, all of a sudden, the match would switch to slow-­motion camera. The crowd would try to sit. Not b ­ ecause the match had lost any interest or emotion, quite the contrary. To the point that ­there ­were ­people who ­didn’t even have the courage to look. As if they ­were at a circus and the time had come for the lion tamer to place his head in the lion’s mouth. As long as the drum roll lasted, it was better not to look; the lion could snap his mouth shut. In the Domingos play, it was as long as the silence lasted. The fans would have their hearts in their throats, frozen. Their hearts would only return to their usual location afterward. But with the danger past, along with the shock, the fans d ­ idn’t even have the spirit to applaud. What came out was a sigh, and what they brought out ­were their handkerchiefs. When ­there ­wasn’t an outburst of laughter. Laughter that shook the stadium, that befuddled the player who was the victim of Domingos’s dribble, leaving him ­dying of shame. Take the case of Dorado, world champion of 1930. Dorado was practically banging the ball in, yelling “Goal” as if he had scored, the Uruguayans r­ unning to hug and kiss him, to take the ball back to midfield, but the ball ­wasn’t with Dorado, it was back with Domingos at the top of the Uruguayans’ box. The player who remembered Dorado when approaching Domingos would simply relinquish the ball, so as not to look ridicu­lous in front of the Professor, the Maestro giving his soccer lesson. He would show how t­ hings w ­ ere and how they w ­ eren’t, imitating a magician who pulls up his sleeves, promising not to deceive anyone, in order to deceive every­one all the better. The fan, ­whether in a numbered seat, the stands, or in general admission, had allowed himself to be tricked once again. He would go home thinking he had discovered the trick, but ­there was no trick; it could not be any simpler ­really: two and two makes four. In the end, Domingos ­wasn’t teaching anything. Leônidas was the one who taught every­ thing. All he had to do was a bicycle kick; that bicycle would roll right out of the stadium and continue through the fields and the pickup games, throughout Brazil and beyond. T ­ here was no one who ­wouldn’t try that kick. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  199

Perhaps b ­ ecause what Leônidas was ­doing was more Brazilian, it was in the blood of the white, mulatto, and black masses. Like samba. If one plays a samba, wherever it may be, every­body starts swaying their bodies to the beat. Domingos had swing, but not effusively so, like Leônidas. W ­ hether dancing a samba or playing soccer. Domingos’s sobriety struck one as if something from a foreign land. From E ­ ngland. So much so that whenever someone wanted to describe Domingos’s style, En­glish soccer would be mentioned. En­ glish soccer as it was i­magined through the anecdotes of the En­glishman popu­lar with Brazilians: the cold, emotionless En­glishman. ­These anecdotes being, for Domingos, what Sterne was for Machado de Assis.43 In a certain sense, Domingos was the Machado de Assis of Brazilian soccer. En­glishman on the outside, Brazilian on the inside. Above all, a carioca. However much he tried to be an En­glishman, Domingos would betray himself all the more to be a carioca. Like old Machado, the mulatto wearing pince-­nez, with an imperial minister’s beard; the black man with a soft, drawling voice, his moves like that of a hustler.44 More En­glish, though, than the white En­glishmen that fans ­were familiar with. White En­glishmen who, having put on a soccer uniform, would try, as fast as they could, to Brazilianize themselves. ­Going so far as to invent plays or moves, like Leônidas, to please the public. One such case was Charles Miller, his Charles kick being the first Brazilianism in soccer. The grand­father of the bicycle kick. That was the kind of ­thing the fans r­ eally liked. The players who ­were more Brazilian understood this. Valdemar de Brito never forgot, in any game, to do his Charles kick, putting his own signature on it. If not, they might think he was getting old.45 A Charles, a signature move, a bicycle kick, young and joyful plays, balletic fantasies—­these formed the impression of Olívio Montenegro the first time he watched a match. Without even knowing what a goal, a penalty, or a corner was, let alone an offside. He ­didn’t know what soccer was, yet he knew ballet when he saw it. Not to mention samba. The fans would bring to the general admission, to the stands, cuícas, pandeiros, and tambourines, filling the stadium with the sounds of samba. The players ­didn’t miss a step; the rhythm of soccer was the “step forward–­step back” of Romeu. And out of the “step forward–­step back,” out of the samba, came our Dionysian dance. Something that did not escape Gilberto Freyre, who saw Brazilian soccer as Dionysian.46 Dionysian like Leônidas; not Apollonian like Domingos. 200  Chapter Four

The crowd was not mistaken when it stormed the field to carry Leônidas in triumph. Arms extending to grab Leônidas, to touch Leônidas. For this reason, during the World Cup, ­after a Brazilian victory, the crowds would fill the streets and all one would hear was “Brazil!” and “Leônidas!” No cries of “Domingos!” of “Romeu!” of “Perácio!” or of any other player who, like Leônidas, had run on the field, sweating his shirt through, t­ here in Strasbourg, in Bordeaux, for Brazil’s victory.47 That “Brazil!” and “Leônidas!” together, one pulling the other on, expressed every­thing. From then on, Leônidas was making the front pages of the papers, the newspapers pleasing their readers with Leônidas. A good latest edition on  Leônidas, a piece of news about him, would guarantee an increase in circulation. The newspaper stands w ­ ere soon trying to prominently display the pages featuring Leônidas. Above all, the stands belonging to Italians. The Italian ­owners, almost all Fluminense fans—­because of the colors, green, white and red—­preferred Romeu and Leônidas. When the time came to sell a paper, however, ­there was no argument: Leônidas. On the day of the Brazil-­Italy match, the newspaper stands ­were decorated bright and early with Leônidas. With Leônidas and with l­ittle flags. If not, the fans that ­were roaming the streets might break up the stands with cries of “Viva Brazil!” A necessary precaution, without a doubt, that picture of Leônidas, of the Brazilian flag. Brazilians ­were worked up and on the hunt for Italians. Before the game had even begun, an Italian showed up with his guts torn out down in the Mangue neighborhood. The loudspeakers ­were blaring, “Leônidas ­will play,” “Leônidas ­won’t play,” and a lot of p ­ eople c­ ouldn’t take it, they tried to tune out. But where to? Everywhere a radio was blaring. One fan silenced a radio with a gunshot. It was also the second goal of Italy and a penalty shot at that. Italy two, Brazil zero, could only be received with a bullet. Brazil lost two to one, but without Leônidas. If Leônidas had played, Brazil would have been the champion. It hardly mattered that the Eu­ro­pean papers talked more about Domingos and Romeu. It was natu­ral that they spoke more of Domingos and Romeu, the two playing classic soccer. Leônidas was ­doing bicycle kicks, scoring goals while tying his cleats. ­There was nobody around ­here who d ­ idn’t know by heart the fifth goal of Leônidas against Poland. Leônidas kneeling, tying his cleats, the Polish keeper ­doing a goal kick, Leônidas jumping up, shooting with one touch, goal for Brazil. Listening to the radio, four thousand kilo­meters away, the fans saw Leônidas as if Leônidas w ­ ere right h ­ ere. No difference. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  201

It was always more or less like that: the fans would not see directly what Leônidas was ­doing; they had to imagine almost every­thing. It was better to imagine every­thing at once. The descriptions of Leônidas’s goals, first confusing, vacillating like the instants in which they occurred, would become clear, in minute detail. One only heard the fans describing Leônidas’s goals. Scoring Leônidas’s goals against Italy. Leônidas was victory. The o ­ thers had lost; Leônidas had not lost once. For this reason, the fans left all the ­others to the side and remained only with Leônidas, with victory. Which explains the triumphant return of the Brazilian squad. The Brazilian team arrived in the city, and all business ­stopped, the ­people ­going out into the streets to carry Leônidas in triumph. The other players inside automobiles, the automobiles driving slowly, at a funereal pace, accompanying Leônidas’s pro­cession. And every­body imagining that they w ­ ere paying homage to the national team. All the players showed up, but the homage was to Leônidas, just for him to receive medals, baskets of flowers, banners of clubs, Brazilian flags. The ­others just looked on, squeezed into a hall bursting with ­people, as if they ­were not even players. It got to the point where Domingos said not to call him when ­there was an homage to the Brazilian team. If the homage was to Leônidas, much better to say so straightaway. Then nobody would have to play the fool, b ­ ehind Leônidas, watching Leônidas receive gifts. Gifts of not much value, but it was the thought that counted. Leônidas satisfied himself with this, not taking advantage. Not even when it came to commercial advertisements. So much so that he signed a declaration that he only ate Peixe guava jam, a declaration that was published in enormous ads in the papers, from a quarter-­page on up, for a big box of candy. And Manoel de Brito gave him the box of candy ­because he wanted to; Leônidas ­didn’t even ask for it. Something that impressed Manoel de Brito was Leônidas’s camaraderie. Anybody e­ lse would have taken him to the cleaners: for ten, twenty contos. Leônidas took the pen and signed his name, Leônidas da Silva, with that beautiful signature he had, that of a devoted student of handwriting. Thinking it was just another autograph that he was signing. Autographs he signed by the thousands. Principally for young ladies. The young ladies, the white ones, the high school girls, insisting on a signature from Leônidas on a card, in an ­album. Many grabbing Leônidas in the ­middle of the street, the Black Diamond in the m ­ iddle of the blondes, each one with their poetry a­ lbum. On one page a sonnet of Bilac; on another, a signature of Leônidas, right in the m ­ iddle.48 202  Chapter Four

It was necessary for José Scassa, a journalist and fan of Flamengo, to open his eyes. Showing him the difference between an autograph in the poetry ­a lbum of a high school girl and a signature beneath a declaration like that of the Peixe guava jam. Leônidas could sign however many autographs he wanted; recommendations, however, for guava jam brands, for cigarettes, what­ever it might be, should be given out only for money. ­There was a factory that wanted to bring to market a Black Diamond choco­ late. For less than twenty contos, he should not allow it. Leônidas saw that he was throwing away a fortune, so he turned his affairs over to José Scassa. He ­really did need a secretary. He received correspondence from a film actor. Letters that w ­ ere arriving from all corners of Brazil, some not asking for anything other than forgiveness for the forwardness; ­others requesting an autograph, a picture, even a job. Like the one from a fan in Pará, head of a large h ­ ouse­hold, unemployed, and with nowhere to turn, appealing to Leônidas, in a moving letter, calling the Black Diamond “Doctor,” addressing him as “Your Excellency,” hoping Leônidas might arrange a state job for him. The fan from Pará knew—­who ­didn’t?—­that a request from Leônidas to Getúlio was an order.49 Leônidas did not make the request to Getúlio; before thinking of o ­ thers, he would think of himself, take care of his own life. This national craze for him might go away and not return. It was a moment in which he could do what­ever he pleased. Even r­ unning ­people over in the m ­ iddle of the street. He ran a man over in the Mangue neighborhood while racing along and blowing through a signal; the crowd made the Ford stop, shouting, “Lynch him,” “Lynch him,” but when they saw that it was Leônidas, the talk of lynching s­ topped. “Leônidas, Leônidas, run for it, Leônidas!” Even the traffic cop d ­ idn’t note down the number of his car. Despite every­thing, Leônidas continued, e­ very day, in a permanent exhibition at the Café Rio Branco, sitting practically in the ­middle of the street, right at the entrance, José Scassa watching out for him. Before reaching Leônidas, the fans had to go through José Scassa. It was not for nothing; t­ here w ­ ere shameless fans. Fans that annoyed Leônidas with requests for jobs, with requests for money. T ­ hose who w ­ ere a­ fter a job, h ­ umble, managed to sweep the sidewalk of the Café Rio Branco with the ­soles of their shoes; the moochers, daring, even insolent. Leônidas did not even want to lay eyes on them. He w ­ asn’t t­ here to give anything away; he was ­there to receive. The moochers would leave grumbling. They had so often applauded the Man of Rubber, they had helped shape his good fortune, and in the end, he ­wasn’t even good for 5 mil réis. Thankfully, t­here w ­ ere not that many moochers. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  203

­Those who approached Leônidas more often ­were grateful p ­ eople. Grateful for the goals he had scored for Brazil, for Flamengo. For the goals he had yet to score. Thanking Leônidas in anticipation. General-­admission fans with chickens ­under their arms, fans from the stands who shook his hand in order to slip him a 50 mil réis note, fans from the numbered seats who would only give him notes of 500 mil réis or more. When the Flamengo team would run onto the field, Leônidas would raise his arm with a “Hurrah!,” receiving applause; then he would go chat with the fans in the numbered seats. To know how much the victorious goal would be worth. He would not score any more goals without having the guarantee of 500 mil réis for the first and 500 mil réis for the second. The fans in the numbered seats, with money in their pockets, did not even argue. The match was beginning; only Leônidas could save them. Leônidas and Domingos. But Domingos ­d idn’t come to speak with any of them. He ­wouldn’t say what he wanted, mute; the ­others would have to guess. When Leônidas ­wasn’t satisfied, every­body knew it; the Café Rio Branco would try to spread it around that he ­wasn’t satisfied. Some way would be found, more money for Leônidas. One never knew, however, ­whether Domingos was satisfied or not. Perhaps he w ­ asn’t, primarily thanks to seeing Leônidas receive so many pre­sents. He must have wanted something; it was necessary to give Domingos what he wanted. And all of Flamengo set itself the task of figuring out what Domingos wanted. Some kind of donation would always get results. Gustavo de Carvalho, Flamengo’s president, resorted, at that point, to delicacies. Perhaps a delicacy would move Domingos more deeply in his heart. An expensive delicacy, well understood, with money, a lot of money, involved. For example: an account booklet, a checking account opened with four contos in it, in the name of Domingos’s ­little boy. Gustavo de Carvalho’s satisfaction went away when Domingos took the account booklet, gave him a cold “Thank you,” and dropped the booklet on the locker room bench. Despite his hurt feelings, Gustavo de Carvalho had one consolation: Da Guia was a guarantee, much more guaranteed than Leônidas. Leônidas committed himself for one goal, and once that goal was scored, to get another out of him meant another conversation. Without knowing how much he would earn, he w ­ ouldn’t do a bicycle kick. He would plant himself in the ­middle of the field, put his hands on his hips, balls passing him by, nothing out of him. He had scored his goal, fulfilled his obligation; he would not allow himself to be exploited any further. He had committed the foolish act of signing a two-­year contract before the World Cup. A Black Diamond for fifty contos. José Scassa was scandalized; ­every day in the Café Rio Branco, it was enough just to remind him. Only in Brazil could one see something like that. Leônidas having to play, he would 204  Chapter Four

show up Sunday and leave Sunday; if he ­wasn’t playing, he would earn a lot more. He would spend ten minutes, enough to take a picture, pop open a ­bottle of champagne, at the ­grand opening of a shoe store, for one conto. He would put one conto into his pocket; it was no big deal to do a ­favor, to respond to a request from Gerson Coelho, president of América Mineiro, friend of the shoe store’s owner. And one conto ­because it was in Belo Horizonte; if it ­were in Rio, it would be at least two contos. When Flamengo was in Belo Horizonte, with all expenses paid, the crowd gathered in front of the ­Grand ­Hotel, craning their necks, looking up at a closed win­dow; maybe the win­dow would open and Leônidas would appear. Leônidas did not appear. Whoever wanted to see him should go to the ­grand opening of the shoe store of Gerson Coelho’s friend, should go to the Municipal Theater, where he was g­ oing to give a lecture.50 It was an absolute success. Not a seat empty, ­people on their feet filling the hallways, trying to squeeze in. To give an idea: the box office raked in eigh­ teen contos. Belo Horizonte’s finest bought up the box seats, opera boxes, regular seats, even standing-­room only; Leônidas recounted how he had scored the goals in Strasbourg and Bordeaux. He told the story well, in his own way, more with his feet than with his mouth. He lifted up his foot, and the audience’s eyes would be glued to it, mesmerized; it had been like this, the foot retracted and extended. To describe the fifth goal against Poland, he knelt down on the stage, pretended that he was g­ oing to tie his cleats, and let loose his foot. Leônidas had discovered a gold mine. He wanted to live like that, inaugurating shoe stores, giving lectures. Frequently, however, he was obliged to refuse a good invitation; Flamengo would be playing somewhere on Sunday, in the ­middle of the week, trying to get the most out of him. Which did not prevent Leônidas from traveling the country. The advantage of the airplane—­for Leônidas. Certain passengers did not like to fly with him. VIPs who would quickly lose their importance, with every­body focused on Leônidas. Imagine if the plane crashed. The next day, all the papers, including the straitlaced Jornal do Commercio, would have headlines like “Leônidas Died,” “Leônidas Dies Tragically in Aviation Disaster,” “Plane Carrying Leônidas Crashes.” And, t­ here below, paragraph seven, what’s-­his-­face and so-­and-so w ­ ere traveling in the same plane. Which made Professor Camilo Mendes Pimentel say to Afonso Pena Júnior, both passengers on the same flight with Leônidas, that it would be a good idea to pray to God to keep the plane from crashing. It was Leônidas himself who had nothing to fear. He would catch a flight, and an hour l­ ater he would be in São Paulo, Friedenreich waiting for him on Congonhas airfield. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  205

The past was encountering the pre­sent; no photographer in São Paulo would pass up the opportunity to take a picture of Leônidas and Friedenreich from ­every ­angle. In 1919, Leônidas would call himself Friedenreich; in 1938, Friedenreich would call himself Leônidas. The glory of Leônidas resurrected that of Friedenreich. One and the same. The São Paulo player even overlooked that Leônidas was a carioca. He might be a carioca, but he was much more so a Brazilian. And Leônidas, in ­t hese comings and g­ oings, was earning money, conto a­ fter conto. He was showered with invitations. Leônidas could not make it to all his engagements. What was holding him back was soccer, although he fought to train less and less, almost not at all. It was giving up a lot just to play, sacrificing his interests on Sundays. And Flamengo ­didn’t have the courage to stand up to him. They would just complain, wondering where this was ­going to end. At most, they would fine him, Leônidas forcing their hand. He could do it; he was Leônidas a­ fter all. A ­little fine for Leônidas, of 500 mil réis. Soon enough, someone would come forward to pay the fine on Leônidas’s behalf, to calm him down. Leônidas, offended, would hold a demonstration at the entrance of the Café Rio Branco, threatening not to play. If he d ­ idn’t play, Flamengo would win; Gustavo de Carvalho thought that Flamengo ­didn’t need him, but as if on order, they ­were defeated. Leônidas watched the defeat peering over the fence, dressed in street clothes like just another fan. But he was still Leônidas, and the fans around him w ­ ere exclaiming, “You would have scored that one, Leônidas!” The way forward was to forgive Leônidas’s fine, to reach an accord with him. Leônidas was given the sum of the fine that had come from a fan’s pocket, and he further demanded a bonus for the defeat—as if he had played, as if he had scored the winning goal. If he had played, Flamengo would have won, something that no one would deny, as certain as two plus two equals four. And Flamengo would pay Leônidas for the defeat, for victory. Gustavo de Carvalho, president of Flamengo, had to bear this effrontery from the Black Diamond on top of every­thing ­else. He and the ­others, all the Flamengo bigwigs. Café Rio Branco was establishing a very big distinction between the bigwigs and Flamengo itself. The bigwigs ­were not Flamengo; Flamengo was Leônidas. As Flamengo, Leônidas would receive his due from the president of Flamengo, from Flamengo’s directors. The bigwigs, instead of punishing a player like him, who only brought glory to the club, should live up to their obligations. Gustavo de Carvalho’s feeling was that the club should suspend Leônidas, his contract. 206  Chapter Four

But even within Flamengo’s management ­there ­were ­those who thought Leônidas was right. Luiz do Rêgo Monteiro, for example, went so far as to say that Leônidas had the right to do as he pleased. B ­ ecause he was a genius. And Leônidas did do as he pleased. He ­stopped playing and lost nothing ­because of it—on the contrary. The big weapon of the club, to bench a player, to “cook him in a cold fire,” as Fausto used to say, did not work the least bit with Leônidas. The one that lost out was the club. Which was the difference between Leônidas and Fausto: Leônidas fighting with Flamengo ­because he ­didn’t want to play, Fausto fighting with them ­because he did. The latter’s time was passing; it would pass when he ceased to play, when he was permanently benched. Every­t hing but the bench, the bench was misery. The tragedy of Fausto was that he had begun too early. Domingos and Leônidas, indeed, w ­ ere the ones who had started at the right time. Fausto had spent years killing himself on the field, forging a path for them, ­these boys, with their ­whole lives in front of them. Leônidas could play around with headers, tempting fate. His ­career was a real roller coaster, full of ups and downs. He had done headers, risen, fallen, only to rise, fall, and rise yet again. And Leônidas would still complain. The one that should have complained was Fausto. He should have complained about every­thing and every­one: about Vasco, Barcelona, Zu­rich, Nacional, and Flamengo. Vasco paid him no more than a bonus for a victory or tie. Barcelona held back his signing bonus, his salary, wanting him to become a Spanish citizen, leading him to go to Switzerland, earning almost nothing and getting sick. So sick that he greeted the call from Vasco as a salvation. Vasco paid his return ticket to Brazil, Fausto bursting with gratitude, swearing he would never again leave São Januário stadium, signing a four-­year contract for fifteen contos. Fifteen contos for his remaining soccer c­ areer. He was down on his luck, had to accept any offer. What Vasco gave to him for four years it gave to Leônidas for one. Not to mention Domingos, who received double what Leônidas did, eight times what Fausto had received. While he was down on his luck, Fausto ­didn’t say anything. But he got back in shape, became the Black Miracle once again, taking control of the field. He ended up emigrating again, only to return, once again, disillusioned, tired of struggling. The strug­gle of so many years was slowly getting the better of him. He c­ ouldn’t last two halves anymore. If he played, it was carefully, saving himself in the first half, conserving his energy for the final moments of the match. Then he would make his presence felt, becoming g­ reat again. The fans would leave the field convinced that Fausto was the same as ever. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  207

The proof is that they took his side against Kruschner.51 Kruschner watched two matches and soon discovered Fausto’s trick. The trick of just playing in the second half. If he w ­ ere a doctor, Kruschner would have ordered an X-­ray of Fausto’s lungs. But he was not a doctor; he was a coach. As coach, he diagnosed that as a center-­half, Fausto would not last a year, while as a defensive back, he might last two. It was Fausto’s last revolt. With the support of the Café Rio Branco crowd ­behind him, Kruschner was even scared to go out at night. “Fanatics” was how he labeled the Flamengo supporters—­they could be waiting in ambush, on a corner, ­behind a tree, to shoot or stab him. Kruschner gave in. Fausto was back on the team at center-­half; nevertheless, the coach had to leave Flamengo. It seemed that the coach had lost and the player was victorious, but Fausto ­didn’t last three months. He ended up playing in a match among the reserves—­ submitting himself to anything, even playing as a reserve in order to avoid retirement, killing himself on the field. He died, forgotten, in a Palmira sanatorium.52 He was buried right t­ here, in a shallow grave. A newspaper floated the idea of a mausoleum for Fausto, but nothing d ­ oing; Flamengo refused to contribute even half of the expenses to transport the corpse of the Black Miracle. Something which amounted to about one-­and-­a-­half contos. Fausto had strug­gled so much, making an issue of playing even when sick, ­because he had foreseen this; he had no illusions. On the day that he ­stopped, poverty would come knocking on his door. This was not the case for Leônidas, Leônidas in the flower of youth, at the height of his glory. And afterward, when he had ­stopped playing, the fans did not forget him; they remembered him even more. What Leônidas would have done. What lost opportunity for a goal Leônidas would have taken. Leônidas would score all the goals the ­others did not, not to mention the goals that only he knew how to score. When playing, he could make a m ­ istake, but when not playing, he never erred. But he d ­ idn’t intimidate Gustavo de Carvalho anymore. Gustavo de Carvalho, taking advantage, suspended his contract.53 Leônidas would not be able to play for a significant period: a meniscus operation and convicted by the military court, a situation of having falsified a reservist’s certificate, requiring eight months’ prison time. Over the course of t­ hose eight months, the fans never ­stopped talking about Leônidas. His picture was almost never missing from the papers. In his place, Pirilo was scoring goals in all the Flamengo games, forty goals. Pirilo could have broken goal-­scoring rec­ords and it ­wouldn’t have made a difference. The fans ­didn’t remember the goals Pirilo scored, only ­those he ­didn’t score, the ones Leônidas would have scored. With e­ very game that Pirilo played, the nostalgic longing [saudade] of the fans for Leônidas increased. Longing and pity. Leônidas was imprisoned, 208  Chapter Four

without being able to go out, to play. L ­ ittle did the fans know that the Black Diamond, t­ here on the military base, was living a carefree life, more a guest than anything e­ lse. The soldiers facilitating it, making t­hings go more smoothly, treating him like a prince. Even the officers liked him. Leônidas also filled the Sampaio Regiment with happiness. Almost e­ very day t­ here was a pickup match, the Black Diamond playing soccer for just the soldiers and officers. What he had to do was to switch teams, spending the first half with one, the second half with the other, to please every­one; nevertheless, he never lost his patience or his composure. For eight months it was like that; the officers had no complaints about him, quite the contrary. So much so that they threw him a luncheon on the day of his release.54 Not for the man convicted by a military court but for the hero of the World Cup. Leônidas was f­ ree; he could walk the streets, remain in permanent exhibition at the doors of the Café Rio Branco, fans surrounding him. The fight between a player and a club president was about to begin, many ­people putting their money on Leônidas. It would be enough for him to appear at a practice, to score a goal with a bicycle kick. Leônidas, however, did not want to train or play. It was e­ ither him or Gustavo de Carvalho. As long as Gustavo de Carvalho was the president of the club, he would not wear the red-­and-­black jersey. And the championship season was about to start, with Flamengo losing. Ary Barroso got on a microphone, exhorting his Flamengo-­supporting radio audience, insisting that they could not go without Leônidas.55 It seemed that t­ here was no way out for Gustavo de Carvalho. Perhaps t­ here would not have been had it not been for São Paulo. São Paulo sent Roberto Pedrosa to Rio with a suitcase full of money and a blank check, to be filled in with what­ever amount it took. Eighty contos to Flamengo for the transfer, 120 contos to Leônidas for a two-­year contract. This not even including the payment of honoraria to Flamengo’s and Leônidas’s l­awyers, pro­cessing fees, every­thing. One day p ­ eople knew nothing about it, the next day no one could speak of anything e­ lse. São Paulo had landed Leônidas. The deal could only have been done this way, in secret. If anyone had found out, it would have ruined every­ thing, then indeed the Rio Branco crowd would have expelled Gustavo de Carvalho from Flamengo. If the news of Leônidas’s departure had, in Rio, the impact of a bomb g­ oing off—­the g­ reat event of the day for all the papers, tele­ grams about the war playing second fiddle—in São Paulo, forget about it. Ten thousand fans went to the northern train station to greet Leônidas, something never seen before.56 One radio announcer, Geraldo José, made a point of carry­ing Leônidas, Leônidas riding on his back. He got the idea, The Social Ascension of the Black Man  209

carried him twenty meters, and then was obliged to relinquish his precious cargo, since every­body e­ lse had the same idea. São Paulo had spent 200 contos, it had made the biggest deal of Leônidas’s life, and it was still helping ­others make money. Any ­little soccer match in Pacaembu would generate 100, 200 contos. Leônidas d ­ idn’t need to play. The fans knew he was t­ here in São Paulo, and it was enough. They would purchase their general admission or grandstand seats, their numbered seats, and go to Pacaembu. In that way, one could sit closer to Leônidas. And, in the end, w ­ asn’t Leônidas soccer itself? The passion for soccer would increase. The passion for Leônidas. If a department store wanted to set up a successful display win­dow, they knew how to do it. They would just put a picture of Leônidas in t­ here, p ­ eople would fill the sidewalks, and traffic would stop. The best ad was a Leônidas ad, what­ever the product. For toothpaste, Leônidas’s smile; for hair lotion, Leônidas’s hairdo, parted to the side. Even for a radio or a refrigerator. Leônidas would receive radios, refrigerators, all the best brands, in exchange for a photo­graph of him next to them. An ad like that would demand attention; t­ here ­wasn’t a soul who w ­ ouldn’t read it. And the days and weeks rolled by, with no one getting sick of Leônidas. Whoever had a radio would tune into Rec­ord in the eve­ning, to hear one more chapter in the life of Leônidas. Leônidas would read from a typed page—­ written by someone ­else, of course—­for two contos a day. And this extended to new members joining the São Paulo club. Members would pay a fee, which would give them the right to very l­ ittle. If they wanted to dance, they should find another club; if they wanted to see a match, they should buy a ticket. Despite all of this, it was worth it. Members w ­ ere able to visit the club headquarters, and in the after­noons, it was almost certain that Leônidas would be around. Leônidas showed up at the São Paulo headquarters just for this, to be seen by the members. São Paulo paid the bills: Leônidas would hang out for f­ ree. And São Paulo did not take advantage. They turned down a lot of invitations to bring Leônidas to the cities of the interior. Piracicaba, for instance, had made a proposal of this kind: a match of São Paulo with Leônidas, thirty contos; a match of São Paulo without Leônidas, five contos. Hence the gratitude of São Paulo, of São Paulo’s fans. Gratitude that overflowed in gifts, in bonuses, for Leônidas, for Dona Maria. Leônidas would score a goal, and the São Paulo fans with Dona Maria—­who, it must be added, would only sit with worthy fans—­opened their wallets, one conto for Leônidas, one conto for her. Dona Maria had the right; a­ fter all, she was the ­mother of the Black Diamond. 210  Chapter Four

And São Paulo thought nothing of it. The more Leônidas earned, the less likely he was to want to go back to Rio. Once in a while he would take the train and spend a few days in Rio to do some business, to ease his homesickness. If it had to do with business, nobody worried, but when it came to homesickness, it was a dif­fer­ent story. That’s where the idea of a restaurant for Leônidas came from. Leônidas would open a restaurant, and all São Paulo would come to eat ­there. Leônidas with a chef’s hat on his head, standing by the door, overseeing ­things, with no time even to count the money, the cash register filling up so fast. Thus, he would forget Rio once and for all, only to remember São Paulo. São Paulo did not want to lose Leônidas. Neither São Paulo the team, nor the soccer establishment of the city as a ­whole. Pacaembu stadium would earn box-­office receipts of 500, 600 contos. All the clubs ­were earning, São Paulo more than the rest. It’s true ­there was no net profit; ­every player received five or ten contos per victory. What São Paulo did the other clubs had to do; other­wise, they would be left b ­ ehind. Corinthians spent 700 contos, but it brought Domingos to São Jorge Park. Domingos received 200 contos and Flamengo the rest—500 contos for a player transfer. Even so, many folks thought Flamengo should not have sold Da Guia. The Flamengo fan base deserted the fields for a time, only returning when the team was on the verge of winning its third consecutive championship. Without Domingos and without Leônidas. No player had risen as high as t­ hese two black men, stars of Brazilian soccer. It was well known by then, however, that one could go far as an “artist of the ball,” to use a phrase popu­lar in the papers at the time. ­Whether one was white, mulatto, or black. Even if one was a black man like Quirino, modest, ­humble Quirino. His name was Emílio Corrêa. For years, however, he signed his name—­nobody knew why—­Zé Quirino. Not José Quirino, Zé Quirino.57 Every­body used to make fun of him, his awkwardness, his enormous feet: size forty-­four, with wide splayed-­out toes like a duck. But he kept on playing, any place, any time. When he played in a preseason match, no one said anything, but when he made it onto the first team, fans started to scratch their heads. One day, during a Fla-­Flu, he never even saw the ball. When he got to the locker room, he began to cry, and no one thought to pat him on the shoulder, to console him. Flamengo wanted him to go, d ­ oing every­thing to make him understand, but nothing ­doing; he remained in Gávea nevertheless. And one fine day Domingos leaves, so Flamengo goes hunting for Coleta in Buenos Aires. Coleta fails, and Flamengo is obliged to start Quirino. And with Quirino they lost, then won, then ended up taking the championship. The Social Ascension of the Black Man  211

Even then they d ­ idn’t stop laughing at him. Quirino, champion of the city, has anyone ever heard of such a t­ hing? They w ­ ere laughing at him h ­ ere, but he knew a place where every­one was proud of him. They had not always been proud, but now they had to be. To tell the truth, ­there had been a time when Quirino ­couldn’t even walk through the door of the Normal School of Alfenas. He had been a l­ ittle black boy, a down-­to-­earth street urchin; “­Don’t you know your place, boy?” Years had gone by, and now he was Quirino, Rio de Janeiro’s champion, and the moment had come for his return. Not to stay but to spend a few days, sharing his glory throughout the unpaved roads of packed earth, so that whenever a car passed, dust would rise several meters high, a place where one saw ­people entering one another’s ­houses without any formalities. Quirino bought a panama suit, white and shining like a mirror, and arrived in Alfenas decked out. The news had already spread in the ­little town. Quirino was ­going to arrive, and it seemed like it was a holiday, only the marching band at the train station was missing. And for a week, the ­whole time he was ­there, Quirino was like an official guest of Alfenas. No one threw a party without him. He even received an invitation to take part in the solemnities of graduation of the young ladies of the Normal School. The banker Osvaldo Costa, another illustrious son of Alfenas, was at the center of the ­table, Quirino to his right. ­Every day, throughout Brazil, soccer was ­doing this, placing an Osvaldo Costa at the side of a Quirino.

212  Chapter Four

Chapter 5

The Trial of the Black Man

1. It was, however, quite significant that Palestra Itália had only put a black man on the team a­ fter Pearl Harbor. ­There could be no doubt that, one of ­these days, Brazil was ­going to enter the war against the Axis powers, one of whom was Italy. Which explains the hurry to sign Og Moreira, a black man with closely cropped hair, already bald.1 Before now, no one had taken a second glance at the always white teams of Palestra. Maybe that was ­because they ­were not that white, or they ­were white in the Brazilian way. And a l­ ittle, who knows, in the Italian way, like descendants of Othellos and Desdemonas. Anyone with dark hair passed as just dark-­haired—­that is, white—as long as he had good hair, even wavy or curly. Better, at times, to be wavy or curly than too straight. Or suspiciously straight. That of Og Moreira was straight, like that of Leônidas da Silva. But his color could not be denied: very dark, a tone identical to that of the Black Diamond. Pearl Harbor thus sped up the Brazilianization of Palestra, still very Italian—­even making a point of being Italian, as if this ennobled it. It was this racial vanity that had made fascism pos­si­ble, the return to Rome, master of the world. And which justified the invasion of Abyssinia based on the superiority of the white race over the black. The Italians of Palestra, almost all ennobled by their work in Brazil, had a weakness, very strong in the nouveau riche, for titles of nobility. H ­ ere, the source of such titles had dried up with the proclamation of the republic, but ­there remained commendations. As Italians or ­children of Italians, the ­people of Palestra preferred ­those from Italy, given by the pope or by Il Duce. They could even be counts. Thus the subservience demonstrated by many of them, avid to serve Italy or fascism, which could repay them with honorary titles. Even when the ser­ vice expected of them was a disser­vice to Palestra. If a Brazilian club was interested in a player from Parque Antártica, all the Italians of Palestra would get offended.2 All of them, Italian and Brazilian. More so, however, the Italians and ­children of Italians who, through dual

nationality, w ­ ere Italians. Or at least felt themselves to be, through pride of race and wealth. It was enough, however, for an Italian club to flirt with a Palestra player to make at least the most impor­tant Italians of the club of Parque Antártica, even ­those with commendations on their chests, feel honored. As if a legitimate count ­were asking the hand of their ­daughter in marriage. All of this, ­after Pearl Harbor, placed Palestra Itália in a difficult position. If not corrected in a timely manner, the émigré racism of Parque Antártica, which had gone unnoticed up till then, would appear as a stain, apt to allow the moral defect of fifth columnism, not of the club but of its management. Thus, yet another closed door was opened to the black man on the continent of Brazilian soccer. It had been a door so well closed that it blocked the entry of the black Lima into Palestra Itália, whereas the white Lima would become the biggest idol, the golden boy. The curious ­thing is that América, which had produced Og Moreira, received the black Lima, who could not wear Palestra Itália’s green jersey. It was not a trade. Before g­ oing to América, Lima went by São Januário Stadium, offering himself. Why had he come to Rio? Perhaps to whiten his ­brother, almost blond, with blue eyes and milky skin. It was an uncomfortable presence, that of the black Lima in São Paulo, prowling around Parque Antártica, especially at a time when the white Lima, bordering on blond, had not yet become the golden child. Made more uncomfortable b ­ ecause the black Lima, like the white one, had Italian blood. In Braz, the love of a Desdemona for an Othello had repeated itself, without a Shakespeare to turn it into tragedy. The Calabrian f­ ather, like so many ­others, had uselessly counseled his ­daughter: “Do not fall for a mulatto or a black.” ­There was no blood, but the Limas who played soccer separated. The black one always with a chip on his shoulder—so much so that, unasked, he would say right away that he was the b ­ rother of the white Lima of Palestra. Not to whiten himself, being very dark, or to blacken the other, who was quite white. Not even to ennoble himself soccerwise: the black Lima was a ­great player. So ­great that he provoked a break between América and Fluminense. Antônio Avellar, patron of América, with a distinction of merit from Fluminense, returned his tricolor meritorious distinction. All b ­ ecause one fine day, Lima, the black one, entered Álvaro Chaves Stadium as if he lived ­there, or planned to, with Antônio Avellar ­after him.3 ­There was in all the clubs, especially the big ones—­the ones that had more ­people—an espionage ser­v ice. E ­ very fan was a disinterested investigator, ­because they ­were not paid anything, but also extremely interested, ­because they w ­ ere defending their own tranquility and that of the club they loved. 214  Chapter Five

The players’ steps ­were followed as if they ­were suspected of betrayal. Deep down, ­every fan is an Othello, that of Shakespeare, not the one from Braz, ­father of the Limas, the stonecutter Lima who, since he was the ­father of blacks and whites, merited the nickname, which is a jewel, Paint­er.4 Fans love while distrusting. If not the player—­whom they admire and even venerate, like religious devotees—­then the ­human condition of the idol. The fan knows, as a person, that even he could falter before a stronger temptation. If the player loved the club, like he did, then the fan was tranquil. This was a love like an impregnable fortress. If it ­really was love. How could one believe in a love paid for, if ­others could pay more? Thus the implacable vigilance to which the player was submitted, especially the black player, as if the black man would more easily falter than the white. Not that whites w ­ ere not suspected. It was enough for Tadeu, América’s keeper, who made it on the Brazilian side, to let a ball past him that seemed defendable, a “chicken,” as it was and is still called, for him to be backed against a wall a­ fter the first half ended. The more incensed América p ­ eople—­with Antônio Avellar in front, perhaps to show that the threat had the backing or approval of the boss, who was a kind of “­Sister Paula” of América, a good man, with a soft heart, easily brought to tears—­raised their clenched fists and, yelling, warned him that another “chicken” would be the end of the cornered and terrified keeper. ­Really the end, b ­ ecause they would break his hands, so that he would never again stand beneath the three bars of the goal. This always yielded results. Tadeu returned to the field and did not let another ball past. Threatened, he became invulnerable. ­Others could not bear it. At the s­ imple possibility that they might fall u ­ nder suspicion, they would fall to pieces, as in the case of Santo Cristo, a mulatto on São Cristóvão. He went to shoot a penalty against Botafogo, arranging the ball in its l­ ittle circle in the box. The game was in Figueira de Melo, and when he stood up, Zarcy of Botafogo was ­t here at his side, whispering to him: “A conto of réis to miss.” Santo Cristo felt the blood rising to his face. Quickly, he raised his voice: “I’m not for sale!” Zarcy asked between his teeth for Santo Cristo not to yell. “Shut up, d ­ on’t be a fool. A conto of réis to miss.” Santo Cristo still tried to shout out an “I” but Zarcy walked away, silently mouthing the words: “A conto of réis if you miss the shot.” Santo Cristo understood that t­ here was no point in losing his cool; what mattered was to bash the ball full on into the corner of Botafogo’s goal. Zarcy was g­ oing to see that he could not be bought, that t­ here was no amount of money in the world enough to buy him. The Trial of the Black Man  215

The referee cleared the area, blew the whistle, and Santo Cristo shot so far into the corner of Botafogo’s goal, so t­ here would be no way he would miss, that the ball sailed wide. Then ­those pre­sent in Figueira de Melo watched an entirely unexpected scene: Santo Cristo throwing a fit like a Sicilian ­widow. He threw himself on the ground, tore at his hair, loudly sobbing and wailing “Ays” that could be heard from afar. It was as if he had lost his ­mother, a beloved wife, an only child. He had to be taken to the infirmary, contorting himself, in a hysteria without remedy. The São Cristóvão fans forgot the loss, only thinking about the pain of Santo Cristo. The only way that was found to console him was with a collection, like in church. All the São Cristóvão p ­ eople put their hands into their pockets to reward Santo Cristo.5 It was the way of proving to him that they did not suspect him, quite the contrary. So much so that São Cristóvão had lost and still received a beast bigger than the one for a win. This was how Santo Cristo fi­nally managed to dry his tears; he was still racked by sobs, but now of gratitude, less for the money than for the proof of trust. A greater thing there could not be. Precisely b ­ ecause soccer was developing, in some players, acting skills rarely seen on stage or screen. More than athletes, they ­were actors. And actors who played a role without a scene director or script. In accordance with the circumstances. A typical example of the genius of the stage transferred to the soccer field—­ also a stage, sometimes of a Greek tragedy, with the crowd serving as choir, which it always was—­was that same Zarcy, who, with a Mephistophelean whisper, had driven Santo Cristo to despair. In a Fluminense versus Botafogo matchup in Álvaro Chaves, Zarcy kicked Russo with such vio­lence that Haroldo Drolhe da Costa, the referee, who by rights was an incorrigible tricolor fan, did not hesitate a second. The tip of Zarcy’s cleat had not yet reached its destination—­and it never did, b ­ ecause Russo leaned backwards—­and already Haroldo Drolhe da Costa was extending his arm to point off the field. But before Haroldo Drolhe da Costa could complete the gesture—­that is, finish extending his arm, the fin­ger pointing—­ Zarcy fell down, as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Every­one had seen Zarcy’s kick; Russo, however, was alive. The one who was laid out flat as if he ­were dead was Zarcy. Just as he had fallen down, stiff, he remained, without the tiniest quiver. It was a sham. This was what Haroldo Drolhe da Costa concluded, getting even angrier, as both a referee and a tricolor fan. Haroldo Drolhe da Costa was so indignant that he went for Zarcy, raging, in order to drag him off the 216  Chapter Five

field. He did not reach Zarcy. The players of Botafogo placed themselves between the two, some to add believability to the theatrical scene, o ­ thers even wondering, What if Zarcy ­really had been hit? Nobody had seen Zarcy get touched in any way, but his immobility was frightening. A black-­and-­white curtain was made around Zarcy, even as Haroldo Drolhe da Costa demanded, yelling, that the faker be removed from the field ­because he was irreversibly expelled. Then came the doctor and masseuse of Botafogo to carry out the removal of Zarcy. With the care demanded for a gravely ill person, a pedestrian run over by a car, someone near death, Zarcy was carried to the ­running track of Fluminense, made of cinder, located just beyond the chalk border, off the field. Seven minutes remained before the end of the game. Laid out on the cinder track, Zarcy remained unawakened, to the greater revulsion of the Fluminense fans. Thus the half-­eaten oranges they threw at him. Half-­eaten oranges and balls of paper. Zarcy, nothing. Even the flies gave proof. The flies landed, first timidly, then more daring, at home on Zarcy’s face. Some on his eyes, some along the line of his lips, some in the openings of his nostrils, tickling. And Zarcy did not move a bit.6 They ­stopped throwing half-­eaten oranges and balls of paper at him. The proof of flies was definitive. When the game ended, Zarcy was carried out on a stretcher, in an almost mortuary pro­cession; ­t here ­were p ­ eople crossing themselves in Álvaro Chaves. Even the heart of Haroldo Drolhe de Costa had softened: Zarcy’s name did not appear on the score sheet. Zarcy was ­free of any punishment. Someone less informed might see in the contrast between the despair of the mulatto Santo Cristo and the presence of spirit of the white Zarcy one more proof of the superiority of the white man. But t­ here was a mulatto who, compared with Zarcy, would justify the opposite conclusion, also false. He was Carreiro, who came to be known as “the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer.” Carreiro had a large head, which seemed all the larger due to the fragility of the body, almost of one piece, on which it rested. Physically, Carreiro was taken for someone incapable of playing soccer. Whoever looked at him might even bet that he was in the final stages of a debilitating disease. He withstood the eighty or ninety minutes of a game through his management, which one could call genius, of the time. Unlike every­one e­ lse, he moved, ran, and jumped with his head. At least that was the impression he gave, demanding the minimum from his legs, arms, lungs, and heart. The head practically did every­thing. This was why no one argued against the honorific title that had been conferred upon him, the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer. The admiration for the Bahian man,7 which still lived on in the hearts of the p ­ eople, above all among the less The Trial of the Black Man  217

educated and, therefore, more apt to be impressed by any demonstration of intelligence or culture, had transferred itself in the grandstands to the mulatto with the thin neck, narrow shoulders, and arms and legs of skin and bones, full of tricks, who, not being able to use his body, had in­ven­ted ­things never before seen on a soccer field. One of them was the whistle, just like that of the referee, to indicate an offside on himself. During a Fluminense versus São Cristóvão game, when they passed him the ball and an enormous back, Hernandez, appeared in front of him—­a man who, if he ­were to touch him, would shatter him into a thousand pieces—­Carreiro whistled between his teeth the referee’s whistle. Hernandez, hearing the whistle, s­ topped. Carreiro passed by him, the ball ­under control, hearing him crying foul: “Offside, you clown. Offside!” Calmly, Carreiro pushed the ball into the back of the net of São Cristóvão. Hernandez only ­stopped calling him a clown when he saw the referee pointing to the ­middle of the field. Then he went ­after Fioravante D’Angelo, the referee: “Mr. Referee, you whistled offside. I ­stopped b ­ ecause you whistled offside!” Fioravante D’Angelo almost sent Hernandez off early to the showers. He would not allow anyone to try to make a fool of him.8

2. Nobody could imagine that Carreiro, or anyone ­else, was capable of whistling with his mouth closed, between his teeth, just like the referee whistle. Above all, t­ hose who let themselves be fooled by him. Blowing a whistle that even seemed to come from afar, exactly where the referee was, with the whistle in his mouth. Carreiro would keep his face frozen, inscrutable, as if he w ­ eren’t ­doing anything or was just playing at being blind and deaf. Deaf in not hearing the whistle of the referee, strident, indicating that he stop, and blind in not seeing Hernandez, an enormous ­human mass, capable of knocking him down with a ­simple touch, of transforming himself into a stone statue to let him pass by. However, as Carreiro continued to advance, Hernandez lost his immobility, shook his arms, and cried out heartily, “It’s offside, clown! You can shoot but it ­won’t count.” One of the weaknesses of Carreiro was the vanity of a Ruy Barbosa of Soccer. So that no one would think that the one who whistled was a jokester from the grandstands—­because what one always heard, with no rhyme or reason, ­were whistles from the fans, spread out beyond the four lines of the field—­ Carreiro told the story of his trick, seriously, gravely, in the changing room ­after the game. Not like an anecdote, a joke to be retold from person to person, but like a state secret, or club secret, a scientific discovery whose secrecy, for the secu218  Chapter Five

rity of the team, needed to be preserved in the most absolute confidence. Any indiscretion could ruin every­thing. How many players, ­after hearing the whistle of the referee, continued on to shake the net of the other team? They called this class. Especially b ­ ecause, sometimes, with the ball in ­there, and the crowd jumping up and down, losing itself in the delirium of the goal, the referee did not have the courage to shake his arms in the negative. For this reason, even on hearing the whistle of the referee, the duty of the player guarding an area was to stick out his foot, to stop the adversary in what­ ever way pos­si­ble. If Carreiro got by, sometimes by whistling a referee whistle, it was ­because he used, like nobody, his body, that of someone recently escaped from a concentration camp camouflaged as a soccer player. However strong the opponent was, Carreiro would exploit his own weakness, transformed into an almost irresistible weapon of intimidation. Iustrich, who was a kind of low-­rent Hercules, and who played in goal for Flamengo, suffered real tortures of Tantalus in front of Carreiro. More than once he was taken to the point of despair. Carreiro would arrive in front of him and try, uselessly, to stick out his chest in a challenge for the ball. At a Fla-­Flu ­there in Gávea, Iustrich lost his head and lifted his foot, pulled it back, and kicked it ­toward the chest that Carreiro had tried to stick out at him. The cleats on Iustrich’s shoes did not reach Carreiro. First, b ­ ecause Iustrich repented in time, pulling his foot back, as if he ­were slamming on the brakes. Second, ­because Carreiro fell down first, as if dead. The fans of Fluminense stood up, clamoring for the penalty, which Mário Vianna had not given. Iustrich still had his leg pulled back and Carreiro, although stiff, glaringly in full cadaverous rigidity, had not broken into a thousand pieces. Despite this, the fans of Fluminense broke into a deafening chorus of “Thief! Thief!” directed at Mário Vianna. It was to make the play of Carreiro, who refused, as the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer, to revive himself before a penalty was granted.9 ­There was no greater fisher of penalties than Carreiro. When he entered the box, the terror would spread ­because he could die at any moment. If someone touched him, he’d fall like a tree chopped by an ax. In the celebrated Fla-­Flu of the ball in Lagoa, he suddenly became nude from the waist up. A pull on his jersey gave him the opportunity to instantly rip it from top to bottom, to show his ribs clearly outlined, or sculpted in bas-­ relief, his concave stomach, his high, suspended clavicles, transparent through a mist of skin, his shoulder blades open like wings for flight. The Trial of the Black Man  219

The referee was José Ferreira Gomes, “the Juca of the Beach,” who oversaw a game without r­ unning, with the pace of a malandro, which he delighted in being. Malandro meaning for him wiser, smarter, livelier. During a corner kick in a Rio versus Fluminense game in Caio Martins Stadium, Juca refused to call a penalty committed by Alcebíades, a black man who had transferred from América. Alcebíades touched the ball with his hand in the box, and Juca, who was nearby, said loudly, “You are bought, boy, but you ­won’t get the money, ­because I’m not awarding a penalty.” He had to give it soon afterward, however, b ­ ecause Alcebíades repeated the move, even deeper into the box, grabbing the ball with both hands and holding it tight, like a keeper who was afraid to let it go while an opponent was near. It was a penalty, and Juca had already refused to give one; if he refused again, he would end up on Fluminense’s blacklist, and rightly so.10 But it was Carreiro who ended up having to remove his jersey. Let him try the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer routine with somebody ­else. Not with Juca of the Beach. The proof is that in that game, he ended up being ejected from the field. In a ­free kick in the midfield for a foul committed by Carreiro himself, he demanded that Juca of the Beach count ten paces. He placed himself in front of the ball, determined to stay with it, to guard it, as long as Juca of the Beach did not count the ten paces for the formation of the wall, which would consist of him alone. A wall of one, that one being Carreiro, so thin, so delicate, that one could almost see through him. They ­were in the final minutes of the Fla-­Flu of the ball in Lagoa. Flamengo had tied it up, and Fluminense was trying to kick all the balls into the lagoon.11 It did no good b ­ ecause t­ here was a timekeeper in that era. The ball would go out, and the timer would stop. This is why the final minutes had lasted more than half an hour, like in a game of basketball. The solution was to waste time. And if Juca of the Beach, with his ambling gait of a malandro, ­were to count ten paces, then time would ooze out like sand from an hourglass. They saw, then, Juca of the Beach, for whom it was a point of honor not to raise his voice, not to rush his gestures, the ­whole day at his disposition, letting himself be overcome by the fury of an Iustrich. It was while being yelled at and pushed that Carreiro was put out of the field.12 And in leaps and bounds Carreiro did not lose the air of Carreiro: the face without expression, a ­little stung, of one who, in his innocence, was more a defenseless victim of incomprehension, injustice, and arrogance. In truth, it was a meeting of two malandros: the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer, mulatto, and the Juca of the Beach, white, from a good ­family. Juca of the Beach, with the whistle in his mouth, held the reins of power, sovereign of the game. 220  Chapter Five

­Those who ­were not for Fluminense celebrated. Well done. Fluminense had been more than warned. When Carreiro had gone to Álvaro Chaves, many p ­ eople w ­ ere scandalized. How could a Fluminense allow a Carreiro, a street urchin, to wear its jersey? Fluminense responded to all the reservations about Carreiro with one phrase: “In Álvaro Chaves, ­there are not any, nor ­will ­there be any, undisciplined men.” Whoever joined Fluminense, if he was not already, had to very soon become a good sportsman. Carreiro, despite the fame that preceded him, even had the pretensions of an En­glishman. He went around with a clipping from an En­glish newspaper in his wallet, to show to whoever wanted to see it. It is not known how the clipping ended up in his possession. Translated, it said that it was the ball that should run. For Carreiro, it was the cornerstone of his soccer philosophy. Through that clipping, which was a bible for him, he arrived at the most surprising conclusions. Precisely ­because, not knowing a word of En­glish and not trusting a rushed translation by someone who just scratched at the surface of the language of Shakespeare, like a malandro at the docks, in contact with sailors, he took liberties, lengthening the mysterious clipping, completing it in his own manner, the untranslatable and unwritten. What En­glish mind could, for even an instant, conceive the idea of catching the hem of the other team’s keeper’s shirt, at the time of a corner, on the hook of one of the goal posts? This was what Carreiro did to Iustrich. When Iustrich tried to move forward and grab the ball up high, it was like he was tied to the post. What might occur to an En­glishman, more to an En­glishman than to a Brazilian, would be what Carreiro, in a Fla-­Flu, perpetrated calmly, Britishly, against Jurandir, who was almost as strong as Iustrich. The difference was in height. Iustrich was tall, Jurandir of medium stature. He seemed shorter by the width of his shoulders, by the thickness of his arms and legs, t­ hose of a weight lifter. Like Iustrich, Jurandir believed in force. When he grabbed a ball, it was as if he ­were smothering it, in an iron grip, like pincers. Well, Carreiro threw him, with the ball and every­thing, into the goal, with just a light touch on the shoulder. Jurandir had gone up to hug the ball. Below, Carreiro waited for the exact instant in which the feet of Jurandir made contact with the ground, before the weight of his body gave him stability, planting him in his clogs, sunken like roots. In that fraction of a second, Carreiro touched his shoulder to the shoulder of Jurandir. The Trial of the Black Man  221

The stunned crowd saw Jurandir, still hugging the ball, tip over and fall heavi­ly, legs in the air, into the goal.13 It was one of t­ hose t­ hings that you had to see to believe. Jurandir stood up like a boxer who has been knocked out and, a­ fter ten seconds, recovers his consciousness and wants to continue the fight, which he ­can’t believe ended. As usual, Carreiro did not even look like he had done anything extraordinary. He was Ruy Barbosa ­after a speech. Every­one was standing, applauding, in the ecstasy of admiration, and the Bahian like a statue, which he already was. Carreiro displayed his expressionless, pallid face, that of an anemic mulatto, with dull, deep-­set eyes; a thin, weak mustache; and a closed mouth, on which not even the ghost of a smile was playing. Despite this, the admiration for the mulatto or black man did not grow. On the contrary: many saw the genius of Carreiro as simply the pranks of a street urchin. The ones who exalted or sought to exalt it ­were ­those who depended on his genius to win a game. The jersey of Iustrich caught on the post hook; the collapse of Jurandir, with ball and every­thing, into the goal, ­were pointed at as incontestable proofs of the lack of h ­ uman re­spect that characterizes the street urchin or the boor. Thus, only a Carreiro was capable of ­doing something like that, not ­because he was the Ruy Barbosa of Soccer but simply b ­ ecause he was more of a street urchin than other mulattoes and blacks. An exception would only be made for the mulattoes and blacks of one’s own club, whom one was obliged to defend. And, even then, with caution. Even a Carlito Rocha—­who, when he took control of a team, was a f­ ather to the players, serving them eggnog and raw sugar treats, opening to them his full wallet—­did not neglect, when dealing with mulattoes and blacks, to put himself on sure footing. The proof is that when he was directing the side of Rio State, in the period when, mad at Botafogo, he was in Niterói, taking command of Canto do Rio, in order to sleep soundly he had to invent the story that mango with cachaça kills. The Rio State side was almost all mulattoes and blacks: Osvaldo, who was ­later called Balisa; Padaria; Adauto; Cinco; Ivan, who was actually named João Correia Lopes, but they had to deceive the Naval Ministry, which did not want sailors to play soccer, at least on a club; Negrinhão, who went with Osvaldo/ Balisa to Botafogo; Ramos, a bow-­legged mulatto; and o ­ thers less dark and more light in color. That excess of mulattoes and blacks alarmed Carlito Rocha. What good ­were the eggnogs, raw sugar treats, hard training sessions, if afterward, at the first pub, every­body was g­ oing to get loaded? That was when Carlito Rocha, each day of practice, started showing up at Caio Martins with a bag of mangoes. All the players, when the kick-­around 222  Chapter Five

was over, w ­ ere required to suck up two or three mangoes, the more mangoes the better. It must be, thought the players, another one of Carlito’s ideas. Mr. Carlito must have read somewhere that mangoes had more vitamins than cashew fruits. For his entire life, Carlito Rocha had had a calling to medicine, nutrition, and dietetics, among other t­ hings. He trusted more, it is true, in Saint Teresinha, in Our Lady of the Victories, in the w ­ hole legion of saints. So much so that he had made a shirt pin of gold, enormous, almost palm sized, on which he strung the images of the saints to which he clung in b ­ itter times. It was enough for the other team to attack Botafogo for Carlito Rocha to grab hold of the shirt pin with the fingertips of his two hands and begin to kiss the images, one by one, back and forth, as if he ­were playing a harmonica. The mulattoes and blacks of the Rio State side greedily sucked up the mangoes distributed abundantly by Carlito Rocha, washed their mouths and hands, and prepared to depart. Carlito Rocha, then, in the reedy yet vibrant voice that he had, bid the players farewell one by one, warning them: “Mangoes with cachaça kills.” And he repeated it often. Approaching the nearest pub, the mulattoes and blacks of the Rio State side would immediately cross to the other side of the street.14

3. ­ here ­were players who could not even come onto the field without a swallow T of cachaça. Who, if they ­were to suck up the mangoes of Carlito Rocha, would, at game time, end up without legs or hands to play. It was liquid courage. This was not just a mulatto or a black t­ hing, however. Many whites did not go onto the field without a bit of sugarcane rum. In some, the necessity went so far as to be physical. When the moment of the game was approaching, they would begin to ­tremble. They would get up in the changing room and start walking from one side to the other, rubbing their hands together. It was to warm them up. Once in a while they had to stop. Their legs would be trembling, a feeling of faintness would come on. Then it was necessary to give them the heroic remedy: a nice swallow of cachaça. Vítor, aka “Kitty,” one of the best goalies Brazil had ever had, white and from a good ­family, the pride of Botafogo, of which he had been, during the breakup of the league, a kind of chastity ­belt—­every­one in General Severiano being able to go professional except Vítor—­would not leave the changing room for the field without a half glass of cachaça, drunk all at once. The Trial of the Black Man  223

He was a shy man, very quiet, almost frightened, with a frowning face. But his inhibitions w ­ ere removed by a good slug of cane sugar rum. Speaking was not pos­si­ble—­what was pos­si­ble was getting the ball, agile, feline, his body as if it had springs, in his dives from side to side, in his jumps, his cat paws ready for the rapid, instantaneous gesture of defense. While Vítor played, no one from Botafogo opened their mouths to tell the story of the swallow before the game. It was necessary for Kitty to put on the América jersey (though only temporarily) for the secret to escape, like the air out of an inflated balloon. ­Every club felt duty-­bound to hide the weaknesses of the players who defended it. It was a gesture of self-­defense. The fans knew that they depended inevitably on their team. On their players. Thus, certain fans showed themselves to be more royalist than the king. Disagreeing with the doctor and the coach to satisfy the weakness of the player. As if, instead of feeding the weakness, they ­were strengthening the player. Such was the case of Jurandir Mattos with Vevé. Flamengo was d ­ oing every­thing to keep Vevé from drinking. So on the eve of a game, no question of it. Vevé had to concentrate and Flávio Costa ordered that his mattress and pillow be overturned, that they look ­under his bed, in and on top of his closet, reaching the height of looking in his tube of toothpaste, perhaps recalling the squirt tubes of bygone Carnivals. Every­thing to keep Vevé from laying his hands on alcohol. If one let Vevé loose a l­ ittle, he would go to a bar. Then he would drink, methodically, b ­ ecause he was a glutton for drink, ­until he was glassy-­eyed. He never fell down. He did not even drag his legs to improve his balance, as the more experienced drunks did. He was a small mulatto, with a flat head, a V-­shaped face, and the close-­ set eyes of a Mongol. More like a Mongol was his mustache, with the tips falling down at the corners of his mouth. If it had been longer, it would have been a Mandarin mustache. During Carnival, Vevé needed ­little for a costume. All he had to do was slip on a Chinese tunic. On the field, however, he was transformed. No other winger knew how to match his cuts, like a knife. He would make two cuts and end up in the same place. The opponent was the one who would go to one side, then the other, swaying, like a shrub blown about in a gale. Generally, a­ fter the cuts, one a­ fter the other, Vevé would take a shot. And it would be a goal or almost a goal. A player like that, so precious, needed to last. And Flávio Costa knew that if he was drinking, Vevé would not last long. For this reason, he imposed a dry law on him, which Jurandir Mattos would flout, like a 1920s smuggler in 224  Chapter Five

the United States of Amer­i­ca. I say a smuggler, and not a gangster, b ­ ecause around ­here, the smuggler is almost an old friend or comrade. However much they have tried, the police have not been able to scare the Brazilian. The Brazilian still sees, in the smuggler who arranges ­things, what Vevé saw in Jurandir Mattos: a friend. With no American cigarettes, no whiskey, no real Scotch, no French perfumes, who would work to arrange them, exposing himself to the threat of being imprisoned and put on trial? Except that Jurandir Mattos exposed himself to no more than a scolding from Flávio Costa. And, even so, he would still take the proper precautions, exaggerating them even. He had f­ ree passage at Gávea, where Flamengo would practice, and at São Januário, where the carioca side would practice, serving as a kind of unofficial director—of the club and of the federation. They called him “Electric Neck” b ­ ecause he would constantly stick out and pull in his neck, which gave him an air if not of helplessness, then of innocence. On top of that, he was an inveterate Flamengo. The red-­and-­black fans understood in him the admiration and enthusiasm for Vevé. The fans of a par­tic­u­lar team divided themselves by players. None could care for all of them or please all of them. Jurandir Mattos had chosen Vevé. This was in order to secretly pass him, during the pregame gatherings at Gávea or São Januário, perhaps by slipping it beneath a cushion, one of ­those flat ­bottles whose name does not occur to me and I ­don’t know if it has a special name, a kind of curved cigarette case, with the difference being that it does not open on the side, with a light touch on the spring, but rather on the top, by unscrewing the threaded lid. It was a beautiful piece of metal, almost like vermeil, proclaiming the words “Made in U.S.A.,” a reminder of the times of Al Capone. His task completed, Jurandir Mattos’s neck would be moving around even more, as if the ceremony, almost liturgical, of smuggling cachaça to Vevé had excited him, speeding up the uncontrollable movements of half rotating his chin, then tilting it to the right and to the left. Jurandir Mattos’s mission was not a secret from José Lins do Rêgo, who was also concerned with the delivery or not of the salvific dose of rum. “All good?” inquired José Lins do Rêgo. “With a cherry on top!” responded Jurandir Mattos, who shook his neck like a dog wags its tail, to demonstrate greater joy. But the mulatto and black men paid for this. Nobody remembered the white cachaça drunks, only the mulatto and black ones. It was the whites who judged the mulattoes and blacks; it should not be surprising that they w ­ ere more complacent about the weaknesses of whites. And perhaps in the judgment of the blacks by the whites, more than racism, which did not exist in ­every club, the background of the mulattoes and The Trial of the Black Man  225

blacks coming from all corners of Brazil had an influence, though only in relation to their mulattoes and blacks, the ones chosen by them. How had they been born? How had they reached manhood? What environment did they grow out of? What physical and moral flaws did they bring with them? They w ­ ere good with the ball, of that t­ here was no doubt. Many arrived, however, carry­ing four crosses. Some had to be reconstructed physically, so to speak. In truth, not only mulattoes and blacks; whites, too. Refugees of soccer. Each club became the doctor and ­lawyer of its players, while encouraging worse restrictions on the players of other clubs. Especially if they w ­ ere mulattoes and blacks. ­There ­were mulattoes and blacks who did not concern themselves with all of this, who went so far as to offer to throw a game. Mulattoes and blacks from small clubs, with uncertain salaries and even more uncertain beasts. Minister João Lira Filho relates that when he was president of Botafogo, he received a strange phone call. “Dr. Lira, how are you? I wish you good health.” “Thank you,” said the not yet minister. “With whom do I have the plea­ sure of speaking?” “With Francisco, Dr. Lira.” “Francisco?” João Lira Filho tried, unsuccessfully, to remember a Francisco, just a Francisco. If it w ­ ere an intimate Francisco, he would recognize the voice. “Francisco, keeper of Bonsucesso, Dr. Lira,” clarified the voice on the other end. The memory of João Lira Filho began to materialize, as if he w ­ ere pulling a rec­ord from a file. Francisco, who was on Bonsucesso, had debuted with São Cristóvão and was now g­ oing from club to club, g­ oing downhill, perhaps ­because of his alcoholism, which he could not overcome. He was a tall mulatto, with an almost round face and dull eyes, a good goalkeeper. On a good day, he would catch every­thing. “A g­ reat plea­sure, Francisco.” João Lira Filho waited for some kind of request for a job. “I’m in good shape, Dr. Lira.” “I’m very happy for you, Francisco,” João Filho said, and remembered, putting himself on his guard, that it was the week of a Botafogo versus Bonsucesso matchup. “Look what good shape I’m in, Dr. Lira,” insisted Francisco on the other end of the line. “May you be happy, Francisco.” “Dr. Lira, Dr. Lira,” repeated Francisco. “Look what good shape I’m in. The one who warns is a friend.” 226  Chapter Five

“I thank you kindly, Francisco.” The game fell on the anniversary of the founding of Botafogo and was in General Severiano. João Lira Filho was on the platform of honor, surrounded by the old guard of Botafogo, “the Glorious One.” Francisco caught every­ thing, and Botafogo ended up losing.15 And when the referee blew the final whistle, shaking his arms in the ­middle of a sepulchral silence in General Severiano, Francisco made a point of walking, with a smooth gait, a street-­urchin smile rounding his face even more, by the platform of honor and greeting João Lira Filho with a subtle signal, not to make a scene but to remind him, or re-­remind him, about the telephone call from a friend. “­Didn’t I tell you, Dr. Lira, that I was in good shape?” was João Lira Filho’s not-­very-­loose translation. Nothing was ever proven, but a lot was said about winning a game on Thursday, which was the practice day for most of the clubs. T ­ here ­were t­ hose who believed piously in the bribery of players, principally the mulattoes and blacks. When someone in a club was thinking about assuring a victory by putting his hand into his pocket, he accepted, with absolute good faith, the insinuated venality of a mulatto or a black man. If it was proposed that he bribe a white man, he might hesitate or even give up on the idea. Especially b ­ ecause one had to trust whoever was g­ oing to talk to or soften the player on the other team. Or whisper to him, as one said. It was always a conversation at a ­table in a café in low voices. In a whisper. At Botafogo, the one who offered himself to provide this ser­vice was Goosebumps. He would get two, three, sometimes five thousand cruzeiros, put them into his pocket, and go out. Almost always, if not always, he kept the money. ­Either b ­ ecause the player to be approached was incorruptible or b ­ ecause he trusted that the Botafogo team was much stronger than Bangu, Bonsucesso, Madureira, São Cristóvão, Olaria, and Canto do Rio. When the game began, Goosebumps would put his hands together and pray to the saints. He was short and stocky, with grimy, faded blond hair and a stubbly mustache, quite rough. Next to Carlito Rocha, he would practically dis­appear. He stood next to Carlito as if seeking protection. Once in a while Botafogo would lose, with the player who was supposedly being bribed making their lives miserable. If it was a goalie, he ­wouldn’t let even a thought past him. If it was a striker, he would be banging them into Botafogo’s net. They would call out Goosebumps. “And so-­and-so who was in your pocket?” “It’s a this, it’s a that; t­ here are no words for it.” The Trial of the Black Man  227

And he’d promise to smash the guy’s face in. Or if not smash his face in, ­ ecause the other one would likely flatten Goosebumps, then not give him b another cent. “If he comes to offer himself again, you guys w ­ ill see—­not another cent.” The prob­lem was that Carlito Rocha would not let himself be deceived for nothing. At certain times, like during a defensive play by the “bought” player, supposedly paid to allow one goal by the opponent, Carlito Rocha would look at Goosebumps like one looks at a worm. And Goosebumps would crawl like a worm to placate Carlito Rocha. Sometimes he would declare himself guilty, but he would proclaim more loudly his Botafogo pride. Carlito Rocha, for example, might think that the point-­blank shot by the bought forward was defendable. Sure Oswaldo “the Post” had thrown himself t­ oward the corner, but the ball was already in the back of the net. “That one, Mr. Carlito, not even Christ,” said Goosebumps, having forgotten that the striker was supposed to have taken the money still folded in his pocket. “­Don’t be an imbecile,” responded Carlito Rocha angrily, offended. “Christ catches every­thing. With Christ in the goal, the posts would grow together, like this,” and Carlito Rocha brought together his two pointer fin­gers, squeezing them together with force, so that not even the shadow of a doubt would pass between them, much less a soccer ball. ­These “Goosebumps” gave mulattoes and blacks a bad name, and t­ here ­were many more than one might imagine. For this reason, the opinion held about the mulattoes and the blacks of the other teams was the worst pos­si­ble. It was what explained so many mulattoes wishing to pass as whites, so many blacks getting their hair straightened, to flee the condemnation of the Lamartine Babo march, to this day eternalized in Carnivals: “Your Hair Does Not Deny It!” Zezé Procópio, a mulatto with short wavy hair, did not worry so much about his hair. What revealed his color, for him naturally, ­because he had mulatto gray in his skin, was his flat nose. Instead of having his hair straightened, which perhaps would have turned him even more mulatto, he submitted himself to what was still rare in that era: plastic surgery. His flat nose was straightened and tapered, and Zezé Procópio felt himself to be if not white, almost white, someone who had passed by “scraping,” as the radio announcers said regarding a wide shot that gave the impression of almost a goal, through the color line. Only ­those who knew Zezé Procópio well could understand how much it weighed on him to be mulatto, based on the detail of the plastic surgery to his nose. ­Because Zezé Procópio was a mixture of Moliére’s miser and Dick228  Chapter Five

ens’s moneylender. He only loosened his purse strings to buy a pre­sent for his son.16 His avarice and usury w ­ ere attitudes of defense—­exaggerated without a doubt, even taken to anecdotal extremes—­against the extreme poverty that seemed to be waiting, patiently, for him to take off his cleats in order to throw him in the gutter. It’s certain that Zezé Procópio was only worrying about his salvation a­ fter he ­stopped playing soccer. If a colleague needed a ­little money, Zezé Procópio demanded 50 ­percent interest for a week or at the most, ten days. He would not lend for less. Almost always the Botafogo player wanted the money b ­ ecause of a w ­ oman. It was not to bring bread home, which if it w ­ ere so, t­ here would have to be someone who gave without argument. Giving or loaning without charging interest. Zezé Procópio, the mulatto from Minas Gerais, would point his knife at the chest of his colleague. He lent 500 in order to get back 750 on the day of repayment. When the day to repay arrived, ­there was Zezé Procópio, right next to the cash register, knife in hand. B ­ ecause he took payments with a knife. If someone tried to default on a debt to him, that person would be marked for the rest of his life. As far as anyone knows, Zezé Procópio did not knife anyone. But it was a pacifying point that, if it came to it, he would not hesitate an instant. Thus the terror he inspired. The debtors could, at most, ­after paying in full the 750 for 500, ask for another loan on the same terms. But nobody should call him a usurer. One borrowed money from him like a ­favor from a ­father to a son. Only thusly, with the terms of 50 ­percent interest, would Zezé Procópio accept. And grumbling: “You guys need to think about the ­future. This way, you’ll end up picking up paper in the street.” It was the fear of ending up like so many o ­ thers, picking up paper in the street, which had made of him a miser and a usurer. A real penny pincher. Smoking only gifted cigarettes, lit with someone e­ lse’s match. Not ­going out except on foot, in order not to pay for the tram. Only ­going to the movies if it was f­ ree. Saving every­thing he received and then investing the money with the intuition of a born financier. For example, he bought enormous plots of land around the Pampulha, in Belo Horizonte. For this reason, no one at General Severiano understood the wasting of money on plastic surgery. The only explanation was that he had gone crazy. Suddenly, without rhyme or reason, Zezé Procópio, in a flight of insanity, had ripped up his money. This was so much the case that it only happened once, to never happen again. On the contrary: each day the spirit of the miser and usurer was becoming more accentuated. The Trial of the Black Man  229

The explanation came suddenly, a­ fter a practice, with every­one in the changing room, some changing their clothes, o ­ thers bathing. It was the old changing room of Botafogo, the benches in the room in the ­middle, on one side the bathroom, on the other the beds lined up as in a hospital. Zezé Procópio was taking off his cleats when Téo, also from Minas Gerais but white and very handsome, appeared, coming out of the shower, still wet, drying himself with a face towel. To economize, Botafogo, like other clubs, did not buy bath towels; the players had to dry themselves with face towels. And t­ here came Téo, who played as a winger, wiggling a l­ittle ­because he was vain regarding his well-­shaped body and his movie-­star face, as well as his brilliant, full, almost Argentine hair. He placed himself in front of the mirror and, while he combed his hair, clothed only with a face towel around his neck, he swayed on his feet to the rhythm of a radio samba. Zezé Procópio saw him from ­behind. He could not resist and made a joke. The ­others laughed, and Téo turned red. Feeling embarrassed, he touched on the sore spot of Zezé Procópio, which was his color. The mulatto gray that he had tried to disguise with plastic surgery to narrow his nose. Téo regretted it immediately. In the mirror, he saw Zezé Procópio grab the knife and stand up. It was a scene that João Saldanha has not forgotten to this day. Zezé Procópio had hardly stood up, with knife in hand, when Téo made a run for it. He went out, nude, through the changing room door, and gained the field, with Zezé Procópio, also nude, b ­ ehind him, the knife glowing as if it w ­ ere catching fire in the light of sunset, which was bloodred. Only ­those who saw it could believe it. The whiteness of the nude Téo pulling down the darkness, which was falling, like a mist, over Botafogo’s field. The gray of the nude Zezé Procópio, the dagger before him. And the ­running around the dark green lawn. It was not just t­ hose two. It was all the players of Botafogo spreading out through the field. Some nude, some in shorts. And it was João Saldanha, very thin, and Carlito Rocha, enormous. Only when he found himself in front of Carlito Rocha with open arms, his voice thin but energetic, asking him for the knife, did Zezé Procópio stop. “Give me the knife, Zezé Procópio.” Zezé Procópio was purple with rage. He had begun to shake. He turned the knife over to Carlito Rocha, but said, “It’s for you, sir; if not, I would shred his face.” He wanted to put an end to the vanity of the handsome white man. In such a way that no plastic surgery could save him. And the one who would wiggle in front of Téo, showing his profile with the thin nose of a white man, would be Zezé Procópio. 230  Chapter Five

A mulatto had the recourse of plastic surgery if his flat nose denounced his race, more than or just as much as “­can’t deny it” hair. And regarding the hair, ­there was always the way out of having it straightened. Many mulattoes passed as whites even in their federation files. The Medical Department did not want to offend them, using the very elastic Brazilian conception of color. He who could “scrape” the exam would pass. Instead of a mulatto, a mestizo. Or then, in a broader generalization, brown haired. And the black man who wished he w ­ asn’t black? Straightened hair did not make him less black. ­Unless to ­favor the hypothesis of a son of a white man and a black w ­ oman. As in the case of Leônidas da Silva, who was exactly this, son of a black m ­ other and a Portuguese f­ather. Even so, he had to have his rebellious hair straightened. Gentil Cardoso never denied his condition of being black. On the contrary, it was like he proclaimed it. Not out of racial pride, a kind of racism in reverse, but out of hurt. Less the condition of his color, which God had given him, than that of the barriers he saw raised all over against the man of color in Brazil. If he w ­ ere not black, he would be directing teams of the big clubs, and they would not deny him the honor of coaching the Brazilian side. For who had been the first Brazilian coach, the first real coach? The black Gentil Cardoso, using a blackboard and more, with tactics drawn in chalk, the introducer of the Chapman system in Brazil.17 But then the occasion arrived. Fluminense, the aristocratic club of Laranjeiras, as it was still called in the papers, called up Gentil Cardoso. He was ­going to be the first black man to command a Fluminense team. It had been the frustrated ambition of Domingos da Guia to be the first black man to wear the tricolor jersey. Gentil Cardoso was ­going to realize himself as a black man. It was one t­ hing to be a player and another to be a coach. Especially in the era of Flávio Costa and Ondino Viera, true dictators. Brazilian soccer had discovered the coach a­ fter delivering Dori Krushner to martyrdom and was yielding himself to him, entirely. Gentil Cardoso signed the contract with Fluminense one day, and four days ­later he appeared in Álvaro Chaves to take over the team. He had prepared himself for that glorious moment during ­those four days between the signing of the contract and the pre­sen­ta­tion of the players. It seemed that every­one had been advised in advance. Few practices had ever awoken such curiosity, such bits of mischief, among the photog­raphers. The crowd of photog­raphers was that of a big match. And thus arose Gentil Cardoso. He wore the gray track pants of an athlete, the elastic of the ankles, also gray, hugging his basketball shoes. His large The Trial of the Black Man  231

bust was covered by a windbreaker, of the same color as the track pants, with two large pockets on the chest, one on each side. Around his neck was a necklace of thick rope, like an aiguillette, from which hung, like a crucifix, the whistle. Perched on his head, a high baseball cap with a wide brim. And in his right hand, ready to be lifted to his mouth in an epic gesture of a cornetist, a megaphone.18 Gentil Cardoso was ­going to direct the practice of Fluminense with whistle and megaphone. When it was time to end practice, the whistle; when it was time to give an order, the megaphone. ­There ­were scandalized tricolor fans. One had never seen anything of the like in Álvaro Chaves. The newspapers, commenting on that fact, seemed like Eu­ro­pean newspapers speaking of a Brazil with the capital of Buenos Aires, where ­t here was a city called Rio de Janeiro with snakes g­ oing down Rio Branco Ave­nue. Fluminense, however, when they signed a contract, honored it. And Gentil Cardoso promised the championship, although he had one condition: “Give me Ademir, and I’ll give you a championship.” Ademir Meneses, before ­going to Vasco, had almost stayed another season in Fluminense. He was the lead scorer of the championship and was a ­free agent. It had been a demand of old Meneses, known in Pernambuco at the time of Sport Clube Recife as “Mosquito,” ­because in the name of his son, he was biting the club.19 And his bites sometimes drew blood. Fluminense held on to old Meneses, and so Ademir went to Fluminense for the time being. Now Gentil Cardoso just needed keep his promise. And he did keep it, although to do so required a playoff. The decisive goal was made by Ademir. At the victory party in Álvaro Chaves, the German—­a fan who always positioned himself in the m ­ iddle of the fans of the other team in order to receive real blows and be able to yell, with the taste of blood in his mouth, the name of Fluminense—­drank French champagne, poured out by tricolor fans in delirium, which flowed among the toes that had shot the ball of the championship goal.20 Not even with all this did Gentil Cardoso last at Fluminense. And not just ­because Ademir Meneses, the ­g reat weapon of the championship, had returned, for his weight in gold, to São Januário. All it took was the opportunity of the return of Ondino Viera to arise for all hesitation at Álvaro Chaves to dis­appear. Ondino Viera had created a new era in the history of Brazilian soccer. It was not for nothing that he had read Oswald Spengler, the prophet of The Decline of the West: “The era of successive wars is ­going to begin.” 232  Chapter Five

Not just among nations, of which the Second World War was an example that had recently ended. Well before that, soon a­ fter the entrance of Brazil into the war, Ondino Viera declared, with the responsibility of a Vasco coach: “The championship is a war.” And a war like the one being waged in the four corners of the world, without quarter. Ondino Viera’s phrase had an importance that one cannot stress enough, b ­ ecause it was accepted without debate. ­There ­were suggestions of war in the newspapers ­every day. Brazil was, geo­ graph­i­cally, long from the horrors of the bombardment of London, of the ­Battle of Sta­lin­grad, of Guadalcanal, of Iwo Jima. But the soccer championship was getting violent around ­here, exacerbating the passions of almost enemies. This is what explains the tone of war that imposed itself in the games. And, above all, the utilization of arms available to the clubs or to the imagination of partisan journalists or fans. Each big club had its Goebbels, its Gestapo, its Fifth Column.

4. The championship was a war. Ondino Viera had not in­ven­ted anything; he had just pointed out a fact. It’s true that many ­people had not realized the change that had taken place in the dispute of a soccer title. It was enough for it to be identified by e­ very fan, coach, director, journalist, or announcer connected to a club to try to carry out their appropriate roles. I did not include in this list the player, in this case the soldier, although some w ­ ere more than soldiers, some rising as high as sergeants of the York type, lieutenants, majors, captains, col­o­nels, and even generals, ­battle geniuses.21 I did not include the player-­soldier b ­ ecause he would always be the victim, the “cannon fodder,” the one who dies the most, who dies en masse, only to earn, ­after it is all over, with the arrival of peace, the eternal flame of the unknown soldier, whose name only God knows. And it was easy to perceive the transformation of the championship into an au­then­tic war, with bombardments and every­thing ­else. The newspapers even printed headlines to announce the “Berlin Bombardment” in Ferrer Street, ­after the first g­ reat bombardment on a soccer field. Bangu’s field was still on Ferrer Street, near the station. In the old days, it was called the “enchanted field.” It was up ­there, they said, that Bangu hardly lost. Down h ­ ere they hardly won. Thus the ­simple explanation for “enchanted.” What was influential, almost always decisively, was not the field, a real carpet of En­glish grass, soft, good for the flow of the game. It is better for the The Trial of the Black Man  233

teams of the big clubs than for the team of Bangu, of the small club that it returned to being, ­after the 1933 title. When the championship became a war, Guilherme de Silveira Filho had taken over Bangu. Thus the plan of the ­great bombardment was able to be carried out. It is not known why the victim chosen for the experience of bombardment, like that suffered by Berlin in reprisal for that of London, was São Cristóvão. To get an idea: four thousand bombs w ­ ere bought, cherry bombs and rockets, and t­ hose ­were tied together so that the explosions would be successive and shake the earth and darken the sky. One can find the explanation for why Bangu was the first—­not in throwing bombs, ­because the connection between soccer and São João, between soccer and all the traditional Brazilian festivities, was an old one—in the greater importance of the São João festival in the suburban neighborhoods, which are akin to l­ ittle towns in the interior, where t­ here is more space for big bonfires and where the popu­lar traditions are almost indistinguishable from religious ties, which they w ­ ere and around t­ here continue to be. The war tactic was not just bombardment; it was, above all, the preceding propaganda that one made about it. It was the pro­cess of the war of nerves, used so successfully by the Nazis to soften populations and nations. It was ­going to be the biggest bombardment of the history of soccer: this was what was printed in the papers. Thousands of cherry bombs and rockets had been bought. Picabeia, São Cristóvã­o’s coach, an Argentinian, locked up the targeted players, “cadets” as they w ­ ere called, in the changing room, and distributed cotton wads among them. They w ­ ere for the whites, mulattoes, and blacks of São Cristóvão to plug their ears with. São Cristóvão would enter the field only ­after the bombardment had ended, when the last whiff of the gray smoke clouds from the explosions had dis­ appeared. Seated close together on the benches of the visitors’ changing room of Rua Ferrer field, their bodies huddled, their heads down, their hands covering their ears, as if the wads of cotton ­were not enough, the players of São Cristóvão waited, with tense nerves, like violin strings ready to snap. No sound reached them. Only the changing room floor trembled, shaken by the explosions happening out t­ here. Bangu had entered the field. Already deaf, b ­ ecause of the cotton wads stuffed in their ears, the players of São Cristóvão closed their eyes. Joel, the Afro-­indigenous goalie, seemed as if he had malaria. Mundinho, a dark-­skinned mulatto who played at back next to Augusto Costa, had hardened his body, entirely tense. Santo Cristo—­ the mulatto who kicked the penalty wide and threw a fit in that game against Botafogo ­after Zarcy had whispered a bribe offer to him—­was on the verge of 234  Chapter Five

hallucinating. Alfredo, who put “I” a­ fter his name to distinguish himself from Alfredo II of Vasco, blacker than he, felt his muscles aching. Nestor, a light-­ skinned mulatto, had suddenly turned into steel. The whites w ­ ere in no better condition. Only Augusto Costa tried to preserve the dignity of someone who considered himself above such t­ hings. But inside he was trembling, like the ­others, imagining the bombing of Berlin. Though they heard nothing, the players of São Cristóvão ­were imagining. And they ­were imagining, in the place of cherry bombs and rockets, real bombs, tons of TNT. Fi­nally, ­after a wait that seemed like an eternity, Picabeia gave the signal. The São Cristóvão players could remove the cotton from their ears. The bombardment had ended. Every­thing had gone quiet. The time had come to enter the field. When they arose from the long benches of the changing room, the players of São Cristóvão had shaky legs. Some smiled awkwardly, while ­others tried to puff out their chests. Not even a ­little cloud of gunpowder smoke could be seen. It was a beautiful, clear after­noon. What use was the blue sky? The transparency of the air, the caress of the light breeze, like the fin­gers of a ­woman? The players of São Cristóvão ­were defeated. They did not resist a Bangu aglow with the explosion of four thousand bombs in its f­ avor. On top of that, the referee was Mário Vianna, with the haircut of a German soldier. It was war. It was a thrashing.22 That bombardment on the Ferrer Street field was nothing in comparison to that which greeted the entry of the carioca and paulista sides into the second leg game of a best of three series to decide the Brazilian Championship of 1943, in São Januário. In a phase of still clear superiority to carioca soccer, São Paulo boasted the title of two-­time champion of Brazil. Now they w ­ ere coming to Rio to try for three, with Leônidas da Silva wearing the jersey with thin, vertical stripes in black, white, and red, the colors of the São Paulo state flag. Vargas Netto, president of the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer, went so far as to create a “Gestapo” to monitor the slightest movements of the players who ­were ­going to defend Rio. He did not even make a secret of the name of the new organ of the federation: it ­really was Gestapo. Not, of course, in the official documents. But when he referred to Luiz Vinhaes, the boss; to Camarão; to José Tricolor himself, he would say, affectionately, “My Gestapo.” He maintained the worse suspicions about some of the players on the carioca side, which had lost the last Brazilian Championship to São Paulo. Even of Domingos da Guia, who supposedly gave a goal to Milani, clearing a ball The Trial of the Black Man  235

with a pass that fell, mathematically, at the feet of the paulista ace. But above all of Jurandir, a paulista who was guarding the carioca goal and had gone so far as to let go of a ball a­ fter defending it, as if throwing it into his own net. Thus the idea of a Gestapo that followed in the steps of the carioca players and made reports like ­those of an espionage ser­vice. It was still the era of the New State,23 but Brazil had entered the war on the side of the Axis powers. The name Gestapo was chosen to frighten, and it frightened, truly, more than any other. The Gestapo surprised Domingos da Guia, drunk in a dance hall, three steps from the Cineac Building, where the federation was located. He had come from Bangu, and it was raining. He had entered the National Bar, in the Cruzeiro Galleria, and with half a cup of beer got high. When he came to himself, he was in the hands of Vinhaes and Camarão. The side needed him. For this reason, he was pardoned ­a fter giving the greatest demonstrations of repentance, something he did not like to do, ­because of a sense of dignity of a “Master.” It was good that that happened, that the Gestapo ­really worked, ­because ­there was nothing e­ lse. The atmosphere was one of war. The newspapers of Rio and São Paulo treated each other as if they belonged to belligerent powers. The Paulista Federation knew ­there was ­going to be a bombardment in São Januário. They prepared themselves to face it. Not like São Cristóvão, whose error was widely publicized, plugging the ears of its players and having them wait in the changing room while imagining the end of the world. The São Paulo side would enter with the carioca one. Thus, the bombardment that greeted the entry of the cariocas, energizing them, would also serve as a greeting to the paulistas.24 And it was enough for the first carioca player to be spotted at the door of the changing room for the first paulista player to appear on the other side. The signal was given, and from e­ very corner of São Januário, rockets started to whistle. ­Behind the goal from the pole they w ­ ere connected with wicks, one to the other, mountains of bundles of rockets, the biggest from the factories of June festival fireworks, good for salvos of twenty-­one shots, like a cannon. It was as if São Januário w ­ ere being bombarded, reduced to ashes. The impression one had was that not a stone would be left standing. No one saw anything besides the flashes of the bombs, the sky illuminated by lightning that cut it in two. And the earth shook, seemingly shaken by an earthquake, by vari­ous earthquakes, ­because it was a never-­ending tremor. Vaguely ­there appeared, in the field covered by a London fog, shapes moving, r­ unning, as if fleeing from a cataclysm. 236  Chapter Five

As long as they had not released the last rocket, and the last firework or cherry bomb had not exploded, the nightmare continued. Except that for carioca ears, it was ­music from the heavens. For the paulistas’ ears, it was another t­ hing altogether. Fi­nally t­ here was silence. Five minutes a­ fter the game had started, the fog still covered São Januário. The players ­were seen as shadows, pursuing a ball invisible to the eyes of the fans. The mist that was falling slowed the rising of the bombs’ smoke. ­Little by ­little the floodlights of São Januário turned the lawn green again, a green humid and alive, drawing from it scintillations of dew. It was the celebrated game of “enough.” Never was a group of fans crueler, nor did any cause such damage, as the carioca one that night. ­There was, in the grandstand, a drum troupe in the ­middle of an or­ga­nized fan group that was singing an Ary Barroso march, written especially for the occasion, like a war hymn, happy, bouncy, a “La Madelon” of soccer.25 Against the backdrop of the song, the carioca players played, dancing. It is said that Servílio, a slender black man who was one of São Paulo’s attacking players, next to Leônidas, s­ topped to watch, stunned, the intrigues of Lelé and Tim, ping-­ponging the ball back and forth. “Look how t­ hey’re playing, Hércules!” Which earned him harsh words from Leônidas, now a paulista: “Instead of standing t­ here like a fool, play like them.” When the cariocas scored their sixth and final goal, winning six to one, the crowd, without prior warning, as if commanded by an inaudible order, interrupted the festivities: “Enough!” And the dance was over. The paulistas felt that “Enough!” more than they did the six to one. For Antônio Carlos Guimarães, president of the São Paulo Federation—­handpicked to counterbalance, as a ­great friend of Getulinho, the position of Vargas Netto, beloved nephew of Getúlio Vargas—­every­thing was the result of the bombardment.26 So much so that he demanded a conference in the office of the chief of police, Col­o­nel Nelson de Mello, to demand mea­ sures against another bombardment. Ciro Aranha, as president of Vasco, was called. He had to make a promise on his honor that he would not allow a single cherry bomb or rocket, or even a ­simple fountain or a more modest sparkler, to enter São Januário. At the first whistle of a rocket, the paulista side would leave the field, if it had already entered. And so that ­there would not be the slightest doubt about the position of São Paulo, and in the serious, emphatic voice of Antônio Carlos Guimarães, who was practically still a boy but had the voice of someone speaking in the name of one power to another one, like a plenipotentiary authority, the president of the São Paulo Soccer Federation closed the conference with an The Trial of the Black Man  237

ultimatum: “If they set off a single rocket in São Januário, ­there ­will be a very serious prob­lem between São Paulo and Brazil.” Col­o­nel Nelson de Mello almost exploded. The blood ­rose to his head, and a lump formed in his throat. In good faith, one cannot say that Antônio Carlos Guimarães had r­ eally wanted to say “São Paulo and Brazil.” Paulistas even made a point of being or showing themselves to be more Brazilian than the cariocas. São Paulo was the locomotive of Brazil, dragging along all the other states. But the government was in Rio. And it was the government that Antônio Carlos Guimarães was threatening with a prob­lem from São Paulo. Or, at least, the chief of police. What is certain is that Col­o­nel Nelson de Mello, who wanted to see the game—­who ­didn’t?—­had to swallow this. As chief of police and as an official of the army. It was war. If Flamengo and Vasco, Fluminense and Botafogo, w ­ ere facing each other as almost foreign powers, as enemies, imagine São Paulo and Rio. And in the office on Relação Street, a­ fter a coffee was sent for to ease the tension, an agreement was established so that t­ here would be a game. Ciro Aranha gave his word on his honor, which he carried out: no one would set off a rocket in São Januário. As ­there was no time for a public announcement, ­there ­were ­those who protected themselves with an umbrella, despite the sunny day turning into a clear night. As in the case of Djalma Sampaio. When the cariocas entered the field, he opened his umbrella and remained hiding beneath it, waiting for the bombardment that would wipe out several blocks. Without a bomb, the cariocas won the classic final. But Batataes, the goalkeeper of Rio, was accused, when the game was over, of being a traitor. It was that he had only let in one ball, shot by Leônidas da Silva, born in Rio, but already a paulista of four hundred years. Batataes responded that he was Brazilian. Which in that moment made no sense. It was not a question of Brazil: it was one of Rio and São Paulo. Of the war of the Brazilian Championship. What Batataes could have responded is that Leônidas had been born in Rio, that Zezé Procópio and Noronha had gone from Rio to São Paulo. And that he, being in Rio, in the goalie uniform of Rio, had become carioca. That it was Rio he had to die for. This gives an idea of the pressure exerted, in ­those war years, on soccer players, white, mulatto, or black. Of the real stress that the soccer player was submitted to, like a soldier in war. ­There was the war of the championship, roughly comparable to the world war. And t­ here was the private war of club against club, with a date scheduled for each b ­ attle. 238  Chapter Five

When a Flamengo and Vasco matchup was approaching, from Monday on no one spoke of anything ­else. Whoever was with Flamengo would be trying to demoralize the Vasco players, to weaken their self-­confidence, to expose them to ridicule. Whoever was with Vasco would try to do the same with re­ spect to the Flamengo players. It was a war of nerves, a psychological war. One example was the campaign to end, once and for all, one of the best attacking trios of all eras of Brazilian soccer: Lelé, Isaias, and Jair. Lelé, a stocky mulatto who passed as white, had thick legs and a shot that perhaps had no equal. Isaias, a slim black man, was slippery and fast, a sprinter with quick acceleration. Lively and malicious, he was capable of deciding a game with a fantastic goal at ­will. Jair, a mulatto with bad hair, compared to that of Isaias, was almost short. He was thin and had a lady’s foot, but he was apt to crush the ball with his shot. He was one-­ footed, favoring the left, but with that foot he gave passes with millimetric exactitude and made goals from forty meters out. While Lelé, Isaias, and Jair w ­ ere on Madureira, they w ­ ere indeed spoken of, but no one would exaggerate in their praise. And it was even insinuated, to devalue them, that they had been bought. All it took was for them to go to Vasco for a campaign of demoralization to be carried out against them. They only withstood it b ­ ecause they w ­ ere exceptional. And ­because all of Vasco stayed on their side, to save them and be able to dream about a title again. Lelé, Isaias, and Jair ­were the Three Stooges, ­those comedians of cinema who made films whose only humor was in their obtuseness. Who would spend half an hour trying to understand the simplest ­thing. And when it seemed as if they fi­nally understood, they ­hadn’t understood a t­ hing. Vasco had gone for years and years without a championship. This fact was attributed to the curse of Arubinha, a black man on Andaraí who had fallen to his knees, in the mud, ­after an Andaraí versus Vasco game in Álvaro Chaves, his hands clasped together, with his eyes on the black sky: “If t­ here is a God, may Vasco go twelve years without being champion.” What had happened was that Andaraí had waited more than an hour, in the rain, for Vasco to arrive at Fluminense’s field. The referee, ­after waiting fifteen minutes, all of the time limits having been exhausted, had offered Andaraí the win by W.O. (walkover). Andaraí had refused: they would not do something like that to Vasco.27 They knew ­there had been a disaster with the truck that was bringing the Vasco players, so they waited, refusing even to shelter themselves from the rain. When Vasco arrived, Arubinha just asked for one t­ hing: “You guys w ­ ill win, you are stronger, but win by a ­little.” The Trial of the Black Man  239

Vasco promised but d ­ idn’t keep its promise: they shot twelve goals into the net of Andaraí. Thus the curse of Arubinha. Vasco did not go twelve years without winning a championship, but they did go nine. Vasco spent years assembling and disassembling South American sides. Even paying Arubinha to undo the curse. Arubinha was treated like a prince in São Januário. One day, however, he dis­appeared. The news spread that he had buried a toad in Vasco’s field. Vasco ordered that the lawn be torn up in search of the toad. They did not find any toad. Arubinha denied that he had done that. He went so far as to swear. But Vasco did not win a championship. Brazil was already ­going to war, and the following was being sung at Carnival: The tram goes past to the São Januário duel taking one more fool to see Vasco get thrashed. Ciro Aranha took over the presidency of Vasco. He was the ­brother of Chancellor Osvaldo Aranha and would give Vasco po­liti­cal coverage in the New State. Ondino Viera was hired to be coach. He left Fluminense, whose squadron had finished, suddenly, with the last title, conquering two in a row in 1941, and he went with his weapons and baggage to São Januário, with the up-­to-­date conception that the championship was a war. Vasco seemed to him a disarmed E ­ ngland, ­after Dunkirk, but with a capacity of production of a United States of Amer­i­ca. He needed three years to arm them to win the war of the championship, especially ­because he lacked ­those needed to take it from Flamengo, the ­great soccer power that was rising, like Germany with its Panzer divisions, and with its press and its radio, the Atlantic Ocean, and indeed just a step away from Calais. Flamengo soon felt the danger of Vasco’s potential. They had to end the Three Stooges of club Vasco, which had an Ademir to boot. Maybe ­because when the soldiers ­were ­going to depart for the battlefields of Italy, they purposefully or­ga­nized a Brazil versus Uruguay game. Before the real war, in which one died, like cannon fodder, the soldiers would have a version of another war, the soccer kind, which, if it did not kill—­except by heart attack—­placed the players, teams, clubs, and nation-­states ­u nder the stress that was the Sunday meeting of man with pure, raw destiny. And ­there, Lelé scored a goal from midfield. Pereyra Natero, the Uruguayan keeper, told every­one to get out of the way. When Lelé ran to make the shot, Pereyra Natero bent over. He was still bending over when the ball hit the top left corner of the goal, on the inside. It hit up ­there, then bounced down across 240  Chapter Five

the chalk line b ­ ehind Pereyra Natero, hitting the back post on the bottom, lifting up the net like a point-­blank shot, stuffing it, almost bursting its interlacing strings. The soldiers looked at each other in Monte Castelo, with the cannons roaring. That was not a kick; that was a cannon shot. It was the end of the Uruguayan side. It was a shot on goal in Brazil’s ­favor, and the crowd ululated: “Lelé, Lelé!” In the second game, in Pacaembu, it was Jair’s turn. They thought that Jair, with t­ hose skinny legs, t­ hose l­ittle lady’s feet, did not have a shot. Well, they got a shot from Jair. The ball was even deformed, like the nose of a boxer getting a knockout punch. How could t­ hose two belong to the group of the Three Stooges? In compensation, Zizinho, who was the best player of Flamengo. To Domingos da Guia, he was superior to Leônidas da Silva, b ­ ecause Leônidas only attacked while Zizinho attacked and defended, ­going back and forth, the ball always in reach of his feet, for the knife-­cut dribble, for the shot on goal, and he was defended almost like a bandit of soccer, a breaker of legs. In a crash with Agostinho, back on the paulista side, Zizinho got the better of it. Agostinho was flattened, his leg broken. The message went out from São Paulo: Zizinho played dirty, be careful with Zizinho. Whoever was not for Flamengo pointed at Zizinho, yelling ­every time he got the ball: “He’s the one! He’s the one!” Zizinho saved himself by getting his leg broken. It was in a Bangu versus Flamengo match, in Figueira de Melo. He fell, with Adauto on top of him. Adauto got up and he stayed down. He had a broken leg. He almost got it broken again in a Flamengo versus América match. Zizinho was starting to play again, and Jorginho do Morro do Pinto asked him, “Which leg did you break?” Zizinho showed him. And it was that leg that Jorginho do Morro do Pinto kicked, in order to break it.28 This was what made ­every club defend the player whom ­others placed on a blacklist to finish off. Fluminense could not hear the smallest accusation against Bigode without immediately bristling. Bigode was the first ­really black man on Fluminense. ­Those before him ­were mulattoes, some quite dark. Bigode was black. So black that, in the beginning, when he had not yet found his place on the team, he provoked almost racist reactions from the tricolor fans. One of them, Gastão Soares de Moura, was from Minas Gerais, like Bigode. He d ­ idn’t exactly have an objection against black players, as long as they ­were the best. Fluminense could even field a team of all black players, but black players like Leônidas and Fausto, like Domingos and Valdemar de Brito, like Zizinho. The Trial of the Black Man  241

And all of a sudden Bigode let loose. He was a wild animal on the field. He did real cobra strikes, with his feet together, and the player on the other team better get out of the way. At that moment Gastão Soares de Moura accepted Bigode, and woe to anyone who, in his presence, touched the black man. And it was easy to destroy a player. Whoever did not have ­either nerves of steel or a certain carefreeness would find it difficult to withstand. The pressure exerted on the player, what was demanded or expected of him more and more ­every day, was increasingly intense. Maracai is one example of the many who fell during the bloody years of the wars of the championships. He came from the interior of São Paulo to Fluminense full of hope. He scored goals, which was the quickest route to glory. But suddenly he ­stopped scoring goals, and ­those who ­were waiting to finish him off or anybody e­ lse who was an opponent—­that is, an ­enemy—­jumped all over him. They soon arranged for him a nickname, which, starting in the grandstands, gained entrance to the newspaper columns and was shouted into microphones: “Mascarai!”29 All Maracai had to do was get the ball and try to lift his chin, for a charge on goal, and t­ here would come the stinging rebuke: “Mascarai!” Maracai, then, would mess every­thing up; he did not know what to do with the ball anymore. On the day a­ fter a match, he would get up at five o ­ ’clock in the morning and go, on foot, to the Largo do Machado, to buy newspapers still hot from the presses, like bread just out of the oven. It was to read the match commentary. And ­there it was in print, like a shout from a fan of the other club still ringing in his ears, which did not let him sleep, the unappealable sentence: “Mascarai!” In one week, Maracai’s hair turned white. Like a Marie Antoinette of soccer.30

5. Flamengo was in its ele­ment. The club created a secret society, to which they gave the name, quite suggestive, Black Dragons. One day, Diocesano Ferreira Gomes, old “Dão,” still working in journalism, with a regular foxhole at the Correio da Manhã, appeared at the ­Colombo Restaurant, which had substituted for the Café Rio Branco, now closed, with a Chinese streamer. On the streamer was a black dragon and some Chinese characters, naturally. Nobody thought to translate them. It was clear on its face: it was the streamer of the Black Dragons, a secret society from China. 242  Chapter Five

And right then and t­ here, around the t­ able where they ate lunch e­ very day, José Lins do Rêgo, Fadel, José Maria Scassa, Moreira Leite, Alfredo Curvelo, José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos, and old Dão became Black Dragons.31 The French red wine, which Zé Lins would not do without, served as blood taken from each of their veins.32 And the glasses ­were raised for the oath that united them in defense of Flamengo: “Every­thing for Flamengo.” When the news got out that, within Flamengo, ­there was a secret society called the Black Dragons, no one from the other clubs felt safe. The worst schemes w ­ ere attributed to the Black Dragons. One did not know exactly what ramifications it had, what intentions it was hiding, and the name was frightening: Black Dragons. The ones who ­were most alarmed ­were Vasco. The Black Dragons spread it around that Vasco had a Commission of Purchases. What, however, could a Commission of Purchases do, if Vasco had one, against an occult organ­ ization, like a Ku Klux Klan, about which one only knew its name, and a terrible one at that? Thus, Vasco took care not to allow Vargas Netto, president of the Metropolitan Federation, to be alone for even an instant with the red-­a nd-­black folks, for no one knew who might be a Black Dragon. It was ­t here, on the eighth floor of the Cineac Building, that the decisions ­were made. Flamengo always arrived first, even though Vasco had its city headquarters one floor up. José Lins do Rêgo would appear, like someone who d ­ idn’t want anything at all, and soon a­ fter Fadel Fadel. And following them, one a­ fter another, José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos, Alfredo Curvelo, and Jurandir Mattos, extending and retracting his neck. Sometimes even Dario de Mello Pinto, the president, and Gustavo de Carvalho, the ex-­president. That was the signal. The elevator ­stopped at the floor above and went no further; it filled up and then emptied out on the eighth floor. Ciro Aranha came in front, flushed, as if he had just been sunbathing. Egas Moniz widened his ears, enormous, like radars. João Wanderley, very fat, did not remove his handkerchief from his forehead. Rufino Ferreira and Vitorino Carneiro looked like Azorean sheepherding dogs, tasked with watching the smallest movements of Flamengo. Fluminense was not sleeping on the job; soon Gastão Soares de Moura and Reis Carneiro would be ­there. Nelson Thevenet, of Botafogo, showed up as if it w ­ ere just for the well-­made coffee of the old, black Tancredo. And Antônio Avelar gave the impression that he was just ­there to pay a visit or to see if his portrait, as ex-­president of the place, was still hanging on the wall. Domingos Vassalo Caruso was never absent, but he made it very clear that he was not part of any conspiracy. He brought cigars for Vargas Netto and showed The Trial of the Black Man  243

himself to be, to every­one, as protective as a good En­glish maple. The one who broke the tension that would sometimes become unbearable was Alfredo Tranjan, Bonsucesso’s ­lawyer, singing a song he said was the Arabic anthem or telling anecdotes about Turks. ­There no one could conspire. But every­one thought themselves to be fulfilling a sacred duty. All of a sudden Zé Lins asked for a piece of paper and wrote, in legible letters, “Sports and Life” for the Jornal dos Sports. With certainty, he would be tearing apart Vasco, calling Ondino Viera a fraud. Once he ­really did call him that, and Ciro Aranha got offended ­because, down in the South, one did not call anyone a fraud with impunity. When, at the next Vasco versus Flamengo game, Zé Lins appeared on the platform of honor of São Januário, ­there ­were Vasco fans shouting his name, wanting to do him in once and for all. Zé Lins confronted the Vasco crowd like Captain Vitorino Papa-­Rabo. He had the courage of the old Carneiro da Cunha.33 Even to get beat up, which was the greatest of all. But nobody from Vasco wanted to beat up Zé Lins. Early in the morning, the t­ hing that all the Vasco fans read—to fire themselves up, to become more Vasco, to even ready themselves to die for Vasco—­was the ten-­line article of Zé Lins. ­Little did the Vasco fans know that this was the voice of the Black Dragons. That Zé Lins was the scribe of the terrible sect. Anything that Flamengo intended seemed to Vasco, Fluminense, and Botafogo—­their eyes peeled so as not to let anything escape them—as a suggestion of the Black Dragons. When São Cristóvão intended to take its game with Flamengo to São Januário, b ­ ecause the field of Figueira de Melo was small, it was practically accused of being a Judas who had sold himself for thirty silvers. São Cristóvão played the part of the proud poor man. For them, the income did not m ­ atter. They would play in Figueira de Melo. And since they had no alternative, they ordered the hurried construction of cheap grandstands made of flimsy wood. That way, more ­people could see the game. At noon, the gates of Figueira de Melo w ­ ere closed and the police w ­ ere beating back the p ­ eople who had to remain outside. The game lasted only fifteen minutes. It was enough for Flamengo to score one goal for the crowd to start to jump and demand another. Suddenly the new grandstand of São Cristóvão collapsed beneath the weight of the ­human mass. It was as if an abyss had opened up, swallowing the ­people. 244  Chapter Five

In an instant the field was full of wounded p ­ eople that ­were dragging themselves along, screaming. It was no longer a soccer field. It was a battlefield, ­after the b ­ attle, the cannons g­ oing s­ ilent so that one could hear the cries of the mutilated, the groans of the moribund. To show, in one glance, all the horrors of war. All the ambulances of the emergency room ­were mobilized to Figueira de Melo, coming and g­ oing, the sirens screaming through the streets. Fortunately, no one died—at least in Figueira de Melo. In São Januário, during a game of no importance—­Vasco easily beating Madureira, just a smattering of ­people in the grandstands—­two fans had a disagreement. Some other folks showed up telling them to cut it out, and a soldier, on the r­ unning track, pulled out his revolver and shot three times in the air. The result: three deaths. At each recoil of the gun, a victim fell.34 One understands why General Cordeiro de Faria, a São Cristóvão fan, when he could not go to a game, would send in his place his second-­in-­command, Col­o­nel Peracchi Barcelos, as an observer in loco, who would bring him a loyal recounting of the ­battle. And Zé Lins wrote that the conquest of the championship by Flamengo had given him the same joy as the victory of Sta­lin­grad. Which provoked an indignant reaction from Genolino Amado: How could José Lins do Rêgo make sport of what was most sacred? Or did José Lins do Rêgo not know that in Sta­lin­grad they had fought for the freedom of the world? Genolino Amado only had eyes for war in foreign places. He had not been aware of the war in Brazil, which had been unleashed by the passion of the ­people for their club, their city, their state, and even for their Brazil. This is why São Januário exploded in the big final between cariocas and paulistas. The crowd would once in a while spit out a fan from the grandstand. One would see, suddenly, a ­human figure rolling over the heads, pushed together compactly like a sea of ­people, a rough sea in a storm, ­until it fell onto the cinder r­ unning track, where it remained, immobile and almost nude, or entirely nude, like a banana squeezed out of its peel.35 And it was for no other reason that the decisive Flamengo versus Vasco game of 1944 turned into a war operation. Even troops, real troops, w ­ ere brought by Flamengo to the Gávea field. The Coastal Mobile Artillery Group (GMAC) was nearby, and the soldiers all rooted for Flamengo, so Flamengo put five hundred of them ­behind the scoring goal. Vasco refused to be the pious one. They did every­thing so that Flamengo’s field would remain prohibited, as it had been since the collapse of the São Cristóvão grandstands. The police had prohibited all the fields that had wooden The Trial of the Black Man  245

grandstands. Flamengo had one made of cement but nonetheless ended up on the blacklist. In twenty-­eight days, Flamengo built general admission stands of cement on the other side. They made steps of well-­packed sand and placed cement on top. The work was finished before the game against Vasco. And then Flamengo, who ­were the ones who would sell the tickets, made a map of war. Whoever was for Vasco, in the chairs, the grandstands, the general admission areas, had to stay among the Flamengo fans. And as if that ­were not enough, they had the five hundred GMAC soldiers ­behind the scoring goal, ready for anything, awaiting the signal for invasion. Vasco took Jair da Rosa Pinto off the team. This would be a game of life and death, and Jair da Rosa Pinto, as much as he might play or pass in tight spaces, was not a player prepared to die for any club. He always came off the field with his shirt dry. Ondino Viera, who was often seeing ghosts, kept Jair out of the game. Jajá with the Feet of Clay got his revenge in the preliminary match. He never ran more in his life. He soaked his shirt. He destroyed Flamengo’s reserves. It was to show that if he had played on the first team, Vasco would be champion. The champion, what is more for the third time in a row, was Flamengo. Even t­oday [1947], the Vasco fans who saw the game swear by what is most holy that Valido climbed up with his two hands on the shoulders of the black Argemiro to head the goal in for the red-­and-­black victory. Argemiro had his back turned ­toward him, blocking Valido’s path. And Valido jumped up b ­ ehind him; perhaps he r­ eally did put his hands on his shoulders to increase the momentum of his rise and to put his forehead on the ball. The ball went in, and the GMAC invaded the field. Barqueta, the Vasco keeper, when he came to himself, was in the ­middle of the so-­called big circle, like a soldier who, ­after a defeat, still stunned by the vio­lence of b ­ attle, is lost, wandering, searching for he knows not what. It was the impact, not so much of the goal, or of the defeat, but of the divisions of the ­enemy army, which, in successive waves, ­were invading the field and taking every­one unawares with cries of “Flamengo, Flamengo!” Suddenly Barqueta saw himself in the war that Ondino Viera was always talking about and in which he did not believe very much. He knew that the world was at war, but far away, in the fields of Eu­rope, of Africa, of Asia, on the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans; not ­here. He was a civilian dressed as a keeper. And suddenly t­ here ­were the soldiers. Unarmed, but soldiers, and crazed by a Flamengo victory.36 246  Chapter Five

­There are ­those who say that the referee, Guilherme Gomes, was pointing to the m ­ iddle of the field with his arms extended. The GMAC soldiers, scraping past him, together dragged him along by ­those extended arms. It was the war that Ondino Viera had spoken so much about and that had fallen right on top of him. Vasco did not keep quiet; they shouted their protests from the rooftops. It was no use. Flamengo was the champion of the city for the third consecutive time. The city celebrated all night long. Zé Lins do Rêgo went home by foot, accompanying the crowd, which shouted, jumped, and danced samba. The film that Vasco showed at the Capitólio building mattered ­little, which at the time of the goal stuttered, stopping, so that one could see Valido climbing on the shoulders of Argemiro, as if playing leapfrog. Nor did the shaky photo­graphs, taken from the film, in which one could not quite see the hands of Valido on the shoulders of Argemiro. Ary Barroso agreed with the ­people of Vasco.37 Valido had actually climbed on Argemiro. But it was to humiliate the poor Vasco fan, who was feeling consoled, for a moment, by that admission from someone beyond suspicion. Who would be less suspicious than Ary Barroso, who, ­every once in a while, was chased ­after in São Januário with cries of “Stop, stop”? It was b ­ ecause of Ary Barroso that Vasco had ordered the construction of radio booths above the grandstands. To put him safely out of reach of the anger of the Vasco community. Then Ary Barroso would explain that Flamengo’s win, for him, had had only one defect. The doubt subsisted: Had Valido climbed or not climbed on Argemiro? For many Flamengos, he had not climbed. Valido himself denied that he had climbed. And Ary Barroso summed up, then, his ideal as a fan. He wanted Flamengo to be champion, and in a game against Vasco, by a goal scored with the hand. But with every­one watching, above all, the referee, ­because if the referee ­didn’t see it, it ­wouldn’t be any fun at all. Only then did the Vasco fan discover that Ary Barroso, too, belonged to the sect of the Black Dragons. Transformed into a private in an army, in a total war, it is easy to imagine the provocations to which the player was submitted. Some sacrificed themselves without a complaint. With the vanity of a tough guy. One example was Pirilo, who had entered the field in the Vasco versus Flamengo final with a testicular inflammation. To be able to play—­and he would not even consider staying out—he received, on the spot, a novocaine injection. Only this way did he manage to play and run on the field, fighting desperately. It was a title that was at stake. The Trial of the Black Man  247

Bria was another to feel the prick of Doctor Paes Barreto’s needle. He had a tumor in his back, which had not yet reached the point of being cut out but which impeded him, so much was the pain that was only increasing with e­ very step. In Flamengo’s changing room, before the novocaine injection, Bria had remained prone, wailing, lying on his stomach on the long bench. One had to be quite a man to play like that. Pirilo might take a kick from which a jockey strap cup would hardly protect him. And Bria was taking the chance of being knocked down at any moment, of falling on his back, of being pushed or perhaps elbowed. Jocelin, a mulatto sailor who played at halfback, ended that way, with an injection of novocaine. He had a sprain and was carried off the field, but Flamengo could not play with just ten.38 Doctor Paes Barreto had no doubts: he gave him an injection of novocaine. Jocelin was not a young man. He was at the end of his ­career. He could last another two, maybe three years at the most. His old muscles, burnt out, w ­ ere submitted to forty-­five minutes of effort. With a novocaine injection, Jocelin did not feel a t­ hing. He felt good; he could run, kick, and be kicked back. He never again wore the Flamengo jersey. The doctors obeyed the rules of war. Instead of Pervitin, it was novocaine. The private dressed up as a soccer player had to bear it ­until the end. Only if he broke his leg would he not return. Much younger than Jocelin, Bigode spent most of a championship season without playing, for the same reason. Fluminense was far ahead in the 1944 championship. They had defeated Vasco, which seemed to be the only other candidate, since Flamengo had been sluggish and lost by five goals to Botafogo in General Severiano. Flamengo’s opponent was América, the game in Álvaro Chaves. Bigode turned his back to Jorginho do Morro do Pinto, and in a fraction of a second extended his right leg in an attempt to turn around. Jorginho do Morro do Pinto saw Bigode’s leg extended with maximum muscular force. And, acting quickly, he kicked him with the tip of his cleats in the back of his thigh. The floodlights illuminated the scene. The focus of the lights drew sparks from the massage oil on Bigode’s thigh. The oily black man with the tense muscles was shining. Jorginho do Morro do Pinto managed, therefore, to choose the spot in which the tip of his cleats would make the maximum impact. Bigode fell down flat. It was a sprain. Dr. Hilton Gosling tried his best to lift him up. Bigode, when he touched his right foot to the lawn, collapsed. He was taken to the changing room. América was winning two to zero. If Bigode did not return, they could kiss the possibility of a comeback goodbye. 248  Chapter Five

And if he received a novocaine injection, how much time would he need before returning? It was a serious decision that had to be made. And it had to be made quickly b ­ ecause the second half was about to begin. With Bigode, Fluminense could still win and maintain the distance that separated it from Vasco, to further guarantee the title that no one denied was within their reach. Doctor Hilton Gosling opened an ampule of novocaine, filled the syringe, and stuck it into Bigode’s thigh, right on the spot of the sprain. Shortly the pain went away. Bigode got up, stumbling a bit as if he w ­ ere drunk—he ­didn’t know exactly what miracle drug had instantaneously ­stopped the excruciating pain of the sprain—­and went out onto the field.39 When he saw the very green lawn, the dark green of the fo­liage in a nativity scene, he flopped down on his stomach and began to cry. It was a scene to give one chills, that of Bigode dragging himself through the grass and crying. Crying not about hearing himself but about seeing himself from afar. The tears ran clearly, like pure ­water, across Bigode’s face. The stadium became quiet, waiting, and Bigode got up in a jump and went out ­running. He knew what was expected of him. He never fought so much for a victory. He played in the back and went up front to score a goal. It was of no use at all, América two to one. Bigode did not play another game u ­ ntil the championship ended, and Fluminense descended in the standings, defeat ­after defeat. From the top of the ­table, five points ahead of the second-­place team, it ended up way back, watching Flamengo become champion for the third time in a row. Brazil also lost a South American Championship, that of 1945 in Chile, for a similar reason. The Brazilian attack was so good that Ademir, the big scorer, only found a spot as a left winger. Who could he possibly replace—­ Tesourinha? Zizinho? Heleno? Jair? Thus the marvelous wing of Jair and Ademir. It seemed as if the moment awaited since 1939 had arrived. All Brazilian soccer needed was a victory over Argentina. Every­thing indicated that it would occur in that South American Championship in Chile. But Jaime de Almeida twisted his knee. T ­ here was Alfredo II, black as he was, who could take his place. Flávio Costa, however, could not conceive a Brazilian side without Jaime de Almeida. He had only one reservation about him: he played too cleanly. In the ­middle of the championship war, with every­thing on the line, Jaime de Almeida was incapable of kicking anyone. Of coming in hard to challenge for the ball. Of stopping the player on the other team who was passing by him with e­ ither a block or a slide tackle, or even pulling him by the jersey or grabbing him by the shorts. The Trial of the Black Man  249

Flávio Costa, sometimes a bit thrown off by the purity of Jaime de Almeida, would try to convince him not to be dirty but to be hard. The ball would remain with the one who took it with more force, the one who approached with more vigor, the one who lifted his s­ oles. ­There was no point. Jaime de Almeida had the air of a Gandhi playing soccer, taking to the extreme the princi­ple of nonre­sis­tance. He was not blind enough not to see and to feel the war of the championship prophesied by Ondino Viera. More than once he felt it in his own flesh. They could kick him, and he would not retaliate. He would arrive in the changing room, limping, and Flávio Costa would take advantage of the moment to lecture him. “You see? It’s no good being clean. One day t­ hey’ll break you.” Jaime de Almeida would not even respond. He was a tall, handsome black man, with a round face, full of health, exuding that good dignity of the soul that used to be seen in the movies, in certain imposing black men, handpicked to play a butler of the old South in the United States. One had only to close one’s eyes and let one’s fancy reign ­free to dress Jaime de Almeida as a butler in My Old Kentucky Home. He spoke softly, with the drawling voice of someone from Minas Gerais. Every­thing in him evoked cleanliness, goodness, and loyalty. When wanting to cite a model player, a new Mimi Sodré, only one name graced every­one’s lips: Jaime de Almeida. Flávio Costa hoped that one day Jaime de Almeida would open his eyes and see that soccer, worth two points, worth a title of champion, did not allow for a Gandhi. It was the white man attempting to corrupt the black. Not to make him equal to other black men, who would kick. To make him equal to blacks and whites who, when the g­ oing got tough, ­were equals. But so much did soccer, even that of the war of the championship of Ondino Viera, allow for a Gandhi, that Flávio Costa, “Pliers”—­who in his days as a player, mediocre but already a leader, a commander of men, ordered all to play hard—­could not do without a Jaime de Almeida, even with a sprained knee, despite the game being practically the most decisive of the South American Championship in Chile. Jaime de Almeida should have submitted himself to an injection applied by Dr. Amílcar Giffoni. The pain had passed, but the sprain still made his movements difficult. In ten minutes Argentina scored three goals on him, and Jaime de Almeida left the field. In his place went the black Alfredo II, bouncy, skinny, and toothless. But it was too late. The dominance of the Brazilian side mattered ­little; the South American Championship was lost. 250  Chapter Five

Nobody blamed Jaime de Almeida. He had come onto the field in a less than fit condition; he had been a sacrifice. The failure, instead of diminishing him, exalted him. If Flávio Costa could not get Jaime Almeida to retaliate with a kick, to block someone, to do a slide tackle, Flamengo could get him to sign an untrue letter absolving Biguá. ­There had been a Fla-­Flu in Gávea, and Biguá had ­either kicked Careca or received a kick from Careca and was retaliating.40 Biguá was seen as an Indian. If not for his hair, like that of a Japa­nese doll, he would have been seen as black. He was short and stocky, with the thick legs of an armchair. But when his feet touched the ground, he bounced around like a tennis ball. When he got angry, he reminded one of t­ hose indigenous ­people in the poems of Gonçalves Dias.41 Or better yet, an Apache or Sioux of an American stripe, armed with a hatchet to scalp a “pale face.” That is what he did, without the hatchet, to Careca. He hit him with his arm. The referee, Waldemar Kidzinger, saw every­thing and wrote it on the score sheet. For Biguá, it represented the threat of five or six games on the fence. He was an inveterate recidivist. He had seven punishments on his rec­ ord, which would weigh in the balance. How to save him? José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos remembered Jaime de Almeida. If Jaime de Almeida ­were to write a letter to the Court of Sporting Justice of the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer, who knew? What worth would be the word of poor Waldemar Kidzinger compared to that of Jaime de Almeida? No one knows who drafted the letter, if it was José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos or José Alves de Moraes, who defended Biguá before the Court of Sporting Justice. It was a severe court: Martinho Garcez Netto, who presided over it; Sadí de Gusmão; Henrique Barbosa; Sílvio Netto Machado; Álvaro Ramos Nogueira; Ângelo Bergamini; and Renato Pacheco Marques, who was the arbitrator. Renato Pacheco Marques was a police officer in the state of Rio, quite a fierce animal. When it came down to confronting gangsters, he was implacable. In the Court of Sporting Justice, he was the most feared by the clubs. ­Because when he saw a player accused of aggression, he remembered that he was a police officer and that it was necessary to repress delinquency on the soccer fields. The minimum punishment that he requested in ­these cases was six games. But ­there was the letter of Jaime de Almeida. And though accustomed to dealing with criminals, with heartless men, when he read, beneath the typed letter, the name of Jaime de Almeida, Renato Pacheco Marques was moved: The Trial of the Black Man  251

“If Jaime de Almeida, my dignified colleagues, says that Biguá did not attack Careca, then we all have the irrefutable obligation, the sacred duty of not doubting him. ­Because if ­there is a clean, immaculate player, if ­there is a loyal player, incapable of the least foul, if t­ here is an example in Brazilian soccer of fair play, that example is Jaime de Almeida.” Renato Pacheco Marques read aloud the letter signed by Jaime de Almeida, who was not even in Rio, who had embarked on a tour with Flamengo, who perhaps had signed it without reading it at the time of departure, someone telling him, “This is to save Biguá from suspension.” And the judges of the Court of Sporting Justice of the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer drank in the words of Jaime de Almeida through the voice of Renato Pacheco Marques. Seated at the end of the long ­table in the hall of the presidency, José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos and José Alves de Moraes w ­ ere more than grave. The moment was solemn. Jaime de Almeida’s word was at stake. Or the purity of Jaime de Almeida, which Flamengo made a point of preserving. Every­thing turned out right. ­Every judge on the Court of Sporting Justice of the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer did not want to miss the opportunity, rare on any court, of exalting the best ­human qualities that ­were gathered together, even in the ­middle of the war of the championship, in a good black man called Jaime de Almeida. Biguá received only a fine of three hundred cruzeiros for rough play, of which, due to omission, Jaime de Almeida’s letter did not absolve him.42

6. Flávio Costa did not want to pervert Jaime de Almeida when he asked him to challenge hard, to knock down the player on the other team who passed by him, or to stop him, pulling him by the jersey or grabbing him by the shorts. Not even José “Bastinhos” Moreira Bastos and José Alves de Moraes when drafting a defense of Biguá, although altering the truth. What they all wanted was the good of Flamengo. When Botafogo gave an Austin car, second­hand, to Luís Paulo Tovar, a pure amateur, it was not to pay him for the effort of a player on the field. It was a Brazilian way of paying someone back who had not charged anything. Paying someone who had refused to receive, in the name of every­one receiving. ­There is nothing more difficult than to pay someone back in this way. ­There was, however, a second sense ­behind the pre­sent from Botafogo—or, rather, from the members of Botafogo. (If it ­were the club, Luís Paulo Tovar might actually think it was a payment.) The idea ­behind the gift came from Ademar Bebiano upon finding out that Luís Paulo Tovar was crazy to drive a car. 252  Chapter Five

It had been something that Jair Tovar, f­ather of Luís Paulo, let slip. Ademar Bebiano said, “Well, he w ­ ill have a car, then.” Nélson Cintra took it upon himself to collect signatures for a subscription. The list went from hand to hand, and shortly they had the money to buy an Austin. It had to be second­hand b ­ ecause t­ here ­were no new cars at the lot. João Saldanha unveiled the pure intention: they w ­ ere paying homage to Luís Paulo Tovar, who was ­going to gradu­ate in medicine and, who knows, might still play a bit more for Botafogo. What money cannot achieve, when it cannot hide its condition as money, a ­little effort can bring about by transforming money into something irresistible, be it an armful of roses, a jewel, or, in the case of Luís Paulo Tovar, an Austin. Botafogo did not ask for anything; they gave from the desire to give. And exactly when Tovar announced that he was not ­going to play anymore. ­After Tovar graduated, they even did more: they launched a Medical Department for him to direct. Thus, they managed to get Tovar to play a few more games. It was difficult to deal with a pure amateur in that era. Above all, an incorruptible one, ­because if he w ­ ere corruptible, he would be corrupted quickly. At the very least, he would sign a contract, even ­under the pretext, highly laudable, of paying for his studies. But Luís Paulo Tovar was the son of Jair Tovar, who was a federal deputy from Espírito Santo and a government secretary. Botafogo soon gave him a director’s position: l­ egal director. Unabashedly, they w ­ ere surrounding Tovar from all sides. When Tovar was not brought into the Brazilian side that competed in the South American Championship in Chile, not even in the game against Bolívia, which Brazil won by nine, Botafogo was offended, although the starter was Zizinho, considered the greatest Brazilian player of the era. When the side returned, Botafogo made a point of repairing the insult to Tovar by giving him the title of emeritus member. The gift of the Austin to Tovar irritated Heleno de Freitas more than the title of emeritus member. He was a professional, he charged a lot, but he belonged to one of the best families of Rio. As an aristocrat, he judged himself to hold rights if not greater than at least equal to t­ hose of Tovar. He taught manners even to the directors of Botafogo. ­There ­were bosses in the club of General Severiano who, before Heleno, felt themselves badly dressed and socially inferior. Heleno de Freitas had to buy a car. Botafogo had contradictory attitudes ­toward him: they wanted to give him every­thing or nothing. The elegance of Heleno at headquarters, in a social gathering, would dis­appear on the field. The Trial of the Black Man  253

He was a schizophrenic. Nobody knew it, not even Heleno. They called him temperamental. Soccer was what gave him balance. When Botafogo was winning, he was the embodiment of m ­ ental sanity. But if a game went awry for Botafogo, it was enough for Heleno to turn against his teammates. He would not re­spect anybody. When the game was over, or even the first half, t­ here would be players on Botafogo who wanted to hit him. On one occasion, Augusto Frederico Schmidt had to hug Otávio in order to avoid a bloody scene, b ­ ecause Otávio went a­ fter Heleno as if he w ­ ere ready to kill him. For this reason, Botafogo saved its adulation for Tovar and not Heleno. Not even for Ermelindo Matarazzo, a multimillionaire who played in goal for the second team. He was a good goalie, courageous, apt to flatten every­one to save a goal. His fortune, however, made him worthy of suspicion. The fans saw a Matarazzo, a real Matarazzo, son of a count, heir of United Industries, and concluded that what Botafogo ­really wanted was to become his inheritor. And it put a flea ­behind the ear of Botafogo fans the way that, almost suicidally, the black players on the second team—­beginning with Marinho and Orlando Maia, the backs—­would defend the citadel of Ermelindo Matarazzo. Ermelindo Matarazzo was beneath the three bars to defend. To get his balls. To show that he was the keeper. Marinho and Orlando Maia did every­thing humanly pos­si­ble to avoid this. To keep any ball from arriving at Ermelindo Matarazzo’s goal. What if one that arrived went in? Once in a while a ball would get through. It was the big moment of Ermelindo Matarazzo. He would throw himself and hug the ball. Marinho and Orlando Maia would breathe sighs of relief. It was not that they did not trust Ermelindo Matarazzo. He was a good goalie. But he was also a man marked by money. If he fenced a “chicken,” not even all the Matarazzos’ fortune would save Ermelindo from the ire of the Botafogo fans. That was what the black men of the second team wished to avoid at all costs. Also, ­after a victory of the reserves, Ermelindo Matarazzo would open the doors of his Atlântica Ave­nue apartment to celebrate. He would invite only his teammates, the players of the second team. Sometimes he would make an exception for Geninho “the Fixer” Ephigênio Bahiense, who was a mulatto with a big head, the brown eminence of Botafogo soccer. Like a good mineiro he knew how to form groups, to carry out po­liti­cal machinations.43 A kind of Benedito Valadares.44 When someone went to go count votes or opinions, the majority would be with Geninho. Many a snake from the first team would give anything to go to a reception at Ermelindo Matarazzo’s apartment. French champagne flowing like a waterfall. The waiters coming and ­going, guessing the thoughts of the guests. 254  Chapter Five

Marinho and Orlando Maia would be like figureheads. Ambassadors of an African country whose name it would be impolite to ask. And Ermelindo Matarazzo was calm, the ­great lord, as if in ­every game of the second team of Botafogo he was not risking his life or something more precious. Was it the security of the rich man? No, b ­ ecause he knew that the money would never let him, however much he grabbed, play for the first team. It was more the desire to live perilously that made him zoom around on a motorcycle, and darn it if he ­wasn’t looking for a crash, into a post, into a wall, or flying onto a curb, something that happened to him more than once. He smashed motorcycles, cars, boats, defying fate. What could happen to him? Death, at most. Other goalkeepers could not think this way. They played to earn a living, although what made them play soccer the most was the love of the ball, for the “­little beast” of Jaguaré, the “girl,” as the more tenderhearted crack players started to call it, the young lady, the girlfriend. Only in this light can one understand what happened with Moacir Barbosa when he debuted on the Brazilian side. Flávio Costa had seen him play, and soon classified him as the greatest goalkeeper of Brazil. Oberdan was old. Batataes was finished. Luís Borracha had attacks of the shakes. ­After a game, like the Flamengo versus Vasco match of 1944, he would take himself off to sob in the changing room. Flávio Costa started Moacir Barbosa, practically an unknown. In São Paulo, he was spoken of. In Rio, no one had ever heard of him. It was the first of a best of three against Argentina in the 1945 Copa Roca, at the end of the year. Brazilian soccer was preparing to avenge itself for 1939. In Santiago de Chile, with ten minutes left, Oberdan had swallowed three goals. Shots from Mendes who, according to Flávio Costa, did not even know how to walk. It is true that Jaime de Almeida had come onto the field with a sprained knee. Mendes was beating Jaime de Almeida, who could not turn around and bang the ball in. Moacir Barbosa comes in beneath the three bars of Brazil in Pacaembu Stadium and takes a goal, gets scared, then swallows another. He had to change his shorts. While he changed his shorts, old Oberdan replaced him.45 For many ­people, Moacir Barbosa was irremediably condemned. How could one put a keeper in Brazil’s goal who could not stand a rocket? Who might have to change his shorts ­after a goal? ­There ­were ­those who, claiming soccer erudition, recalled that the position of goalkeeper, ­u ntil proven other­w ise, was more for white players, for Marcos de Mendonça, Ferreira, Kuntz, Nestor, Haroldo, Tuffy, Amado, Joel de Oliveira Monteiro, Batataes, Tadeu, Válter Goulart, and Oberdan. The The Trial of the Black Man  255

mulatto and black goalkeepers ­were generally street urchins. As in the case of Dionísio, who defended with his head, and of Jaguaré Bezerra de Vasconcelos, who, ­after a defensive play, would shoot the ball at the feet of t­ hose who had shot or at the head of ­those who had headed. When they played seriously, like a Nélson da Conceição, they ­were subject to corruption. Or then, like Baltasar Franco, who, to show that blacks w ­ ere good in goal, risked himself too much, even offering his head to be kicked. ­There remained the lackadaisical ones, like Osvaldo “the Post,” who liked to read comic books during practice, sticking the magazine on a hook in the goal, and, at times, would let a ball past, as if his thoughts ­were far away. And the emotional ones, like Luís Borracha, who would come to tears. Or t­ hose like Moacir Barbosa, who had to change his shorts. The white man was better. Oberdan finished the game, in the place of the young Barbosa, being rung like a bell. The game was lost. Argentina won four to three, but in the rematch in São Januário, Brazil unburdened itself. It returned the five to one of 1939 with a six to two. And in that decision, Vacca was kept out, like another Barbosa, and the Argentinian keeper Ogando, almost a boy, was obliged to bat away, in defensive saves, twenty-­four balls for corner kicks in one half. Greater control of a game had never been seen in soccer. Argentina, however, had come to play in the Copa Roca a­ fter guaranteeing Brazil’s presence in the extra South American Championship game of Buenos Aires in January 1946. Before the decisive match, Batagliero, who had broken his leg in an accidental collision with Ademir, paraded around the r­ unning track of the River Plate Stadium in a wheelchair, the white of his cast on clear display to incite the crowd. When Salomon, the Argentine back, went ­after Jair, Jair just waited for him with his sole up. Salomon ended up flat on his back, his leg broken. This was the signal to begin a hunt of the Brazilian players. Zezé Procópio, who was hiding a knife in his sock, made a kind of barricade, showing his blade, which shone in the sun. Instead of hiding ­behind Zezé Procópio, Chico ran away. And ­after him came the Argentinian police and the kids who had jumped the trench. A soldier put his foot in front of Chico, who tripped and fell. He was carried to the changing room unconscious, in a state of shock. Ciro Aranha then announced that Brazil would not return to the field. The reply of the Argentinian directors was that if Brazil did not continue the game, they could not offer the minimum guarantee of the safety of the Brazilian players, nor to the Brazilian bigwigs. The crowd had been in River Plate Stadium since seven o ­ ’clock in the morning. T ­ here w ­ ere no police who could contain them. 256  Chapter Five

And the Brazilian side had to return to the field. In order to lose the game that it had dominated u ­ ntil then. Who could think of victory, in that concentration camp that the River Plate lawn had become?46 The cannons no longer sounded in the fields of Eu­rope, Africa, and Asia. The last vestige of world war had been snuffed out in the atomic dawn that illuminated Hiroshima for the last time. ­Here, in the happy continent, where no bomb had fallen, we w ­ ere still playing at war, in soccer. The one who wanted peace was Ondino Viera. He could not stand three years of tension. That was the period he had requested to form a squadron and win the championship. The scariest t­ hing was that Ondino Viera, the “Fraud,” as José Lins do Rêgo had called him, offending all of Vasco, had his collapse ­after reaching complete success. No general had drawn up a plan for victory with more mathematical precision. The squadron of Vasco was almost the Brazilian side. One year early, according to the preestablished plans, he had nearly achieved the objective of the title. On the correct date, however, Ondino Viera made Vasco champions. But he was more than worn out: he was frightened. That weapon that he had forged, and that had made Vasco into the greatest Brazilian soccer power, was alarming Ondino Viera instead of calming him. He knew how he had been able to form the Vasco squadron, the so-­called Victory Express. By constantly demanding more, never satisfied with what he had. Unleashing a war of nerves in São Januário to get more, more, and more. He saw enemies everywhere, power­ful enemies, capable of destroying the Vasco squadron. He believed in ghosts. Not ghosts in sheets but the ghosts of flesh and blood, capable of whispering to players, of putting fear into them through the radio and the press. As a champion, Ondino Viera was a defeated man. He felt himself without the slightest guarantee. Vasco had a side, but it was not enough to have a side to win a championship. And if he lost with that side? It had been Ondino Viera who had announced, prophetically, the horrors of the championship as a war. The war had not ended. When would it end? Ondino Viera began to wish for peace. He would not have it with Vasco, the champion, now the target of all the ­others. The ­g reat e­ nemy. Just imagining what the o ­ thers would do so that Vasco did not become a repeat champion, Ondino Viera gave up. It was something nobody understood at São Januário. What more did Ondino Viera want? Vasco did every­thing humanly pos­si­ble for Ondino Viera to stay. ­There was no way. The Trial of the Black Man  257

Ondino Viera seemed to predict that Vasco would not be champion again. Certainly he had studied the history of Vasco: Vasco had never been a repeat champion. A title, instead of strengthening them, weakened them. It is an explanation for the desertion of Ondino Viera. Flávio Costa would do the same with Flamengo, leaving them for Vasco. The squadron of Flamengo, a­ fter three consecutive titles, was finished. The path of victory was that of São Januário. Ondino Viera moved on to Botafogo, and lasted one championship. And then came his nostalgia for Fluminense, which he had left, like Flávio Costa had left Flamengo, when the ­great team of Álvaro Chaves had emptied out ­after winning five championships in six years. Fluminense had sent Gentil Cardoso away and given the nod to Ondino Viera. And so Ondino Viera came back, a pacifist. Certain examples only Fluminense could give. One of them was the game with Southampton. Southampton was an En­ glish club in the second division. This was a detail that the press and radio announcers made a point of ignoring. It was En­glish, and that was enough. Deep down, the ones who Brazilians ­really admired ­were the En­glish. Perhaps it was b ­ ecause of a weakness for the old times of colonialism from which they had not yet freed themselves. Nothing truer than that old adage “For the En­glishman to see.” What we did best was for the En­glishman to see. In soccer, we deluded ourselves with an exaggerated admiration for the Argentine. It was a way for us to pay for the massacre of the 1939 Copa Roca. For a certain period of time, the world of soccer, for Brazil, was ­limited, ­really, to South Amer­i­ca. The conquest of the South American Championship of 1919 was worth, to us, a world championship. The Uruguayan feat in Paris and in Antwerp, in the Olympic Games, in the first World Cup in Montevideo, seemed a confirmation. The defeat of 1930, with a side that was not the Brazilian one, was compensated for by the victories of 1931 and 1932 in the competition of the Copa Rio Branco. It was enough, however, for an En­glish team to show up for the rebirth of au­then­tic admiration. We even reached the point of ridiculousness proclaiming this admiration. In a s­ imple kick-­around of the En­glish players on Botafogo’s field, ­great names of the Brazilian sports columns could not contain their l­ ittle cries of enthusiasm. An En­glishman would stop a ball, and it was as if they had never seen a player stop a ball. Or shoot a ball. Or pass a ball. Ondino Viera, who upon g­ oing to Vasco had more or less naturalized himself as a Portuguese, affirming that Viera without the second “I” was a misspelling of the name of his Portuguese grand­father, Vieira, participated in this admiration. 258  Chapter Five

Fluminense, although they w ­ ere 1946 champions, was not thriving. The championship of 1946 had been a championship without an owner ­because the single g­ reat team, Vasco, without leadership, could not withstand its first defeat and went to fifth place, thus requiring a super championship, with Fluminense, Flamengo, Botafogo, and América, all tied, having lost twelve points. Beyond Fluminense not having a team that inspired confidence, they ­were out of shape. Ondino Viera, certain that they w ­ ere headed for a defeat, even if Southampton ­were not an En­glish team, brought together the players of Fluminense in the changing room before the game and made an appeal to them. He did not give them technical instructions—­which he was accustomed to ­doing on other occasions, with almost exasperating details and repetitions so that no one would forget anything—he just preached them a sermon. It was a true sermon. The En­glish ­were the ­fathers of soccer. In normal conditions, even if the team of Fluminense was strong, it was necessary to recognize the superiority of En­glish soccer. The En­glish had not in­ven­ted soccer by chance. They knew all its secrets. So the players of Fluminense held no illusions: they ­were ­going to lose. Ondino Viera preached, “Since we cannot show them anything about soccer, at least, I ask you, let us show them that we learned something from them: sportsmanship.” ­Because the En­glish ­were not just the ­fathers of soccer. They ­were also the ­fathers of sportsmanship. Of the clean game. “It is a personal request that I make of all of you: play cleanly”—­and Ondino Viera looked particularly at Careca, the so-­called son of Gentil Cardoso. Careca was the greatest dirtbag of Brazilian soccer. Between scoring a winning goal and sweeping the legs of a back who was taking liberties, he would not hesitate for an instant: he would sweep the legs of the back. He threw away, like that, a second team championship for Fluminense. He was ­going to score a goal, he just had to push the ball in, when he saw a back ­running straight at him. He got rid of the ball and awaited the back to tear him to shreds. He was the one Ondino Viera most feared in that game, which had to demonstrate, for the En­glishman to see, the purity, the whiteness, the cleanliness, of Brazilian soccer. Careca’s head was shaved down to nothing, to shield him from the proof of “your hair ­can’t deny it.” He was black and perhaps wished to pass as Indian, or what have you. Careca calmed Ondino Viera down, or tried to calm him down, nodding his head up and down with emphatic movements. He would play cleanly. Careca playing cleanly was quite a sight. He was not even in his true position: Ondino Viera had started him at right winger. But he played the ball, serious, grave even, British. He was ­doing circumspect dribbles, almost comical in his case. The En­glishman who received the dribble would be beaten. The Trial of the Black Man  259

What was this? Stunned, the crowd watched a dance of soccer. The players of Fluminense ­were clean, making it a point of honor to not touch the En­ glishmen of Southampton. For them, only the ball existed. The En­glishmen of Southampton ­were the ones who did not even see the ball. The ­little beast, intimate friend of the Brazilians, was as if it had turned against the En­glish. And it was a goal fest. T ­ here was one En­glishman who ­really enjoyed watching all of this. He was a l­ ittle old man. Mr. Reader, the greatest soccer referee in the world. He saw a Brazilian play and clapped, enchanted. Suddenly, Mr. Reader did something that was considered a glaring error by all the sports columnists, all the Brazilian directors and referees. Orlando, “the Touch of Gold,” invaded the Southampton area; the ball touched the ground, ­rose up, and hit his hand; Orlando, feeling its roundness, s­ topped. Mr.  Reader, laughing, satisfied with life, ordered Orlando to continue. Orlando had no doubts—he continued on and scored another goal for Fluminense. When the game was over, the Brazilian journalists, along with their interpreters, went ­after Mr. Reader. Why ­hadn’t he penalized Orlando’s hand ball? “What hand ball?” asked Mr. Reader. “The ball hit Orlando’s hand. Mr. Reader, ­didn’t it hit him?” It had hit him. But it was ball on the hand. Hand ball was hand on the ball and not ball on the hand. Ball on the hand was nothing. This was a shock. For almost half a ­century, Brazilians had played soccer thinking that hand on the ball and ball on the hand w ­ ere the same t­ hing. Mimi Sodré had built his fame as the player most loyal to the golden age of amateurism, raising his fin­ger, as one who asks the teacher to leave the classroom, ­every time he felt the ball touch his hand. ­Because putting his hand on the ball was something Mimi Sodré would be incapable of ­doing, as if he ­were practicing an indignity. “It was the cleanest game I have seen in my life,” declared Mr. Reader. “The Brazilian players are good sports.” Strangely, the audience did not like it. The crowd left São Januário angry, asking for their money back, calling the En­glish con men, thieves, as if the En­g lish had stolen something from them.47 Perhaps the plea­sure of a hard game, played mano a mano, tense and hard fought. And that game showed the best road to peace desired by Ondino Viera. And more than the road to peace, the road to victory. Playing the ball, the Brazilian was irresistible. And Careca was transformed into an admirable player. He just had to stop being a dirtbag and simply turn into a gentleman. 260  Chapter Five

From that game, however, only one lesson would be taken: that of Mr. Reader. Ball on the hand was nothing at all. Brazilians discovered that they no longer knew the rules of soccer. That they had erred so far from them, disfigured them so much, fallen b ­ ehind, when a referee, recognized as the best in the world, applied one of them, s­ imple as ABC. In 1938, Brazil had lost a world championship due to ignorance of the rules. The World Cup that was approaching would be in Brazil. For this reason, the Municipal Stadium was built, a t­ emple of soccer. But to be champion of the world, it was imperative that Brazilians know the rules.

7. The memory of the Brazil versus Czecho­slo­va­k ia game of 1938 returned. If Zezé Procópio had not attacked a Czech who had already been kicked out, Brazil, playing ten against ten instead of nine against ten, would have won. The certainty of victory arose regarding a tie nine years ago. And then, the Brazilian side would not have been obliged to play the tiebreaker. Leônidas would have been pre­sent in the game against Italy, and with Leônidas in command of the Brazilian attack, ­there is no doubt the World Cup would have come to Brazil. And even if Leônidas stayed out, it would have been enough for Domingos not to have committed a penalty on Pióla. Why did he commit the penalty? ­Because he did not know the rules of soccer. And what was worse: b ­ ecause he reasoned like a pettifogger of soccer, of which ­there ­were many—­among directors, especially, but also among journalists, coaches, players, and fans. As the ball had gone out, Domingos struck Pióla with his foot. His reasoning was this: with the ball out, play stops; and when play is ­stopped, ­there are no fouls. The referee gave a penalty, and Brazil lost two to one. Mr. Reader opened the eyes of the Brazilians. It was necessary to accustom the Brazilian players to the exact application of the rules. If not, the same could happen in 1950 as had happened in 1938. Each Brazilian referee blew the whistle in a certain manner. Mário Vianna, head shaved like a German soldier, sometimes awarded a penalty to demonstrate he was h ­ uman. ­There ­were referees who ordered the penalty to be taken immediately, in the Argentine fashion; ­others only a­ fter the barrier was formed, the goalie making the barrier move a ­little to the right or to the left. It was ordered, thus, that a mission of En­g lish referees be sought out. Four came: Barrick, Devine, Ford, and Lowe. Mr. Ford awarded four penalties The Trial of the Black Man  261

minimum in each game. Mr. Lowe was more humane. Mr. Barrick resembled a Shakespearean actor. Mr. Devine was the most modest. Brazilians learned that what mattered was intent. That if a player was g­ oing for the ball, he could never commit a foul. The mystery lay in the offside call. But for this t­ here was diagonal marking. The linesman, instead of ­running from one side to the other, up and down, had to remain at the imaginary offside line. Between one linesman and the other one could trace a diagonal line, dividing the field. But it was 1948, and although they ­were already building Maracanã Stadium, what was in play was not the World Cup. Thus, the war of the championship continued. Carlito Rocha used a stray dog, Biriba, as the mascot of Botafogo. Biriba came onto the field with the players of Botafogo and attacked the players of the other teams. At least the players of the other teams felt that they w ­ ere being attacked. But woe to the one who might kick Biriba. Clearly Carlito Rocha, to win the championship, did not just rely on Biriba the mascot. In the changing room, at breakfast time, before the entry of the team onto the field, someone had to spill sugar on the collar of the sports coat of Carlito Rocha, always the same one, old and beaten up. And ­there ­were the eggnog and the raw sugar. And Our Lady of Victories. And Santa Terezinha. And the ­fathers of the saint working for Botafogo, b ­ ecause Carlito Rocha did not want to leave any gap open through which victory could escape. Vasco, the champion of 1947, which had won a championship and then lost another, said that t­ here ­were other t­ hings. Itching powder, for example. According to Vasco, when they w ­ ere entering the field, they w ­ ere met with sprinkles of itching powder.48 When they perceived, or suspected, that it was itching powder, they quickened their steps, g­ oing up the staircase that led to the field in leaps and bounds. Neither of Botafogo’s goals was attributed to the strong, irresistible itchiness that affected Moacir Barbosa. But Ely reported, ­after the game, that during the second half he had felt as if he had taken a sleeping pill. Perhaps during the first half, someone from Botafogo had entered Vasco’s changing room, opened up the thermos ­bottles, and placed heavy sedatives in their tea. During halftime, the Vasco players drank tea. ­After Ely’s complaint, ­others remembered that they had not been able to run straight. That their eyelids had felt heavy, their legs weary, and that they had felt the desire at certain moments, looking at the very green grass, the “carpet” of the sports columns, to lie down and go to sleep. That Vasco believed the story can be seen in the fact that, in 1949, when they went to play at General Severiano, they did not make use of the visitors’ 262  Chapter Five

changing room. The order of Flávio Costa was peremptory: not even for showers.49 The Vasco players remained in the ­little square neighboring the club headquarters. They sat down in the flower beds, some even lay down. The thermos ­bottles, with the unfailing tea, had remained on the bus ­under the watch of a burly guard. Besides some better notions of the rules, nothing had changed with the arrival of the En­glish referees. Perhaps, in certain aspects, it had gotten worse. That which no one dared to do anymore with Juca da Praia, for example, to pretend they had died, with the ingenuous En­glishmen reached the point of abuse. When one of the four En­glishmen saw a player laid out flat on the field, as if he had breathed his last breath, he would stop the game, with the fear of someone who had just witnessed a murder. Also, upon discovering the deceit, he would take offense. And then the player found out would be thrown off the field, as if he ­were a despicable being. On certain occasions it was not understood how a kick in the face of an opponent did not make the En­glish referee as indignant as, for example, a pull on his shirt. The En­glishman did not believe that a good sport would be capable of sticking his foot into the face of someone on purpose. But the pull on the shirt seemed to him a betrayal. If beaten, the defender should let the other player go. The Brazilians would argue: ­Wasn’t it better to grab the opponent, hugging him or pulling his arm, shirt, or shorts, than to kick him in the face? For the En­glish referee, no: the kick was part of the game, at the ball, naturally, although sometimes it did not make contact with the ball. Grabbing the opponent was not good sportsmanship. While the En­glishmen ­were seen just as En­glishmen, like referees who understood not a word of Portuguese, every­thing was fine. But the En­glishmen ­here ­were becoming Brazilianized. They ­were already ­doing t­ hings like Brazilian referees. For the decisive game of the 1948 championship, Botafogo wanted nothing to do with any En­glishman. Harry Welfare still had ties to Vasco and spoke with the En­glish referees in their language. And the one who entered the field in General Severiano with the whistle in his mouth, his hair cut like that of a German soldier, protected by the almost praetorian guard of the Special Police, was Mário Vianna. The Brazilians ­were convincing themselves that they did not need the En­ glish referees so much. What was impor­tant was for a Zezé Procópio not to The Trial of the Black Man  263

attack an already ejected Czech player, or a Domingos not to commit a penalty against a Pióla. Domingos da Guia would not commit, even if he had not learned the lesson, which he had not forgotten, another penalty like that. He was finished. And melancholically. He had begun to play in a game in the Brazilian championship, playing for the paulistas against the gaúchos.50 The gaúchos had brought a leader of their offense, black and round, called Adãozinho, with varicose veins all over his legs, but still young, who could run like a sprinter. He stretched out Domingos from twenty meters, and goodbye Domingos.51 Domingos had always said that he would end e­ arlier. In his full glory. But he had just one h ­ ouse in Bangu. He had to keep playing. He returned to Bangu, and one day Orlando, “the Touch of Gold,” danced past him. He fell down on his ­behind ­after being dribbled by a player who, if he had still been the real Da Guia, would never have even attempted a dribble against him. Not even Tim, “El Peón,” would be so daring. Imagine Orlando. It was the end of Domingos da Guia, of “the Maestro.”52 Leônidas da Silva was not finished. But he was off the Brazilian sides. For the sports columnists in São Paulo, Leônidas was still Leônidas. Flávio Costa called him up only to leave him at the fence. Even with Heleno de Freitas in Colombia. In 1949, for the South American Championship, Flávio Costa preferred Octávio to Leônidas for São Paulo, and to Ademir for Rio de Janeiro. The crowd in São Januário was calling for Ademir in the game that Brazil lost to Paraguay, and Flávio Costa turned around in order to explode, “Who’s in charge? Them or me?” He was the coach, the general, the dictator. But when he put Ademir in for the tiebreaker, Brazil won seven to zero. Would Ademir be the idol who took the place of Leônidas da Silva? Or would it be Zizinho, for the ­great fan base of Flamengo, “the God of the Stadium”? It would not be Jair da Rosa Pinto. ­After a Vasco versus Flamengo game in São Januário, his number ten jersey was even burned in a bonfire. Already at halftime, Zizinho was asking him, “What’s up with you?” “I think I’m done for,” replied Jair da Rosa Pinto. “I c­ an’t get off the ground.” He failed to score, face to face with Barbosa. And on Monday, t­ here in Gávea, they grabbed his jersey, threw alcohol on it, and lit a match. That jersey, dry, never having soaked up even a drop of Jair da Rosa Pinto’s sweat, would no longer be worn by anyone. Francisco de Abreu communicated, with a frowning face, to Jajá from Barra Mansa, that he was definitively off the Flamengo team. In two days, Palmeiras swept in to take Jair, in triumph, to São Paulo.53 264  Chapter Five

The Municipal Stadium was growing. It would be ready for the World Cup of 1950. It would be, by a long shot, the largest stadium ever built on the face of the earth. To exalt the love of Brazilians for soccer. The passion of a p ­ eople. It was the stage where a new idol would arise, an idol like Arthur Friedenreich had been. Like Leônidas da Silva had been. It would be easier if it ­were Zizinho, the dark mulatto with the large face, pock-­marked as if by smallpox, than Ademir, who passed as white, who was white for all intents and purposes. This b ­ ecause before, in the Brazilian championship that had shown the decline of Domingos da Guia, with Ademir playing, the crowd came on the field a­ fter the carioca victory to carry the black Maneco in triumph.54 Maneco was jet black, ugly, gangling. In some ways he recalled Leônidas, although he did not have the inexhaustible wiliness of the Man of Rubber. But he would score a bicycle kick from almost the ground floor. Perhaps on another team he would have gone further b ­ ecause he was alive, fast, and slippery, a “Saci.”55 But he had played for América in the era of “Tico-­ Tico no Fubá,” Maneco and Lima—­the black Lima, b ­ rother of the white Lima of Palmeiras—­being the tico-­t icos.56 Or, at least, the first dancers of the ballet that América was dancing on the field to the ­music of Zequinha de Abreu’s chorinho.57 If the other team was scored on by América, it would be a dance like one had never seen in soccer. But generally the opposite occurred: that “Tico-­Tico no Fubá” remained a symbol of beautiful soccer but only for the eyes, delicious, but only to the palates of certain gourmands of the grandstands and numbered seats. That was also the day of glory for Maneco. He had already gone far. Maneco would not be the idol that was expected like a messiah in 1950, appearing suddenly in the ­temple of world soccer. The World Cup of 1950, rather than glorifying a new idol of Brazilian soccer, who, in all probability, would be another mulatto or black man in the image and semblance of Arthur Friedenreich and Leônidas da Silva, revived a racism not entirely extinct. What had disguised it was enthusiasm for the mulatto and black heroes of soccer on whom depended thousands of fans of clubs and millions and millions and millions of Brazilians. ­Those who loved soccer felt this dependence. Thus, the gratitude of so many whites to mulatto or black players who had won a game or a championship. The love of the club transferred itself to whoever defended it on the field, regardless of color. And perhaps the greatest gratitude was for the mulatto or black player through a sense of justice that, deep down, pulled back the veil on a kind of racism. The Fluminense fan liked his own black player. He treated him like a The Trial of the Black Man  265

white man. But he called the black player on the other team black. In order to offend. It was an insult that sometimes escaped from the mouth of a black player. That is, when a black man from another club attacked a black, mulatto, or white player of his own club. For an instant, the black fan of a club would forget that he was black. Paulo Azeredo had ­stopped ­going to Botafogo since Leônidas da Silva had put on the white-­and-­black jersey. Nor had he returned when Leônidas was sold to Flamengo for five contos. They no longer had Leônidas, but they had Valdemar de Brito. And soon afterward, more black and mulatto players. Only in 1948, ­after a title that had taken thirteen years to arrive, did he return. To what did he return? To the sight of Mrs. Helena Matarazzo, white as a lily, ultra-­rich, the crème de la crème, chatting with the black Ávila. ­Little did it m ­ atter that Ermelindo Matarazzo was playing on the second team of Botafogo and Mrs. Helena Matarazzo, ­going to find him ­after a practice or a game, shook the hands of the Botafogo players, including the black ones. For Carlito Rocha, whoever wore the Botafogo jersey, whoever helped Botafogo win, was like a son, with all the rights. At the parties of Botafogo, the players could attend and dance, as owning or contributing members. At Fluminense, not even the white players. They ­were not members; they ­were employees of the club. Which, in the eyes of Fluminense, did not diminish them. They ­were not members and therefore did not hold the rights conferred only upon members. A white that was not a member could not enter, ­either. ­Unless they received an invitation, which Fluminense rarely granted. But despite the fact that Fluminense had black players on their team and defended them, Manoel de Moraes e Barros Netto, a paulista of four-­hundred-­ year lineage, seeing Veludo for the first time, had this reaction: “­Don’t you think he is too black?” Not that Fluminense had more blacks on the team than they should, ­because they had no limit. What shocked the president of Fluminense was the color, for him exaggeratedly black, of Veludo. Veludo was so black he managed to shine. Thus the nickname.58 He came from the docks, where he carried sixty-­k ilogram sacks. Despite being too black, he stayed. And if he almost left it was b ­ ecause, despite the body of a Hercules, he would let the ball go. He would position himself well and throw himself better, but at the moment of grabbing the ball, he would let it go. “He w ­ on’t do,” said Ondino Viera. “It’s a shame, b ­ ecause he has every­thing to be a g­ reat goalkeeper. But how can he be a g­ reat goalkeeper if he keeps letting all the balls go?” 266  Chapter Five

For João “Preguinho” Coelho Neto, at that moment, a light bulb went on. “Veludo is a stevedore, Ondino. He carries, e­ very day, sixty-­kilogram sacks. For him, the ball has no weight, it’s a feather; he d ­ oesn’t even feel it, just tickles it.” The remedy was to pay Veludo’s salary at the docks and to change his profession, from stevedore to soccer player to goalie. Leaving off carry­ing sixty-­ kilo sacks, Veludo would grab the ball with iron pincers. It was not just the vanity of being a player that made Veludo leave off being a stevedore, a secure and well-­paid position. Brazil was ­going to be champion of the world. And if Brazil w ­ ere champion of the world, with the Maracanã, how far might a soccer player go? It was a new era that was opening up for Brazilian soccer. Every­one awaited it: the date for it to begin was already set: 16 July 1950. It seemed as if it had already been anticipated in Brazil’s thrashing of Spain, when a crowd of 200,000 ­people started singing at a precise moment, without prior notice, “Bullfights of Madrid”: I met a Spanish maid From Catalonia, she would pull Even as castanets she played On the hoof of a bull It was Thursday, July 13, and they ­were celebrating, three days early, the world championship that no one would take away from Brazil. All night long, in all the bars and pubs of the city, Brazilians drank and sang. The bars and pubs w ­ ere full, with p ­ eople dancing samba on the sidewalks. And each one remembered a par­tic­u­lar play. Especially Jair’s goal, the third one. The Spanish w ­ ere retreating while Jair advanced b ­ ecause he only shot hard on a ­stopped ball. Jair pushed the ball lightly, stopping it one step away from him, and shot it with power. Ramalletes closed his fists and brought his arms together to receive the impact. And Ramalletes’s arms opened and w ­ ere forced backward. The ball almost pierced through the net. It was the end of the “Furia,” as the Spanish side was called. For Eu­ro­pean sports columnists, that had been the greatest exhibition of soccer the world had ever seen. Few took into account that Brazil had scored its first goal three minutes into the game. That ­after ten minutes they w ­ ere already winning by three. And that, uninhibited, the Brazilians had started off with a match that could not serve as a model. The best game of Brazil, in the sense of true soccer, serious and thorough, had been the one against Yugo­slavia, when Zizinho had to score the same goal twice, to make it count. It would be the winning goal. The referee annulled the first, and Zizinho repeated it shortly thereafter, like an encore in a theater, to show that the goal had to count. And it counted. The Trial of the Black Man  267

The win against Spain, however, made Brazilians take leave of their senses. Not the Brazilian players—­t he Brazilians not on the field who already felt themselves to be champions of the world. All the more so ­because Uruguay had tied with Spain at the very end of their match, had lost a match, and had beaten Sweden only with ­great difficulty. Meanwhile, Brazil had badly beaten Sweden and Spain. What doubt could ­there be? The pennant factories tried to produce hundreds of thousands of pennants: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” The printers printed millions of postcards with the Brazilian side on them: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” The photography shops reproduced thousands of copies of the Brazilian side posing with letters printed in black: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” Mayor Mendes de Moraes ordered that Carnival be prepared, the greatest Carnival that had ever been seen in the world. Above the marquee, t­ here ­were thousands of sacks of confetti to be emptied out as soon as the referee called the end of the match. They had prepared an iron ramp, which, five minutes before the game ended, would be placed across the trench to give passage to the jeeps of the carnival socie­t ies, which would do a lap around the field. They contracted bands of bugles and drum troupes from samba schools. On Saturday, July 15, early in the after­noon, the players of the Brazilian side ­were unworried and happy, relaxed, watching a w ­ omen’s volleyball practice in the court in the corner of São Januário. This was when the order came: every­one to the ballroom. What had happened was that every­one who was a candidate for city council member, congressional deputy, and senator had shown up to give their compliments to the players, who, the following day, would be champions of the world. Flávio Costa might have thought this a bad idea; however, his hands ­were tied, since he himself was also a candidate for city council. With Brazil’s victory, his election was more than assured. As a candidate, he could not limit the freedom of the other candidates. And over the course of two hours, standing, the players of the Brazilian side heard impassioned speeches. Each candidate wanted to demonstrate more confidence in the side. Thus, the players ­were being treated, face to face, as champions of the world. One could hardly breathe in the ballroom of Vasco, with an incalculable mass of candidates smoking like chimneys, shaking hands, and yelling. The Brazilian players w ­ ere surrounded, imprisoned in hugs from the candidates. “Sign your autograph for me ­here.” It would be on a pennant: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” On a colorful postcard: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” On an 18 by 24 cm photo­graph, 268  Chapter Five

in a format of the worst taste, of the stadium and the team, with gothic letters in China ink: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” It must have passed through the head of more than one Brazilian player: “And if we have bad luck?” They could definitely have bad luck, and every­thing that was being done was exactly what no club on the eve of a championship match had ever dared to do: ­because they could have bad luck. ­Because ­there was always, statistically speaking, bad luck. A game was a game was a game was a game. And perhaps more than one Brazilian player remembered, amidst the shouts and hugs of the candidates, that two months e­ arlier t­ here had been a Brazil versus Uruguay match in São Januário, and that Brazil had only won one to zero, with an almost magical goal by Ademir Menezes. On that Saturday, an eve­ning paper could not stand waiting for the scoop that on Monday would no longer be a scoop. Not even in an extra on Sunday. And so they ran the headline twenty-­four hours in advance: “Brazil, Champion of the World.” On Sunday, at eleven in the morning, the Brazilian players ­were eating lunch, all of them trying not to think about the game, some of them telling stories, b ­ ecause if every­one laughed, they would relax. Then it would be ­great when they had to get up. The candidates ­were returning. Some that had not come the day before and who did not want to be left out. So listen to a speech. Get a hug. Sign an autograph. ­Later, upon entering the field, they saw something that ­human eyes had not yet contemplated: the greatest crowd ever assembled for a soccer match, 220,000 p ­ eople, who, from the field, appeared in a ­great crush. That h ­ uman mass that had stuffed themselves into Maracanã was frightening. It all depended on them, just them, w ­ hether t­ hose 220,000 ­people would experience the happiest or the most shameful day of their lives. And not just ­those 220,000 that had managed to get into Maracanã Stadium. ­There was no Brazilian anywhere, in Rio, in São Paulo, in Minas, in Rio Grande, in Bahia, in Pernambuco, in any state or territory of Brazil, who was not sitting by a radio to see, with their ears, Brazil become the champion of the world. Only at that moment when the two sides took their places on the field, on ­either side, with happy ­little Mr. Reader looking at his stopwatch to start the game, did the fear come. Fans, no ­matter how much confidence they might have in their team, know well this moment of supreme humility. Then they know, with complete certainty, that a game is a game is a game. That anything can happen in a game. That it ­will be as God w ­ ills. Thus the sudden silence that weighed, like lead, upon Maracanã. The mystery would be unveiled for good or for ill. The Trial of the Black Man  269

All the power of soccer is in this face-­to-­face meeting, one looking into the eyes of the other, of man with destiny. Yet man only sees destiny once the final veil is pulled back. For this reason, the fans withdraw into themselves and grow s­ ilent in the moment that destiny commences to unleash itself, in a manner that no h ­ uman power can hold back.

270  Chapter Five

Chapter 6

The Black Man’s Turn

1. The ­little old smiling man, Mr. Reader, had only one concern: to bring the game to its end. ­Because Uruguay could not have the slightest pretension of being champion of the world, such was the superiority of Brazilian soccer. The danger lay in a pretext, however minor it might be. Something unpre­ce­dented in all the history of the World Cup had occurred: the referee was “spoken to.” The term was perhaps inadequate. Sir Stanley Rous, both on his own account and in the name of the president of FIFA, Jules Rimet, had requested of Mr. Reader the utmost care with the Uruguayans. The Uruguayans would abandon the field for any reason.1 They w ­ ere temperamental and undisciplined and would grab by the hair any excuse for their inevitable defeat. And up ­until that point, ­there had not been a single incident in the world championship, the cleanest ever held. Every­thing for love and admiration of Brazil. Brazil had constructed the greatest stadium in the world. Brazil had planned and executed the perfect organ­ization of the Cup of Gold. Brazil had presented the best and most beautiful soccer ever seen. It was necessary that the title that Brazil would inevitably win not be stained by anything, even if splattered by the Uruguayans. When Bigode, tough, striking like a snake, began to dominate Gigghia, Obdúlio Varela first went a­ fter Gigghia. He yelled at him and gave him a few shoves, to get Gigghia to stop being a coward. Then, right ­after, Obdúlio Varela grabbed Bigode by the neck. He did not slap him. But as to ­whether he jostled him around, that he did. Bigode, who was a wild animal, remained quiet, without any reaction. ­There was no one in Maracanã Stadium who did not understand Bigode and the importance of his passivity. If Bigode reacted, he would be thrown out, and Brazil would end up with ten players. And the Uruguayans would not cross their arms if Mr. Reader sent Obdúlio Varela off the field: they would all leave, following their captain, brandishing their fists to the 220,000 Brazilians squeezed into the Maracanã. Mr. Reader did not take the expulsion route—he separated Bigode and Obdúlio Varela, smiling, and ordered the game to continue. Only ­after the defeat

did one view that scene as decisive, the one that changed the direction of the game. Bigode had obeyed his final o ­ rders: do not react. Bigode and all the Brazilian players. Remember ’38. If they received a slap, they ­were to offer the other cheek. But who remembered that a player like Bigode, a tough guy, explosive, always giving better than he got, would not be able to stand, on the inside, what he had taken on the outside, what a medicine, being jostled in front of 220,000 Brazilians? And that was what happened. With his cheeks burning in shame, containing himself, Bigode no longer dominated Gigghia. The two Uruguayan goals came from the feet of Gigghia. Bigode was always retreating, not daring anymore to strike like a snake with his feet together. And now the Brazilians—­out t­ here, in Maracanã Stadium, or glued to the radio throughout that ­great world, which was all of Brazil—­had their hearts in their throats. The goal would not come: the first half ended zero to zero. It was victory, the zero to zero, it was the world championship. But no one remembered that. Or they remembered only to feel their hearts in their throats, a chill in their stomachs, the fear, and more than fear, the shame of the tie. All of them had gone to the Maracanã to see a blowout. This was what millions of Brazilians expected. The Brazilian players knew this very well. And the blowout did not come; ­there was no way for it to come. Fi­nally the goal of Friaça came. It was not a blowout, but it was a goal, and it was no longer a tie. And the Maracanã almost disintegrated. The crowd was jumping up and down, g­ oing crazy. Strangers hugged and kissed one another. Lovers, fiancés, married c­ ouples, even ­those on the verge of separation, openly demonstrated their love for each other. Enemies put aside their differences and shook hands. That was the time of love. T ­ here could be no Brazilian with hard feelings for another Brazilian. Brazil was champion of the world. Beyond the advantage of the tie, Brazil had the advantage of a goal. All they had to do was hang on to the one to zero and forget about the blowout, fighting for the title tooth and nail. But the crowd, delirious, demanded more “Bullfights of Madrid.” Another, another. It was necessary to take advantage of that moment, in which Uruguay had suffered a goal and must still be feeling stunned, to score another, and yet another. To end them once and for all, one more, one more. And the Brazilian players went for one more. But instead of one more came the goal of Schiafino. Gigghia advanced, Bigode kept retreating, retreating. Gigghia reached the back of the box and passed the ball ­behind him, to Schiafino. Schiafino caught the ball at waist level and redirected it with a light touch. 272  Chapter Six

Barbosa left the ground late. He extended his hands, but the ball had already reached the back of the net. And the Uruguayans all began to run around the field, punching their fists in the air. A silence as never before descended upon the Maracanã. Brazil was still the champion of the world, the one to one had not changed anything. For Brazilians, however, every­thing had changed. It was the shame. Down below, on the lawn, as in a nightmare, the Brazilian players felt the suffocating weight of that silence. And it was in the ­middle of the deathly silence of 220,000 Brazilians that Gigghia scored the second goal. He advanced like the first time, with Bigode retreating, retreating. Only when Gigghia had almost reached the back of the box, Barbosa remembered his step backwards at the time of the first goal. He took a step forward: if Gigghia centered the ball, he would cut off the center. Gigghia shot on goal. The ball was ­going out, t­ oward the net on the outside. Barbosa, however, threw himself ­toward it and, when he felt the ball had passed, lifted his left hand ­behind him to pull it back, as he sometimes did. Instead of pulling it, however, what he did was to change its direction, from outside to inside the goal. So much so that the crowd only found out it was a goal when they saw the ball at the back of the net. How had the ball that was g­ oing out gotten in? It was only then that we remembered that a tie was a win. And we asked for a tie. One goal was enough for Brazil to be champion of the world. On the field, Obdúlio Varela pulled a piece of his shirt away from his chest, pinching it with two fin­gers, and yelled at the Brazilian players: “Es la Celeste! Es la Celeste!”2 Every­thing had begun when that mulatto had shoved around Gigghia and Bigode. Gigghia had stepped up and improved in the face of the public reprimand of Obdúlio Varela. Bigode was wiped out. The secret did not lie clearly in just t­ hese shoves: more than that, the horror of the tie, the shame of the tie, was an influence. Since then, it has been repeated that Brazil lost ­because of excessive confidence. But the Brazilian side did not commit the sin, truly unforgivable in soccer, of excessive confidence. The ones who had absolute certainty in victory w ­ ere the CBD, FIFA, world sports journalism, and Brazilians drunk with victory from the blowout against Spain. That certainty on the outside, of ­t hose who would not play, could only frighten ­those who played, raising the stakes for them. And once they began feeling that for Brazil, a tie was a supreme shame, they no longer had the legs to fight for one. They only reacted ­after every­thing was lost, freed from the shame of the tie, no longer feeling shame but rather the glory of the World Cup. But it was The Black Man’s Turn  273

not enough. The Uruguayans, with Obdúlio Varela leading them, w ­ ere prepared to die to protect their one goal advantage. And when Mr. Reader blew the final whistle, the Maracanã became the greatest wake on the face of the earth. Every­one wished to leave, to dis­appear. Many no longer had the energy for a step, a gesture. Cries of Sicilian w ­ idows ­were heard. ­There ­were few who did not cry. T ­ hose who did not cry allowed themselves to remain in a numbered chair, a bench of the grandstand, a corner of general admission, their heads on their chests, lost. Or then they ranted, beating their chests, pointing to the field. Some accused Flávio Costa. But almost all of them turned against the black players on the team. “It was Bigode’s fault!” “It was Barbosa’s fault!” Truthfully, we all felt like we ­were to blame. It was our fault. We had not been able to weather a victory, that of the “Bullfights of Madrid,” against Spain. And then came the accusations that Brazilians made against Brazilians. The Brazilian who was accusing Brazilians, of course, unburdened himself to excuse himself. Or to see if he could excuse himself. “The truth is we are a sub-­race.” A race of mestizos. An inferior race. At the time, we needed to withstand the worst; we had fouled up every­thing. Like Barbosa in his debut for the Brazilian side. “As long as we depend on the black man, it ­will end like this.” Barbosa and Bigode had to leave Maracanã almost hidden. The same for Flávio Costa. Flávio Costa had left first. When Gigghia had scored the second goal, he had descended the stairs of the tunnel. He was not g­ oing to be a city councilman anymore. He was defeated. But he did not blame Barbosa or Bigode; he blamed another black player, Juvenal. Juvenal had not backed up Bigode. And Flávio Costa remembered all the defects of Juvenal, “the Cachaça Drunk.” Ah! If only he could have relied on Wilson. But Wilson, a clean black player, strong, with thick thighs, just muscle, had not yet recovered from a contusion in the 1949 South American Championship. And Mauro was suspect. He had come in to substitute for Wilson, and the Paraguayans scored two goals. ­There remained Juvenal. Thus, three black men w ­ ere chosen as sacrificial lambs: Barbosa, Juvenal, and Bigode. The other mulatto and black players w ­ ere spared: Zizinho, Bauer, and Jair da Rosa Pinto. This was what came, according to the loads of racists who came out of the woodwork, from putting more mulattoes and blacks than whites on the Brazilian side. But at the same time that one observed this recrudescence of rac274  Chapter Six

ism, Brazilians chose an idol to the contrary: Obdúlio Varela, the Uruguayan mulatto with bad hair. He was the idol that we wanted for ourselves. What we regretted was not having an Obdúlio Varela, “El Gran Capitán.” If Obdúlio Varela had played for Brazil, Brazil would have been champion of the world. And Brazilians forgot, or rather did not forget, that Obdúlio Varela was a mulatto. By coincidence, e­ very national idol of Brazilian soccer had been a mulatto. One lighter, ­really light, a faded gray in color and with green eyes: Arthur Friedenreich. Another darker, almost black or black, at least from the color inherited from his ­mother. From his Portuguese ­father ­there remained only the upturned nose. His hair was bad, like that of Friedenreich, who had to tame it ­every time he went to play. Leônidas would have his hair straightened, but he never greased it with brilliantine to make it quiet, waxed, brilliant. In 1950, the country should have crowned a Brazilian idol, but instead found its ideal in a Uruguayan mulatto. Secretly we admired him, perhaps more so than we had admired Friedenreich and Leônidas, ­because he had every­thing that we had lacked on that after­noon of national mourning in Maracanã Stadium. The Brazilian who was like Obdúlio Varela would occupy the vacant spot. The empty throne of Brazilian soccer. For Eu­ro­pean journalists, the events of 16 July 1950 had not hurt the prestige of Brazilian soccer. On the contrary: the proof that was lacking had been given. It was that of sporting maturity, strange, almost unusual, in a South American ­people. The Uruguayans made a point of demonstrating more than admiration for the Brazilians. If that championship had been played in Montevideo, ­there is no way Brazil would have won it. ­Because at the time of the disaster, all the Uruguayans—­the players, the coaches, the fans—­would change the course of the game with kicks and slaps, coercing the referee and the Brazilians. The same, or worse, as the Argentines in 1946. Thus the gratitude of the Uruguayans. The name of the Maracanã was given to an ave­nue in Montevideo and to one of the balconies in the Centenary Stadium. It was a gratitude that, rather than placating Brazilians, kept the open wound from scarring over. The only way to fix ­things would be another game. Brazil asked for a rematch. The Uruguayans, of course, wanted nothing to do with the idea. We knew that in another game, Brazil was even capable of a blowout. In grudge matches, Brazilian soccer proved itself irresistible. The Black Man’s Turn  275

Thus, not even the praise of the Eu­ro­pe­ans helped the Brazilians to bear what was called “the shame of July 16th.” And what good did it do for Eu­ro­ pean journalists to proclaim Brazilian soccer the best when Uruguay was world champion? Many Brazilians swore never to go to a soccer field again. T ­ here ­were so many that raised a hand to the heavens, taking God as their witness, that it gave the impression the fields would be empty. On the contrary, t­ here was even an increase in spectators in 1950. Not ­because of ­people breaking their oaths, although ­little by ­little, ­after a decent mourning period had passed, many fans returned. Some did not return and are still living up to their oaths. At the very least, since 1943, when São Januário was bursting in the big final between the cariocas and paulistas, the fields ­were no longer big enough. Many ­people ­were afraid to go to a game and not fit. It had happened many times. In a Vasco versus Flamengo match, the cement wall of the grandstand came down, like a dike that does not resist the furor of the ­waters, held back and roiled by the longing to be ­free. The public always makes the calculation as to ­whether t­ here ­will be room for them or not, in the stadiums, the cinemas, the theaters. Rarely does it lose this prophetic sensibility, so to speak. With the Maracanã, t­ hose who had not gone to soccer games for years ­were able to return. And ­those who had never gone took advantage of the occasion. Thereafter, the championship had the force of the fan’s love for the club. Fans ­w ill, in a certain way, defend their club in general admission, in the grandstand, in the numbered chair. They ­will cheer. They ­will root. They ­will kick mentally when their player kicks, defend mentally when their goalkeeper defends. And sometimes not so mentally. Physically. R ­ eally kicking. Extending their hands for the save. But the Brazilian players knew they had to demonstrate that they w ­ ere men. As manly as Obdúlio Varela. The fans would forgive every­thing except cowardice. ­Because cowardice implicated them, as Brazilians. Identifying himself with a club, with a team, with a player, the one who had the ball, the fan wished to exalt himself, to see exhibited the best qualities he had or desired to have. Deep down he demanded more of the player than of himself, the fan, as a man and as a player, since ­there is no Brazilian without the pretension of soccer skill. It was natu­ral that Vasco, who had provided the coach, the doctor, the masseuse, and ten players for the Brazilian side, which had then lost the world championship, felt it the most. The g­ reat squadron began to contend for the championship with their heads down. The championship was practically lost to them. 276  Chapter Six

They ­were paying for the 16th of July like Flamengo, who had given Bigode and Juvenal to the side, since Zizinho had been sold to Bangu. Zizinho was constantly complaining that Flamengo paid him very l­ittle. Guilherme da Silveira Filho went to ask Dario de Mello Pinto if he would sell Zizinho. Dario de Mello Pinto, who remembered that Flamengo ­were champions two years in a row ­after selling Leônidas and three years in a row ­after selling Domingos, said yes. Zizinho, although he was ­going to earn much more, was mortally offended. It had never crossed his mind that Flamengo would be capable of selling him. One of his points of pride was the response of Hilton Santos to Corinthians: “Zizinho? Only for thirty million, to begin negotiations.” And Dario de Mello Pinto sold him for 500,000 cruzeiros. A ­ fter that, whenever he played against Flamengo, Zizinho seemed as if he wanted to eat the ball for lunch. The Flamengo fans ended up feeling like cuckolds. They had to defend the black players of Flamengo, b ­ ecause Bigode was one of the principal players accused of the disaster of 16 July. The other one was Barbosa. The one who spoke more about Juvenal was Flávio Costa, to his intimates. But when the game ended and the Flamengo team, a­ fter another defeat, ­were exiting with their heads hanging low, the red-­and-­black fans could not stand it. And the players and coach, who was the Portuguese Cândido de Oliveira, and the directors who liked to remain in the mouth of the tunnel, ­were pelted in their f­ aces, chests, and backs with half-­eaten oranges, balls of paper, and even stones. It seemed that the time of “Tico Tico no Fubá” had arrived to rehabilitate the mulatto and the black man, b ­ ecause t­ hese ­were all América had. Osni, Joel, Rubens, Natalino, Maneco, Dimas, blacks. Osmar, Oswaldinho, Godofredo, and Ranulfo, mulattoes. The one white man, bald, already at c­ areer’s end, was Jorginho, the left winger. Facing Vasco in São Januário, early in the championship season, América beat them by three. It was a shock. It is true that Vasco had never won twice in a row in its entire existence. Even prior to 1950, with the squadron jingling. They ­were champions in 1945 only to fall vertically in 1946. They became champions again, easily, in 1947. In 1948, they had not resisted the force of Botafogo, despite the explanation of the sleeping pills in the thermos ­bottles. In 1949, they again conquered the title. Thus, one could say that it was the team of one year yes and the next no, of the rib, as they said. But the fall in output was not just on Vasco’s part. It was also on the part of the ­owners of the championship. Also Flamengo, Fluminense, and Botafogo were more directly affected b ­ ecause they held the responsibility of safeguarding g­ reat soccer. The Black Man’s Turn  277

The shock created by the 16th of July affected them more profoundly than it did América and Bangu. América had not been champion for fifteen years; Bangu, for seventeen. And the experience of Bangu was ­bitter. They became small ­after winning a title, their only one. Now, however, Guilherme da Silveira Filho was getting ready to make Bangu big, ­really big. Thus Zizinho. Thus Ondino Viera. But América had shot out into the lead. They got to the point of being five points in front of Vasco with three games left in the championship. When they went to face Vasco in the final, every­thing had changed. The distance that separated them was only one point. ­Until then, a­ fter the world championship, the Maracanã had not filled up once. More ­people went to watch soccer than before b ­ ecause t­ here was room to spare. Whoever wished to see a game did not need to worry if the game was in Maracanã. They could arrive right at starting time, no prob­lem. One could see the difference. Above all, from the presence of the entire ­family. The fans who did not dare, before, to bring their wives and ­children, to confront the grandstand, now appeared up front. B ­ ehind them, in a line, their wife and kids on the staircase. The Vasco versus América final, however, broke the re­sis­tance of the reluctant ones. Not that of ­those who had sworn off ­going to a soccer field ever again; rather, that of ­those who had gone on vacation. Or ­were in mourning. ­Because t­ here ­were fans in mourning. Hoping to alleviate their suffering, bit by bit, u ­ ntil they could remove the black ribbon from their lapels. ­There is always a crowd, and a big one, for a decisive match. The championship, when all is said and done, is summed up in the decisive match. And it is almost a detective novel. The difference is that on the last page, one does not discover the criminal but rather the hero. ­There are suspects, always less of them than in a mystery novel. With each round they grow fewer and fewer. They end up reduced to two. Fi­nally the last veil is g­ oing to be pulled back, and every­one wants to see this striptease, which is the fate of all the championships. And that is what explains the crowd that went on that hot January after­ noon to the Maracanã, as if in a victor’s lap, the scenario recalling that of the world championship. If the blue lake of seats remained blue, the big grandstand would fill up. It was a strong memory that came back: that of the world championship. The fans made peace with soccer. Entering the field, the players could experience that happiness. The anguish of 16 July had ended. The contrary occurred, however. At least for some players. One of them could not stand that vision. He had not played once in the world championship, although he was part of the Brazilian squad of twenty-­two: Ipojucan. 278  Chapter Six

He was, apparently, a cold player. A tall mulatto, who seemed to be too tall for a soccer player, but a virtuoso. He did ­things with the ball that few players did. He had an impor­tant mission on the field, which was preparing the attacks. To push Ademir forward to make a cut on goal. In front of him, however, was that nightmare crowd. Looking at it, he felt himself to be playing for Brazil on 16 July. And, heart in his throat, he would be assaulted by a chill in his stomach and weakness in his legs. He resisted for one half. But when he came down the tunnel stairs, when he saw himself in the changing room, upon hearing Flávio Costa yell, giving ­orders—­the game was in Vasco’s hands, they needed one more effort, Vasco was g­ oing to be champion twice in a row—­Ipojucan hid his face in his hands and let out a wail. Silence fell on the changing room. The other players stared at that mulatto, long, bent over, hiding his face, shaken by sobs. Flávio Costa went ­after him. “Shut up! Shut up!” Ipojucan lifted his face, down which ­were rolling thick tears of despair. This was when he received the first slap. “Get up!” yelled Flávio Costa. Ipojucan got up, passing his hand over his face, and it was not known ­whether it was to dry his tears or to wipe away the mark left by the slap. “­We’re g­ oing to the field,” Flávio Costa ordered, and pushed Ipojucan. The other players directed themselves to the door of the changing room, to the hallway that extended up to the stairs that led to the mouth of the tunnel. Ipojucan, no. He threw himself on the ground and grabbed the leg of a long bench. Flávio Costa got down low to pull him up, peppering him with slaps. Ipojucan was on his knees, wailing, “I c­ an’t do it. I c­ an’t do it!” And Flávio Costa brought him out to the hallway, pushing and shoving. Seeing the hallway, Ipojucan ran as if to freedom. In front of the stairs, however, down which poured the oceanic sounds of the crowd, he fell again to his knees. And as if climbing the stairs in penance, carry­ing out a vow he did not wish to fulfill, he had to go, on his knees, pushed, shaken, and slapped, up the tunnel staircase. Suddenly he found himself in the mouth of the tunnel, the field, very green, before him. He fell down on all fours. And he entered the field crawling, hearing the cries of Flávio Costa like lashes of a whip. Reaching the white line of chalk, where the field began, he r­ ose. He wiped away his tears, straightened his back, but stepped onto the lawn with legs still shaky.3 The Black Man’s Turn  279

2. Even with Ipojucan wishing to stop and leave the field once in a while, only continuing on ­because, before making the fatal decision, he would look ­toward the mouth of the tunnel and see Flávio Costa ranting, as if whipping him with stinging screams, which he felt he could hear, Vasco won the title twice in a row for the first time in its existence. In São Januário, the champagne was flowing, as if from open faucets, from upturned ­bottles. Flávio Costa should have been happy, but he was not. He still felt the pain of 16 July and 3 October b ­ ecause, having lost the world championship, he had also lost the election for city council to president Octávio Póvoas, who had played soccer against him and thus still saw him as Alicate. As a back, Octávio Póvoas had been better or become more renowned than Flávio Costa as a halfback, the Alicate of Flamengo. It was an old quarrel. Thus Octávio Póvoas would go to Vasco practices to needle him. Less as president of Vasco, since no president of Vasco would dare such a t­ hing, but as an ex-­player, an ex-­star. Flávio Costa was still untouchable in São Januário. And in that time of cele­bration, the Vasco fans ­going crazy, he seemed even more untouchable. Florita Costa, however, unburdened herself. What she could not forgive Vasco for was the defeat of her “old man” in the election. If the Vasco fans had voted for him, he would be city councilman. And over that, ­there would be an argument. ­There still shone on the fin­ger of Florita Costa, sparkling, a diamond ring, which at that time cost 70,000 cruzeiros. It was not the only one, since Florita adored jewelry. That ring, however, had been a pre­sent from the p ­ eople of Vasco. To soften her red-­and-­black heart. It was not softened. Her old man was champion for the second time in a row; his star had not set, quite the contrary. Florita Costa took advantage of the moment to yell some truths at ­t hose Portuguese. It was not that she did not like Portuguese, she liked them. But she wanted to wound them. And to wound them she lifted her voice, and every­one had to listen to her. “The place of the old man is not ­here; it is where his heart always was.” It was more than clear: Flamengo. ­There ­were Vasco ­people who, in order not to be rude, left the bar and went to the field, where ­t here was a samba school parading. Would Florita Costa succeed in taking the Professor away from São Januário? Only if Vasco allowed it. Flávio Costa, however much desire he had to return to Flamengo, had an even greater weakness for the squadron of 280  Chapter Six

Vasco. Even so, ­after what Florita Costa had done, confronting all the ­people of Vasco, he had to do something: he submitted his resignation. The ­owners of Vasco, “the cardinals,” did not have to let him go, right ­after his second consecutive title. A good pretext was not lacking: Flávio Costa had to fulfill his contract. Octávio Póvoas, however, had no doubt: he immediately granted the recision of the contract. That was how Flávio Costa returned, ­after four years of absence, to Flamengo. At the beach headquarters, amidst passionate speeches, the Professor soon received the title of owning member of Flamengo. The tributes paid to Florita Costa ­were t­ hose befitting a First Lady. For Flamengo, Flávio Costa was the prodigal son in Gávea. Gilberto Cardoso did not conceal his thick tears. He made a point of showing them, rolling down his cheeks, moistening his mustache, fogging up his glasses, which he had to remove, more than once, to clean with his soon moist handkerchief, so moist that instead of drying the lenses, it fogged them up even more. The one who took Vasco to Montevideo, for what was a kind of revenge for the 16th of July, was Otto Glória, a dark mulatto with a round face, his forehead ever more enlarged by the baldness spreading over it, shiny. He had been the assistant of Flávio Costa at São Januário. With the departure of the Professor, Vasco, before thinking about another coach, had allowed him to remain and take control of the team. To confront Vasco, the one chosen, on purpose, was Peñarol, with six champions of the world: Máspoli, Mathias Gonzalez, Obdúlio Varela, Gigghia, Miguez, and Schiafino. From the Brazilian side of 1950, which had lost to the Celeste, Vasco brought five: Barbosa, Augusto, Danilo, Friaça, and Ademir. The game was arranged so that the Uruguayan public would have a vision of 16 July. It was not, officially, a Uruguay versus Brazil game. It counted, nevertheless, as a reprise. Instead of the Celeste, it was Peñarol, which had been the base of the world champion se­lection. Just like Vasco, which had played the same role in relation to the Brazilian side. The stage was what was completely dif­fer­ent. In place of the Maracanã, it was the Centenary Stadium. And thus it was that Vasco crushed Peñarol. It was a total victory, of complete domination. When the game ended, ­there was the score line: Vasco three, Peñarol zero.4 This feat of Vasco, momentarily, seemed to heal the still-­open wound. So much so that the newspapers of all Brazil printed headlines: “Brazilian soccer avenged!” The reception of the Vasco players was that of champions of the world. More banners of Vasco than of Brazil. ­There ­were, however, flying on masts, also Brazilian flags. The Black Man’s Turn  281

The happiness did not last long. What good did it do to demonstrate that Brazilian soccer was superior to Uruguayan soccer? Who did not know that Brazil had the best soccer in the world? That was what hurt the most. Brazil had the best soccer in the world, but Uruguay was the champion of the world. And they would continue to be ­until 1954, in Switzerland. Even for Vasco it ­didn’t do much good. The Rio Cup came, and Vasco lost to Palmeiras, which would be champion. Palmeiras had only given one player to the 1950 side: Jair da Rosa Pinto, kicked off of Flamengo, with his shirt burned at Gávea, in a bonfire of the inquisition. The defeat at Maracanã had left no mark on Jajá de Barra Mansa, who parted his hair in the m ­ iddle with a knife, in a long crease. To hide that he was a mulatto? For a touch of elegance, perhaps. It is pos­si­ble that it was that concern, of always being well put together, that made him move on the field like a Domingos da Guia, playing up t­ here in front. He was incapable of a burst of speed. Of an effort that would draw from him, like a tear, a single drop of sweat. He left the field as he had entered it: clean, dry, his jersey still warm from the laundry. This is what explains the success of Palmeiras, untouched by the “day of shame,” champion of São Paulo, champion of the Rio–­São Paulo, champion of the Rio Cup, which was a kind of world championship of champion clubs. It’s true that in the Pacaembu stadium, in the paulista game of the Rio Cup, Palmeiras suffered a loss by four to Juventus, Italian champions of 1949–50. Since, by regulation, the champion of the Rio game would face the second place of the São Paulo series, and the first of the São Paulo series would face the second of the Rio series, t­ here was the final, which unfolded in two games: Palmeiras versus Juventus. In the Maracanã, Palmeiras was more at home than in Pacaembu, whereas Juventus—­more Italian than Palmeiras, which was not even Palestra Itália anymore—­beyond dividing the fan base of Palmeiras, could count on t­ hose of the other paulista clubs, envious of a title that Palmeiras alone would hold if it won the Rio Cup: the T ­ riple Crown.5 The cariocas supported Palmeiras so much in the first game, the tie with Juventus, that on the Sunday of the big final, someone who wished to judge by the license plates of the cars would not know w ­ hether they w ­ ere in Rio or São Paulo. Thousands and thousands of cars from São Paulo came to Rio. And chartered buses. And trucks. T ­ here was no ­free space in any train or plane. The paulistas understood that it was not Palmeiras that was at stake. It was Brazilian soccer. They did not wish to stand b ­ ehind the cariocas. And the Maracanã seemed as if it had traveled back in time. It was returning to 1950 and the World Cup. 282  Chapter Six

The one who scored the winning goal in Palmeiras’s victory, at the end of the game—­a goal that had to be done and redone, the ball g­ oing in, almost getting knocked away, having to be pushed again, dragged, u ­ ntil it reached the net—­was a Lima who had nothing to do with e­ ither the white Lima, the Golden Boy, or the black Lima. He simply shared the name Lima. He was a ­little stockier than the white Lima, quite dark, with full hair, thick and sleek. Jair da Rosa Pinto was not carried in triumph. It was a tribute that he always rejected. The crazed fans who ran to embrace him, to lift him up on their shoulders and march him around like a hero, would stop short, intimidated. ­There was something in Jair da Rosa Pinto that made them stop. Nevertheless, in that early eve­ning, the floodlights of Maracanã already lit, ­because the Italians and Danish of Juventus only entered the field thirty minutes a­ fter the hour, four o ­ ’clock, set by them for the beginning of the game, fearing the heat, ­because it was a summer day in the ­middle of the carioca winter, Jair da Rosa Pinto did something that seemed to put him suddenly in need of a psychoanalyst’s couch: he took the Rio Cup, an enormous silver trophy, and flipped it over onto his head to crown himself King of the match. And he let himself be photographed a number of times like that: with a crown on his head, grinning as he never had, at least on the field.6 The Brazilians could now rest easy, but they did not. Certainly they celebrated Palmeiras’s conquest, but with a pain that did not go away. Or it went away only to return. Not as strong, since ­there is nothing like time for such ­things, but always pain. And wounded vanity. One could not forgive the loss of 16 July. Who knows if it was ­because, on that after­noon of the disaster, the Brazilian felt himself to actually be Barbosa, Bigode, and Juvenal. The whites ­were blaming their color, which did no good. Blaming also the race. Beginning with Pedro Álvares Cabral, who had discovered Brazil. Something was still lacking in the Brazilian to be world champion. The explanation of Obdúlio Varela was too s­ imple. All the more so b ­ ecause it only applied to 16 July. B ­ ecause Vasco had defeated Peñarol with Obdúlio Varela and every­thing. With Barbosa in the goal, although without Bigode to retreat as Gigghia advanced. Instead of Bigode, old Alfredo II, black and without a single tooth in his mouth, since he’d left his dentures in the changing room. Peñarol was not convinced. On the date of the first anniversary of 16 July, actually two days ­later b ­ ecause it was a Sunday, they arranged a game with América. This time it seemed as if t­ here was no danger. América was still the “Tico Tico no Fubá.” They had lost a won championship, five points out in front with three games remaining. The Black Man’s Turn  283

They enjoyed, it is true, crashing a party. They w ­ ere known as joy killers. If they got a goal in front in the score line, they would begin to dance. Arsenal knew. They had returned to Brazil, had gone to play América, and it was enough for América to score a goal for them to begin a dance such as never had been seen. Every­one was thinking that the En­glishmen, upon returning to London, would excoriate the Brazilians, calling them street urchins. T ­ hose who knew or thought they knew the En­glish confirmed, categorically, that the En­glish only accepted serious soccer. What a shock for the Brazilians, then, when the tele­grams from London proclaimed the British won­der regarding América’s soccer. The best team that the players of Arsenal had ever seen. The Uruguayans ­were not En­glishmen. For this reason, they did not like the dance América did against Peñarol at all. B ­ ecause it was a dance, in the fine style of “Tico Tico no Fubá.” The mulattoes and blacks of América—­ they w ­ ere almost all mulattoes and blacks—­were playing as if dancing on the field, and quickly, more and more quickly, to the chorinho of Zequinha de Abreu.7 The Uruguayan revenge was to touch the Brazilian wound. “Nosotros somos los campeones del mundo.”8 That game counted for nothing. The game that had counted was that of 16 July 1950. When Obdúlio Varela, with two fin­gers, held out the front of his blue jersey to show it to the Brazilians. “Es la Celeste.” The memory of Obdúlio Varela remained alive, as an ideal. Each Brazilian player tried to be an Obdúlio Varela. Kicking with the foot, hitting with the arm. To show he was a man. Woe to the one who seemed weak. That which no one would except in Brazilian soccer anymore was a gesture of weakness. Wearing the jersey of a team, or of a side, a Brazilian player had to withstand every­thing. Carlyle finished off Oswaldo, Bangu’s goalkeeper, by passing his hand over his head, messing up his cowlick. He did that one time, by chance. “Cowlick” Oswaldo lost his head: he went a­ fter Carlyle and tried to fight him, having to be held back like the Chinese man of the anecdote. For Ondino Viera, Cowlick was the greatest goalkeeper Brazil had ever had. He had every­t hing to be a permanent starter on the Brazilian side. And a messed-up cowlick ended Oswaldo’s c­ areer. It was enough for t­ here to be a Fluminense versus Bangu, where Carlyle passed by Oswaldo and messed up his cowlick. Cowlick had to be held back by force while the crowd whistled, in a deafening chorus, “Tweet tweet.” Cowlick went on to become Tweet Tweet. He would come onto the field and be saluted with whistles. “Tweet tweet! Tweet tweet!” 284  Chapter Six

In the mouth of Bangu’s tunnel, from where one could observe the long, almost hanging nose of Ondino Viera, ­there stood the Silveirinhas—­Guilherme da Silveira Filho and Joaquim Guilherme da Silveira. This was to show that they did not just support the factory’s team with money. So much so that they exposed themselves, staying ­there as if in a showcase, for all too see. In the good tradition of Bangu, ­there ­were few whites: Cowlick (or Tweet Tweet); Rafaneli, a back who went wherever Ondino Viera went; Décio Esteves, still young; and Nívio, a player from Minas Gerais, good with the ball and with a power­f ul shot. The rest ­were mulattoes and blacks: Mendonça; Mirim; Rui, who had started on the Brazilian side but was on his way down; Djalma, the man of seven instruments, who had left Vasco crying ­because he wanted to go inside during the half of a Vasco versus Arsenal of London but Flávio Costa ordered him to stay and he went; Menezes, who alternated on the wing with Moacir Bueno; Zizinho; Joel; and Vermelho, so black that he earned the nickname “Red,” of downtrodden blood, dark. If Bangu did not have a g­ reat team, the Silveirinhas would not appear in the tunnel. The players needed to know that they could count on them. This was to make up for the difference of the jersey. B ­ ecause since the 16th of July, they had gone back to talking about jerseys. The cry of Obdúlio Varela could still be heard: “Es la Celeste!” The jersey weighed, again, in the balance. In the decision, the victory went to Fluminense, who had slyly accepted the name “­Little Team.” It was the year of Castilho, “the Milkman.” When the ball had beaten Castilho and looked like it would go in, it hit the bar. Contrary to Bangu, Fluminense had whitened their team. They had only two mulattoes, Pinheiro and Edson—­one of whom had a curve in his spine and played like a ­human Tower of Pisa, on the verge of falling, but without stopping an instant on the field—­and one black player, Didi. Carlyle, white, missing an ear or part of an ear, which caused him to pose only in profile, on the side of the complete ear, ended up with Cowlick. Zezé Moreira played him ­there, up front, to bring to despair the backs and goalkeeper of the other team. Orlando, “the Drop of Gold,” got the leftovers. But the one who assisted the two, coming and g­ oing, was Didi. For Bangu, the one who de­cided the championship was Didi, breaking the leg of Mendonça. A perfect crime. They only found out Mendonça had broken his leg afterward. Didi had lifted up the sole of his cleat as if in self-­defense. And no one had the right, whatsoever, to get angry. Before Ondino Viera proclaimed that the championship was a war, Carlito Rocha, looking raptly at the Botafogo players, wanting them tall and strong, and referring to them affectionately as beautiful h ­ orses, seeing them trot onto the field, came out with this phrase: “Soccer is a game for men.” The Black Man’s Turn  285

And as it was a “game for men,” and we had lost the world championship, we ­were not men. The conclusion that Brazilians had reached on 16 July 1950. Fluminense was on Didi’s side: if the black man had not defended himself, the one with the broken leg would be him. ­Because Mendonça’s challenges ­were for real. Thus, 1951 had debuted another g­ reat black man of Brazilian soccer: Didi. He played on his feet, except when he apparently lost his balance to thread a pass. Zezé Moreira pointed out that black man with the long neck, like a seal’s, balancing his head, like the greatest striker of Brazil. Greater than Zizinho. And ­there ­were ­people who only went to soccer games to see Zizinho. The ball always in reach of his foot for a poke, for a dry and short dribble, for a shot to stuff the net full. What Zizinho did with the ball was hard to believe. Didi had brought something new. Almost without looking, at least giving the impression he ­wasn’t looking, he would drive a pass thirty, forty meters to assist a Carlyle or an Orlando in front of the goal, alone. And when he took a ­free kick, he could put spin on the ball, topping the barrier and surprising the goalie. It became known as “the dry leaf.” Beyond that, he had the advantage of being tough. Zizinho was also tough, but maybe he was paying for 16 July. That fateful date did not go out of Brazilians’ minds. This was the time to get rough, to shove with the hands and strike with the feet. Thus, t­ hose who made an impression w ­ ere the ones who, at the right moment, got rough. Not just the players; also the coaches, the masseuses. As in the case of Mário Américo, the Vasco masseuse, who had become a popu­lar figure as “the Messenger Pigeon” of Flávio Costa. When Mário Américo came onto the field, r­ unning, as if he w ­ ere betting on a race, his bald black head shining in the sun or in the glow of the floodlights, it was not just to help a fallen player. Especially ­because the coach, needing to give instructions, would make a gesture and thus injure a player on his team. Without being touched the player would fall, writhing around. It was time for Mário Américo. He bet on a race that he himself ran, his knees pumping up and down like pistons of a motor at full speed. And he was all smiles, joyful, happy. He would get down next to the fallen player, dump out the bag filled with pieces of ice, and never stop talking. This is what explains the nickname Messenger Pigeon. In the Rio–­São Paulo decision of 1952, he was, however, more than a Messenger Pigeon. Ely do Amparo, acting like Obdúlio Varela, “the G ­ reat Captain” who was g­ oing to be in the Pan-­American Championship, kicked Pinga. Pinga, who did not distinguish himself by his courage, grabbed Ely’s arm. Even the president of Sporting Portuguesa of São Paulo entered the field to 286  Chapter Six

fight, to yell. Ely and Pinga w ­ ere thrown out of the game by Mr. Elife. But they did not leave, still in the ­middle of the ruckus. Mário Américo was seen to enter the field and throw himself into the brawl. The first t­ hing he did was to slap Augusto Isaias, the president of Sporting Portuguesa. This should have been a case of Augusto Isaias never wanting to see Mário Américo’s face again. In front of the crowd, in the biggest stadium in the world, a masseuse, and a very black one at that, raising his hand to the very white face of a club president. Contrary to what was expected, the president of Sporting Portuguesa was dazzled. It was a man like that that he needed. And he would not rest u ­ ntil he could bring Mário Américo to São Paulo. The offer was so good that Mário Américo did not hesitate; he left b ­ ehind all the years he had spent at Vasco and went to be the masseuse of Sporting Portuguesa in São Paulo.9 The Rio–­São Paulo game had hardly ended when the Brazilian side left for Santiago, Chile, where they ­were ­going to dispute the first Pan-­A merican Championship. The CBD could not even think of calling on Flávio Costa. Other­wise, they would reopen the wound of 1950. Instead, they called Zezé Moreira, carioca champion coach of 1951. The press, except t­ hose who w ­ ere tricolor fans, did not like the choice. It was ­because Zezé used a zonal defense. He would attack with two, at most three, sometimes with just one. This, for the columnists still embittered about 1950 and fearing a repeat, was Brazilian anti-­soccer. Zezé Moreira began by not calling up Zizinho, which represented, for “the Maestro Ziza” fan club, a heresy worthy of an inquisition bonfire. From the 1950 side, including reserves and starters, Zezé Moreira kept only Castilho, Ely, Bauer, Bigode, Ademir, Baltazar, Friaça, and Ipojucan. Of the eight, t­ here ­were three who w ­ ere r­ eally starters, although Friaça had come in to replace Maneca, who was hurt, and had scored Brazil’s only goal on the “day of shame.” Bigode perhaps had been called up so t­ here would be no doubt that he was a man. That was a ­thing that Zezé Moreira would never allow: cowardice. So then, why Ipojucan? Zezé Moreira also had a weakness for the virtuoso, something Ipojucan was, without the slightest doubt. The novelty of Zezé Moreira was that of the three goalkeepers. Beyond Castilho, Oswaldo “Balisa”—­the player who used to attach a comic book to the post during Botafogo practices—­and Cabeção. The ­others ­were Djalma Santos; Arati, who had an amazing touch; Brandãozinho; Ruarinho, also a fighter; Julinho, about whom no one knew how he was not called up in 1950; Rubens, who had come to Flamengo and seemed to play with the ball attached to his cleats by a string; Didi; Pinga; and the rediscovered Rodrigues. The Black Man’s Turn  287

The side just held one practice and then left that same night for Santiago. It seemed to be a “pack it up and send it” situation. To make t­ hings worse, before Holy Saturday, Brazil tied Peru. Brazilians had not yet lost their shame about ties. T ­ here was a national revolt. Only a few tricolor fans, thinking more about Fluminense than about Brazil, did not find the tie with Peru a supreme ignominy. The popu­lar indignation was so g­ reat that the Judas of the Holy Saturday had nothing to do with that Iscariot who had sold the Savior for thirty pieces of silver: all the Judases hung on posts throughout Rio ­were Zezé Moreirases. To eliminate any doubt, nailed to each Judas was a sign that read “Zezé Moreiras.” ­Until, that is, the Brazil versus Uruguay match. Brazil with the yellow shirt of the CBD and Uruguay with the “Celeste.” That game, indeed, was the rematch of 16 July. For the first time since 1950, the two sides ­were meeting each other.10 And Brazil won in every­thing: in soccer, in kicks, in shoves, in slaps. The spirit of the ­Great Captain had possessed Ely do Amparo. He was a black man who made a point of demonstrating that black men did not flee from the front. Exaggerating a l­ittle to avenge Barbosa and Bigode. To end that story that it was black players who had brought about the loss on 16 July 1950. Or black Brazilians, since the Uruguayan hero was the mulatto Obdúlio Varela. In the first instant, Ely do Amparo raised his hand to Obdúlio Varela. Obdúlio Varela, before the fury of Ely do Amparo, was retreating and mostly not reacting, merely inquiring, “What is this?” Bigode was on the bench with the reserves. He could not resist: he, too, came onto the field to go ­after Obdúlio Varela. All of Brazil was salivating at this delectable feast on the radio. It mattered ­little that all of it was of no par­tic­u­lar use. The Brazilian side was winning easily, playing much more soccer. Against the force of the Brazilian attack, the Uruguayan defense could do nothing. It was not just a victory; it was a blowout. And it was a dance. Why the rough play, then? It was b ­ ecause Obdúlio Varela’s shoving of Bigode in 1950 was stuck in the throat of ­every Brazilian. No one doubted the superiority of Brazilian soccer. ­There was a dif­fer­ent kind of doubt: that the Brazilians could not perform in a crucial moment. And yet the circumstances of 1950 ­were not reproduced in Santiago de Chile. Instead of Brazil versus Uruguay, it was another Brazil versus Spain. With the difference of the kicks, shoves, and slaps. Facing the Uruguayans and Obdúlio Varela, all the grievances returned. Grievances more regarding themselves than the Uruguayans. 288  Chapter Six

In a certain sense, one could understand an Ely do Amparo caught up in an iconoclastic fury. The Brazilian fans had been bemoaning, since 1950, not having an Obdúlio Varela. It was necessary to show that Brazil had an Ely do Amparo capable of g­ oing a­ fter Obdúlio Varela. For this reason, the side that had left Brazil melancholically, without raising the hopes of the fans, made a point of winning at soccer with all their heart and soul. They preferred a victory peppered with incidents and boos to a greater and cleaner triumph, without any defects. Even with the Dionysian drunkenness of the one against Spain, that of the “Bullfights of Madrid.” It was a fury of vengeance, Brazilian style, which was not placated even with the blowout. Bigode had gotten the best of Obdúlio Varela. He could hold his head high again. Ely do Amparo was parading around the field, his long legs bent, his chest puffed out, like a fighting cock ­after it makes the other rooster sing like a hen. For Nilton Santos, however, it had not been enough. He had not played in 1950, nor did he have any beef with Obdúlio Varela. But he had inherited the blush of the “day of shame.” The score was four to one, and ­there was just one minute remaining ­until the end of the game. Mário Américo stuck his fin­ger way up to show that the game would end in one minute. This was when Nilton Santos saw near him, rather careless, the scorer of the goal of the Uruguayan victory in 1950: Gigghia. He could take the ball away from him, dribble around him, and do what he always did, fake ­going to one side and then go to the other. He ­didn’t do any of ­these ­things; rather, he hauled back and kicked Gigghia. It was a penalty. Nilton Santos did not even worry. Four to one or four to two, what difference did it make? But he had kicked Gigghia. The Uruguayan ghosts would no longer haunt the midnights of Brazilian soccer. It was a victory that unburdened all of Brazil. Thus the reception of the heroes of the Pan-­A merican Championship, of the true world champions. Greater than that of the soldiers when they returned from war.

3. ­ here ­were so many p T ­ eople in Galeão Airport that one had the impression, faced with that sea of humanity, coming and ­going like the tide, that all of Rio was t­ here. Nothing like this had yet been seen. It was a city unburdened, with a light and joyful heart, that was ­going to give thanks for a victory. It mattered ­little, in that moment, that it had come almost two years late. And that, above all, it did not change anything. The Black Man’s Turn  289

Uruguay was still world champion. It was a gesture that, in all of Brazil and Uruguay, ­after one more defeat, the Uruguayans would repeat: two fin­ gers held up on the left hand, and one fin­ger extended, alone, on the right hand. Which meant: Uruguay two, Brazil one. The date did not need to be recalled: 16 July 1950. Brazilians w ­ ere continually scratching the wound. Especially in the Maracanã: the goal next to the platform of honor was named Gigghia’s goal.11 It was enough for a ball to hit the strings of the fatal side. The announcers would yell: “The ball shook the bridal veil of Gigghia’s goal!” But Brazilians had loved the win in Santiago with all their heart and soul. Perhaps more so ­because it was felt deep in their hearts, as a nation. One could no longer accuse the black man of not being able to endure criticism, although by accusing the black man, Brazilians w ­ ere accusing themselves. So much so that, beyond the black men who ­were sacrificial lambs—­Barbosa, Juvenal, and Bigode—­Brazilians cursed themselves as a sub-­race. A race of mestizos. Ely do Amparo had raised his hand to Obdúlio Varela in the name of not just the blacks and mulattoes but also the whites of Brazil. The whites had this satisfaction: Ely do Amparo was not alone in getting rough. The whites, mulattoes, and blacks of the Brazilian side w ­ ere all equals in this. The parade of the Pan-­A merican Champions was from Galeão to the spruced-up city hall, in a carnivalesque automobile pro­cession, the cars crawling along. And on the margins of the boulevards and ave­nues, crowds ­were awaiting them. One could not walk on Rio Branco Ave­nue. Brazilian flags w ­ ere on the balconies and on the flagpoles of buildings. And from the open win­dows blew the snowflakes of shredded paper. The curious t­ hing was that the place of national idol, previously occupied by Arthur Friedenreich and Leônidas da Silva, remained empty. Who had been the hero of Santiago? Castilho? Djalma Santos? Nilton Santos? Pinheiro? Ely do Amparo, the ­Great Captain? Julinho? Didi? Baltazar? Ademir? Many names ­were new. Why had they not discovered a Djalma Santos before? Why had a Pinheiro not gotten a start? Why had Nilton Santos remained out? Why had an Ely do Amparo not been used? Why had Julinho not drawn attention when they ­were lacking a right winger in 1950? Didi had ­really come up, as a star player, in 1951. And ­there was Zizinho, whom many still considered the greatest Brazilian player. But he was in Bangu; he had lost the support of Flamengo’s fans, who went back to Rubens. And within Zezé Moreira’s system, the key was a Didi and not a Zizinho. A Didi who followed o ­ rders, from one end to the other, never stopping on 290  Chapter Six

the field, threading balls from a distance. Without yet having the vanity of the Didi who would become known as “the Ethiopian Prince from the Ranch.” The sports press swallowed the consecration of Zezé Moreira grudgingly. They did not go along with his system. What they wanted, deep down, was the Brazil of Brazil versus Spain, of the “Bullfights of Madrid.” F ­ ree on the field, uninhibited. Playing to the sound of a carnival march. Thus, perhaps they w ­ ere allowing the euphoria of the achievement in Santiago to die more quickly. Influencing this a ­little was the defeat of the cariocas, ­under Zezé Moreira, by the paulistas, ­under Aimoré Moreira, with Julinho dancing around Nilton Santos. For the sports columnists, this was the fault of Zezé Moreira and his zonal defense, which had let Julinho get the ball in an open space and dominate it with his dribble. But the paulista idol was Baltazar. All of São Paulo ­were glued to their radios, suffering what seemed an inevitable defeat in Porto Alegre, to Rio Grande. The tie was approaching with the game ending when Baltazar ­rose up and headed the ball for the winning goal.12 Baltazar, “the Flamengo of São Paulo,” was from Corinthians. He soon came to be known as “the L ­ ittle Golden Head.” “­Little Head” despite his big head covered with curly hair, and “Golden” despite being a very dark mulatto. The conquest of the Pan-­American Championship would feature the last spark of the Vasco squadron. The g­ reat team, which had supplied ten of the twenty players of the 1950 side, returned to considering themselves the se­lection. It was a swan song. It had been forming starting ten years before. From 1945 onward, one year yes, the next no, it was city champion. It had achieved, in 1948, the title of South American Club Champion and, in 1950, city champion for two consecutive years. Without a leader, it had fallen in 1951, a­ fter Flávio Costa had gone to Flamengo. Now Vasco had Gentil Cardoso. A ­ fter the mulatto Otto Glória, the black Gentil Cardoso. The one who was b ­ itter about the victories of Vasco was Flávio Costa. He considered himself a bit robbed: that squadron had been his for four years. And, when he had to form a team, Gentil Cardoso effortlessly took the squadron of Flávio Costa. Gentil Cardoso knew well that his victories would be of ­little use. The “cardinals” of Vasco did not leave the ­house of Flávio Costa. Octávio Póvoas was no longer president of Vasco. And Ciro Aranha wished to crown his term with the return of the Professor. For this reason, ­every time someone referred to Flávio Costa, Gentil Cardoso would call him “White Boy.” It was the White Boy against the Black Boy. The Black Man’s Turn  291

But Gentil Cardoso was ­going to show who the Black Boy was. The Black Boy was g­ oing to get a championship for Vasco. And afterward? That was what Gentil Cardoso wished to see. He had a two-­year contract. How was Vasco g­ oing to break its contract with a champion coach? Perhaps Gentil Cardoso recalled Fluminense, which had sent him away ­after winning a championship. For another White Boy and a foreigner to boot: Ondino Viera. Vasco, however, was dif­fer­ent. They had some Sebastianists, but they also had some Gentilists.13 Vasco fans who ­after a victory applauded him. When Vasco became champion before the season ended, in a game in São Januário against Olaria, Gentil Cardoso did not hold back: he came onto the field and did a victory lap. It was for the cardinals of Vasco, who ­were always ­behind Flávio Costa, to see whom the Vasco fans ­were with. A coach had never done this before. The coach always expected them to remember him as the commander, the general, to ask to carry him in triumph, with him resisting a l­ ittle, pretending he did not want it, that this was for the player. Gentil Cardoso removed his cap and did not stop waving it before the grandstands and the social areas of São Januário, while he carried, on his strong legs, his fat, almost round, body, although made more of muscle than of paunch. And he received, truly, a consecration. The applause of the Vasco fans followed him around the field. Every­one knew that the return of Flávio Costa to Vasco was being plotted. But if Gentil Cardoso took Vasco to the conquest of the title, what did they need Flávio Costa for? Gentil Cardoso was a city councilman collecting votes for reelection. In the popu­lar vote, he was reelected. That was what was being asked even by t­ hose who already knew that Flávio Costa had a verbal agreement with Vasco. T ­ here ­were t­ hose who said it was more than verbal: a signed contract. To begin on the day that his contract with Flamengo ended. How was Vasco g­ oing to get out of this? Triumphantly, Gentil Cardoso entered the changing room of Vasco. He was grinning broadly, rounding his long face, squinting his eyes more, which ­were almost hidden b ­ ehind cheeks inflated like helium balloons. The consecration by the fans had gone to his head. The proof was that he said aloud, lifting his inseparable cap, crumpled in his hand, “The masses are with me!” For the nobility of Vasco, for the cardinals who already had the word of Flávio Costa, this was a pretext. Artur Fonsêca Soares, a ­great man of Vasco, did not hesitate to grab his glove and throw it in the face of Gentil Cardoso. 292  Chapter Six

“Shut up! You are a ­simple employee of the club, sir!” And he lifted his fin­ger to the level of Gentil Cardoso’s nose. He knew that Gentil Cardoso was hot-­blooded, that he would not be able to stand a scolding in front of every­one. Gentil Cardoso reacted as Artur Fonsêca Soares had expected. To yelling he responded with yelling. And to the fin­ger to the nose with a fin­ger to the nose. Then Artur “String” Fonsêca Soares declared that an employee of the club had insulted a g­ reat meritorious member. And he demanded, then and t­ here, the dismissal of the employee.14 Gentil Cardoso was not fired immediately. They took him to one end of the changing room and took Artur “String” Fonsêca Soares to the other. That was a moment of cele­bration. De Luca led the cheer, “Sacket, sack the jacket, Vasco, Vasco, Vasco!” The cele­brations of victory proceeded without Gentil Cardoso. When the management of Vasco met, it was to guarantee their solidarity with Artur “String” Fonsêca Soares. Gentil Cardoso had lifted his voice against a ­great meritorious member, so he could not continue at Vasco. It was his pink slip. Vasco sought to be generous in its indemnification for the year remaining on the rescinded contract and in its award for the title. For Gentil Cardoso, that was yet another proof of racism. Between the Black Boy and the White Boy, Vasco preferred the White Boy. Why? B ­ ecause he was white. It seemed as if a curse pursued him: that of being black. It was not that he renounced the color that God had given him. So much so that he called himself Black Boy. At no point did he stop feeling black. If he w ­ ere white, he would not have been fired from Fluminense. Or he would have stayed on at Flamengo. No White Boy would bump him from Vasco. For players it was dif­fer­ent. If a player was black, he would rise up and not remain black, losing his color. However black he was, he would mix with the whites, as if he w ­ ere white. The phrase belonged to Robson, a black player from Fluminense. He was a ­little swallow of a man, a miniature of Carreiro. Though he did not reach the level of soccer of Carreiro, he was able to have his way with the likes of Ely do Amparo, “the G ­ reat Captain,” enormous and bow-­legged, who felt himself disarmed before Robson, by the mismatch in forces. Against Obdúlio Varela, almost his size, Ely do Amparo knew what to do. He would let his foot fly, and it was ­every man for himself. What to do, however, against Robson, who seemed to him like a defenseless l­ittle ant? If he stepped on him, he would be crushed. The Black Man’s Turn  293

Thus the inhibition of Ely do Amparo when he saw appearing in front of him the miniscule Robson. And Robson would push the ball through his legs and would even jeer: “Soccer is a game for men!” Robson played soccer and worked at the National Press. He also found time to run a tailor shop. He did not mea­sure anyone. When the customer found it strange, Robson would explain, “I take the mea­sure on first sight.” One night Benício Ferreira Filho was taking Robson and Orlando, “the Drop of Gold,” to Fluminense in his Cadillac. Soares Cabral Street, as usual, was badly lit. At the wheel, Benício Ferreira Filho did not stop talking and laughing, satisfied with life. He was an agreeable companion b ­ ecause of the joy he radiated. At his side, every­one felt better. Life was worth living. And with two players of Fluminense at his side, in the front seat, Benício Ferreira Filho felt all the happier. His carefree satisfaction might have been to blame, or the poor lighting of Soares Cabral Street. And it might have also been the color of the black ­couple, in dark clothing, who appeared, as if from the earth or out of the night, in front of the Cadillac. The black man and ­woman, leaning on each other, ­were drunk. So much so that they w ­ ere slowly zigzagging back and forth, as if Soares Cabral Street belonged to them. Benício Ferreira Filho saw the black ­couple just in time. He slammed his foot on the brake, down to the floorboard. The Cadillac s­ topped with a screech. Which is to say the tires of the Cadillac stuck to the cobblestones of Soares Cabral Street. The body of the car went forward before bouncing back. Orlando was projected off the seat. He hit his head on the windshield of the Cadillac, and when he felt his forehead with his hand, t­ here was a big lump on it. Then Orlando exploded. The least that he yelled at the black c­ ouple was “You dirty blacks!” And so forth. The black man and ­woman who had s­ topped, still leaning on each other, paid no mind. Step by step they reached the other sidewalk, as if nothing had happened. Orlando got even more furious. The one who calmed him down was Robson: “­Don’t do it, Orlando. I, too, was black, and I know what that’s like.” Robson was not even a player on the first team. He would be pulled up one game and go down the next. Zezé Moreira used him like a weapon. Above all since Fleitas Solich had appeared with Babá, even smaller than Robson. Babá was very short but stocky, with strong hairy legs. From a distance, however, he looked like a boy in short pants. When an opponent lifted his foot ­toward him, the crowd would howl with indignation. And the referee would come over, ranting. 294  Chapter Six

So Fluminense sent Robson on the field like a black Babá. And Robson even abused Ely do Amparo: “Soccer is a game for men!” However, he was a weapon that could not always be used. If they c­ ouldn’t tell on first sight, they would eventually. It was suddenly discovered that Babá was a real man. He could take a kick like any other. Even on the second team, Robson did not feel himself to be black. He knew only that he had been black. That he had been born black. How could he be black if he belonged to the Fluminense ­family? With a player, the one who liked the club wanted intimacy. If he could hug him, he would. Many whites, before achieving this intimacy, felt shy face to face with a black player. The positions would invert themselves, as if the black man could look down on the white from above. It was enough to break through that barrier for the white man to take pride in putting his arm around a black man’s shoulders. In being seen with him, at the club headquarters, in front of the other members who did not have the same plea­sure, or in the streets, awaking the envy of passersby. With a coach it was dif­fer­ent. The coach was always a bit distant. Believing that the more distant he was from the fans, the better. Flávio Costa went so far as to demand that they train in secret. At least he made the practice secret. Practice time was a kind of state secret. Only the most intimate journalists w ­ ere informed. Thus the cold, empty grandstands. At other times, when the championship was heating up, the attendance of a practice was the same as at a big game. The coach preferred to work without the implacable supervision of the crowd, for the fan did not limit himself to watching. If he liked something, he would clap; and if he ­didn’t, he would soon be putting two fin­gers in his lips to whistle his disapproval. And he would demand, yelling, the presence of a player who was on the bench. Flávio Costa had given a master class. ­Those who wished to be coaches wanted to be like him, demanding and countermanding. An era was ending, although the coaches w ­ ere the last ones to know. This explains, perhaps, the greater offense taken by Gentil Cardoso. For him, nothing had changed. Simply put, he was black and Flávio Costa was white. But Flamengo was ­going to hand over, although for a short time, the team to Jaime de Almeida, while they awaited Fleitas Solich. Otto Glória was at América. And the one who commanded the youth team of Fluminense was Gradim. The Black Man’s Turn  295

The black coach was welcomed at a big club. And if t­ hose who ­were for Flamengo wished for Fleitas Solich to come as quickly as pos­si­ble, it was not ­because of the color of Jaime de Almeida. If Fleitas Solich did not work out, ­there was nothing easier than sending him away. But they could not even think about sending away Jaime de Almeida. What the fans of Flamengo ­were ­doing, praying for the rapid arrival of Fleitas Solich, was defending Jaime de Almeida.15 As a player, without kicking anyone, Jaime de Almeida had gotten on the Brazilian side. He would have gone further if he ­were not so clean. Was Jaime de Almeida too good to be a coach? A coach had to use trickery. And even if he d ­ idn’t have to be a rogue in the sense of trickiness and street smarts, he had to be a tough boss; he had to yell. And Jaime de Almeida was incapable of yelling. It was the desire that Jaime de Almeida always remain with Flamengo, which made the red-­and-­black fans fearful of the tremendous trial being imposed on the good black man. The fans perceived that the times w ­ ere changing. May they change without touching Jaime de Almeida. Gentil Cardoso, however, was resentful. He left Vasco to join Botafogo.16 And the one who was president of Botafogo was Paulo Azeredo, who, in General Severiano, had been the last to agree to a black man wearing the white-­ and-­black jersey. Vasco had never had such ­things, quite the contrary. But maybe for that reason Gentil Cardoso did not forget. Who knows if he, too, like Flávio Costa, was deluding himself regarding the squadron in its final days? Botafogo had not been champion since 1948. In General Severiano, Gentil Cardoso was g­ oing to feel a bit like Flávio Costa at Flamengo: having to form a team. He was ­going to have the glory of discovering Garrincha, who had been moving from club to club. At Fluminense, they ­didn’t even let him change into his soccer clothes. At São Cristóvão, he saw practice end without being called onto the field. It is true that the same had occurred at Vasco, the White Boy in place of the Black Boy. At ­every practice, unknown players would show up. A member had seen them play. It was the “new Zizinho,” the “new Ademir,” the “new Didi.” The coach would send one in and not even let him warm his body up. Then it was the next one’s turn. It depended on the recommendation. Sometimes a player would bring a good reference. Garrincha was on the fence, waiting. The after­noon was deepening, and soon the practice would end. Suddenly Gentil Cardoso sees him and calls to him: “You ­there. Go in.” 296  Chapter Six

Garrincha went in. His luck was that the back who was g­ oing to defend him was called Nilton Santos. Garrincha got the ball and ­stopped in front of Nilton Santos; with his crooked legs, he feinted that he was g­ oing, d ­ idn’t go, then went. ­Those who ­were at General Severiano stadium saw something they had never expected: a rookie, with crooked legs, knocking down Nilton Santos with a dribble. Nilton Santos was on the ground, his legs in the air. Gentil Cardoso had no doubts; he stuck with Garrincha right away. He was a player who had come from Raiz da Serra, who had played only in informal games, who had one leg eight centimeters longer than the other, and who only kept himself on his feet and walked and ran with the ball ­because beforehand, he would bend his longer leg like a bow ­until it was positioned at the height of his shorter one. A player like that came along only once in a ­great while. By a miracle. In the end, he would not serve much use to Gentil Cardoso. Garrincha would do a dribble, and the crowd would crack up laughing ­because the defender would fall on his b ­ ehind. But Garrincha continued to dribble. He liked to have the ball at his feet, to run with it; he did not want to let it go. ­After a dribble, he waited for the opponent to get up to do another, as a bonus. He was the joy of the match. T ­ here ­were t­ hose who asked, So what? Brazil would have the b ­ itter experience of a South American Championship and another World Cup. The South American Championship was in Lima. It should have been in Asunción, but Paraguay did not have the money to pay for travel and lodging costs of so many del­e­ga­tions. Only Argentina showed up. Thus, ­there was no doubt: Brazil was g­ oing to be champion. ­There would never be an easier South American Championship for Brazil. And despite this, or b ­ ecause of it, Brazil lost. The coach was Aimoré Moreira. Aggravated by press criticism, Zezé had excused himself. His ­brother had been the coach of São Paulo, Brazilian champions of 1952. Thus the choice of the CBD. In the beginning, it seemed as if ­there was no force that could hold back the Brazilian side. Suddenly every­thing started to go awry. T ­ here was a division in the side between cariocas and paulistas. The paulista columnists ­were pulling for the paulistas, and the carioca columnists for the cariocas. Zizinho assumed command of the cariocas. Aimoré Moreira, the coach of São Paulo, tried to get support from the paulistas. When, ­after two defeats, Brazil was about to play its decisive match for the title, a tiebreaker with Paraguay, Rivadávia Correia Meyer, president of the CBD, de­cided to give the direction of the team to Flávio Costa and Zezé Moreira as well, without removing Aimoré Moreira. The Black Man’s Turn  297

Aimoré Moreira set up a barricade at the Brazilian team’s quarters. The one who watched the door was Mário Vianna: “You’ll only come in ­here over my dead body.” José Lins do Rêgo stood by the side of Aimoré Moreira. Zezé Moreira came to Lima to say that the side belonged to Aimoré. And Aimoré led the side in the loss to Paraguay. The CBD resolved to do two t­ hings: to never again hire Aimoré Moreira as a national coach, and to never put Zizinho on the side again. José Lins do Rêgo’s report was decisive: Zizinho had divided the side by forming a group. With Zizinho on a team, no coach could have tranquility. Then arrived the time for Zezé Moreira’s fall, in the World Cup of 1954 in Switzerland. For the Eu­ro­pean journalists, t­ here w ­ ere two favorites: Brazil and Hungary. For years Hungary had been building a team with 1954 in mind. They had already given a show of force by demolishing ­England at Wembley Stadium. But the Eu­ro­pean press still remembered the Brazil versus Spain game of 1950, in the Maracanã. If Brazil ­were the same, perhaps not even the marvelous Hungarian side could resist. The Brazilians, however, had not forgotten 16 July 1950. The proof is that Bauer signed a contract with São Paulo before embarking, one that he had been consistently rejecting. At the time of departure, he did not hesitate a moment more. And if Brazil ­were to lose? If Brazil lost, Bauer pictured himself disembarking in Belém do Pará and traveling incognito to São Paulo.17 Zezé Moreira made the m ­ istake of taking the Brazilian players to a practice of the Hungarians, whom every­one called “the ghosts of the World Cup.” And what the Brazilian players saw took them back to 16 July 1950. By the eighth minute of the match, Hungary had scored two goals.18 The first was at four minutes, and Castilho was hugging the post, hiding his face as if he ­were ­going to cry. A ­little ­later, at eight minutes, Pinheiro, when he had an easy ball to clear, got shaky legs. That was the second Hungarian goal. Meanwhile, on the field wet from rain, Didi was sliding around as if on skates. It was his short cleats, which did not allow him to get a secure footing. Only in the second half did Didi change cleats in order to thread his balls. Even so, the first half ended two to one. When they ­were thinking Brazil would tie, Mr. Ellis awarded a penalty against Brazil. This was the third Hungarian goal. Brazil still scored one more goal. They could have even tied. But they lost Nilton Santos when, receiving a kick from Boszic, he raised his hand to him. Boszic retaliated. Mr. Ellis sent both of them off. The Hungarians scored their fourth goal, and Humberto, desperate, kicked Kocsis from b ­ ehind. 298  Chapter Six

This had been another error of Zezé Moreira. He had assigned Humberto to the side and had had to remove him more than once in response to boos. Humberto knew how to make his entrance at the right time. He would stay alone in front of the goal and boot the ball out of play. He would get booed, then again boot the ball out. In Switzerland, Zezé Moreira did not have the Maracanã to boo Humberto. He carefully chose the game in which to start him: precisely the one against Hungary. Clearly, Humberto still heard in Zu­rich the boos of the Maracanã. Now that every­thing was lost, it was necessary to show that at least he was a man. On the bench, Ely do Amparo lamented only one t­ hing: not being on the field to be the Brazilian Obdúlio Varela. For Mário Vianna, the blame lay with Mr. Ellis, the referee. He called Mr. Ellis a thief and ended up getting kicked out of the group of international referees.19 Zezé Moreira did more: he chewed out Sebes, the vice minister of sports of Hungary. When the game was over, he grabbed a cleated shoe, and when Sebes appeared in front of him, he hit him in the face with the sole of the shoe. The one, however, who awoke the most interest in the international press was a Brazilian journalist, Paulo Planet Buarque, who did a leg sweep on a Swiss gendarme. It was a perfect leg sweep. The Swiss gendarme fell down flat. He got up right away and made a gesture. While Paulo Planet Buarque expected the Swiss gendarme to pull out his revolver to shoot him, what he did pull out was a handkerchief, to clean his uniform. Paris Match published a full-­page photo­g raph showing Paulo Planet Buarque leg-­sweeping the Swiss gendarme and the gendarme entirely off balance, on his way to the ground.

4. In the beginning, while the emotion of the game lasted, Brazilians called Mr. Ellis a thief, like Mário Vianna; 1938 was repeating itself. Perhaps it was for this reason, due to the memory that arose from 1938, that suddenly and unexpectedly Brazilians felt ashamed. The referee excuse was an old one, and what the man with the whistle did on the field had not mattered so much. Bit by bit the Brazilian fans had acquired an understanding of sportsmanship. What in e­ arlier days had been a weapon of the bigwigs, infallible in distracting the attention of fans with their heads hanging low, the request for the nullification of a match had become ridicu­lous enough that no one dared to use it anymore. The Black Man’s Turn  299

Of an importance not yet adequately analyzed is the influence of sports, particularly soccer, on po­liti­cal life in Brazil. The roles had been reversed. ­Because when soccer was taking its first steps, it had to look to national politics in search of a model. Thus the annulment of games, similar to the verification of t­ hose elected to Congress by the mathematician Pereira Lôpo. A club won a game and had to fight for the win to be counted, like a deputy ­after winning an election. In 1950, they tried to avoid Getúlio Vargas taking power as the president of the republic with the thesis of the absolute majority, a thesis that even had a military apparatus to make it valid. It did not triumph ­because of a sporting princi­ple: one does not change the rules of the game ­after the competition is over. And, more than that, the phrase that every­one understood to be on the lips of e­ very fan: “The game one wins is on the field.” And yet the greatest shame Brazilians felt was regarding the referee’s whistle in Zu­rich. Equal to that felt in 1939, ­after the Brazilian victory u ­ nder the three bars against the Argentinians. To stop their blushing, Brazilians began to excessively admire the Argentinians.20 They would do the same with the Hungarians. A ­ fter their River-­ Platism came their Magyarism. Soccer was Hungarian. The curious ­thing is that this was more for whites than for mulattoes or blacks. The ones who kicked in Zu­rich, who hit, who threw their cleats, w ­ ere the whites, just the whites. The mulattoes and blacks remained quiet. They had paid, more than once, the debt of 16 July. In the w ­ hole game against the Uruguayans, they did not argue at all. But against the Hungarians, they just felt themselves to be soccer players. A mulatto would t­ remble before the first Hungarian goal: Pinheiro. A black player would end up irritating the Brazilian fans who traveled with the side through his slipping and sliding around the field: Didi. They surrendered to the war of nerves, which the Brazilians themselves triggered by calling the Hungarians “ghosts.” This explains the immobility of Castilho, glued to the ground with leaden feet, for the second Hungarian goal. And the raw nerves of Nilton Santos, who reacted to a kick with a slap. And the desperation of Humberto, who, lost, tried to save himself by kicking Kocsis in the back. ­Those who complained about Castilho remaining on the bench in 1950, giving the position to Barbosa, now asked why Veludo had been left out. All the Hungarian goals ­were made from within the six-­yard box. And within that box ­t here was no better goalkeeper than Veludo. He could be 300  Chapter Six

beaten from a distance, ­because he did not have the attention of Castilho, who would be moving around u ­ nder the three bars with the ball in the midfield. And Veludo had provided the greatest proof of having nerves of steel in Asunción, when Brazil was playing a World Cup qualification match against Paraguay.21 During ­every Paraguayan attack, the wooden grandstand ­behind Veludo’s goal seemed on the verge of collapse. Paraguayan fans ­were thrown onto the field. Veludo did not get worried. He grabbed the ball with hands of steel, confronting, at the same time, Paraguayan players and fans. Ah! If Veludo had only played against Hungary! ­There came something like a nostalgia for the black man, perhaps to repair the injustice of 1950. The fans of Flamengo had accused Zezé Moreira of leaving another black player out: Rubens. And even for ­those who ­were not for Flamengo, a “Doctor” Rubens was lacking in Zu­rich. That was what they called him, Doctor Rubens. He liked to do long dribbles. It seemed as if he held the ball with a string or a rubber band attached to his cleats. ­Because the ball, which he poked to the right and to the left, would always return, and quickly, to his feet. He was a stocky black man. He recalled a Mongol in his narrow, almond-­ shaped eyes, his thin mustache falling, droopily, around the corners of his mouth, his long and large trunk, his short legs. One day Nélson Cintra drove his car right into a post, just ­because he saw Doctor Rubens walking on the sidewalk. He did not walk like just any mortal. He would bring one foot forward, slowly, let it rest on the sidewalk, and then bring forward the other, shaking his body, as if he ­were dancing. It was not a samba, although the body of Doctor Rubens was swinging in a samba rhythm. His torso was half twisting, bringing back a contracted arm. It was the sway of a hustler. Of a celebrant in an Afro-­Brazilian religious ritual. It was just that this celebrant knew that he was Doctor Rubens. In front of the fans and in the street, and for every­body who was rooting for him and Flamengo, he posed as Doctor Rubens. Nélson Cintra had never seen anything like it. T ­ here ­were players who a­ fter a win would get drunk. In ­earlier times, Caxambu had walked down Rio Branco Ave­nue with the ball u ­ nder his arm. Grinning with his teeth made whiter by his black and bushy mustache but without looking to e­ ither side. Just wanting to feel every­one looking at him and pointing, thinking, “That is Caxambu.” Caxambu was white, with Syrian blood in his veins. Doctor Rubens was black. And Nélson Cintra followed him, fascinated. U ­ ntil he ran his car into a post. The Black Man’s Turn  301

Someone who did not like Doctor Rubens’s pose was Fleitas Solich, now owner of the champions. The team that Flávio Costa had abandoned, in order to get Vasco’s squadron, was now champion twice over, soon to be thrice over. Flávio Costa was offended a bit by the choice of a Paraguayan to fill his place at Flamengo. He gave an interview to sum up all his arguments in one: the Paraguayan soldier went barefoot. He would do guard duty on the Brazil-­ Paraguay border, barefoot and holding a stick r­ ifle. And that was how Flamengo returned to being champion. At first, it seemed that Flávio Costa was right. Flamengo kept losing; they ­were g­ oing to reach nine years without a title. This was when José Alves de Moraes took ­Father Goés to the Big House of Gávea, where the players of Flamengo gathered. ­Father Góes went with a word of Saint Judas Thaddaeus for the desperate red-­and-­black players: “In the name of Saint Judas Thaddeus, I guarantee that Flamengo ­will be champion.” But it would be necessary for Gilberto Cardoso, Sir Fleitas, and the players to go to Cosme Velho to light candles for the saint, to show that they believed in him. On Sunday every­one went, the black players with Doctor Rubens as their standard ­bearer, making a point of staying right in front. Each one lit his candle, praying with eyes closed and head down. And Flamengo was champion, which provoked a protest of the Fluminense fans against F ­ ather Goés. What a priest had to do was say his mass and not interfere in championships. Much less in the name of a saint as power­ful as Saint Judas Thaddeus. F ­ ather Goés, then, promised a repeat: “Flamengo w ­ ill be champion for a second time in a row.” ­After the repeat, Fluminense fans sent a petition to Cardinal Dom Jaime Câmara. They w ­ ere believers in Saint Judas Thaddeus, whose chapel was even located ­there in Cosme Velho, two steps from Fluminense. F ­ ather Goés, who had received the repeat champion sash like a player, got angry for good: “In the name of Saint Judas Thaddeus, a guarantee of a third championship in a row for Flamengo.” The red-­and-­black players no longer went so much to the chapel of Saint Judas Thaddeus. They had the word of the saint; the saint was not ­going to fail to live up to his word. The red-­and-­black fans themselves, who went around with rosaries with red and black beads distributed by ­Father Goés, ­were singing in the grandstands at the time of Flamengo’s win: Doctor Rubens ordered Flamengo to win. 302  Chapter Six

On the night of the decisive game, Sir Fleitas barred Doctor Rubens. He replaced him with Dida, and Dida scored four goals.22 It was the fall of an idol. Previously, few p ­ eople would have thought Sir Fleitas capable of something like that. Paulinho, another black player kept out on the big night of the third consecutive championship, went as far as cracking up laughing in the changing room. He went back and forth, repeating, “I was kept out! Sir Fleitas is crazy.” But it was not color that barred Rubens or Paulinho. Flamengo was full of mulatto and black players. What Sir Fleitas wanted was for Rubens to forget he was “Doctor” Rubens, to play as if he w ­ ere not yet a doctor. For Paulinho to fight like the boys of the Childhood Garden of Flamengo, Gávea’s nursery. Sir Fleitas liked to scandalize half his listeners by saying that t­here ­were boys capable of substituting for even Doctor Rubens. And he ­didn’t keep it at just words. If Flamengo lost, Doctor Rubens would do a pilgrimage to the newspapers. The press would not let an occasion like that pass by. But Flamengo won, and Dida remained in the spot of Doctor Rubens. Another g­ reat black player would fall in that year of the third championship of Flamengo: Veludo. And precisely in a Fla-­Flu. He swallowed a ball from far out, and put his hands on his head when he saw the ball go in. For Mário Polo, this was proof that he was bought. The goals kept ­going in, and Fluminense lost by six.23 When the game was over, in the desolation of the changing room, the tricolor players looked at Veludo like prosecutors at a criminal. Veludo did not meet their gazes. He knew what they w ­ ere thinking about him. How to defend himself? For the tricolors, his head hanging low was another proof that he had been bought. And no proof at all was necessary. A soccer player has to be like Caesar’s wife: above all suspicion. It was enough for mistrust to insinuate itself into the soul of the fan for it to transform into that terrible monster that inhabited the heart of Othello. Fluminense sent Veludo away. If Veludo drank, then he would drink more. It was said that he would not leave Lapa, getting plastered. For Veludo, the descent had begun. Or his time on the sidewalk. B ­ ecause he walked from club to club, as if in circles. The club that sent for him forgot, for a moment, that Fluminense distrusted him. Only to remember when Veludo fenced the first chicken. Then every­ thing repeated itself once more. In the dressing room, Veludo felt t­ hose gazes fixed upon him, scrutinizing his soul. Veludo might have asked if ­t here was a goalkeeper who did not fence a chicken. ­Every goalie made ­mistakes, however good he was. Why did he not have the right to fence a chicken? The Black Man’s Turn  303

Benício Ferreira Filho always used to say that the ­great advantage of Castilho was the ability to fence, once in a while, his chicken: “We look and see ­little feathers ­behind the ball, and if you take a whiff, you can even smell the unmistakable odor of a chicken coop.” This was the right that Veludo did not have. If he fenced a chicken, he immediately became a suspect. The mistrust of Fluminense would arise. How could Fluminense get rid of a goalkeeper like Veludo if they had no proof? And the truth was that ­there was no proof. Even if they wanted to look for it, Fluminense knew very well they w ­ ouldn’t find it. They could not, however, keep a player whom they did not trust. Veludo became a “wandering Jew” of soccer, fleeing the curse without ever finding rest. Or only finding it in poverty, when no club, not even a small one, wanted him as a goalkeeper. This was what every­one refused to see: the soccer player lived u ­ nder constant threat. He might meet his end from one moment to the next. However long he lasted, he knew he was condemned. The higher he was, the worse. Carreiro, “the Rui Barbosa of Soccer,” was seen sleeping beneath a bench in a public plaza. One spoke about this in hushed tones, as if it ­were a secret. Why say again the name of Carreiro? The player who was at the end of his c­ areer left glory for an anonymous existence. A tragedy was necessary, like that of Maneco, the Saci of “Tico-­Tico no Fubá,” to make him again a name in print. Maneco took formicide to delay, for a day, being evicted from his ­house.24 ­Those who ­were black felt it more. For years they had lived as if they ­weren’t black. Deceiving themselves ­because of the treatment they received, that of a white man. Only to suddenly dive into darkness. Perhaps color had marked Veludo. Not ­because he was black but ­because he was too black. The question of Miguel de Moraes and Barros Neto: “­Don’t you think that Veludo is too black?” It had become, therefore, difficult, if not impossible, to take away Veludo’s color. Veludo could never feel like Robson, f­ ree of color: “I used to be black, and I know what that’s like.” This explains a Veludo withdrawn and frustrated, even at the height of his glory. He wore a brilliant panama suit and hid his eyes, bloodshot from cachaça, ­behind Ray-­Ban sunglasses. Not surprising that Robson sought to break Veludo’s pose: “A thatch ­house with fogged up win­dows.” Veludo did not laugh. What good did the panama suit do him? The Ray-­ Ban glasses? In Lapa he would get plastered. It was as if he knew the destiny that awaited him, of being the wandering Jew of soccer. 304  Chapter Six

One doubt was enough to throw him, irremediably, to the curb. To the sidewalk. ­Others resisted doubts. Who knows if it was b ­ ecause they w ­ ere less black than Veludo, as in the case of Jair da Rosa Pinto. No other player was so mistrusted. When he left a club, he was like someone with the plague. Only Madureira, the first, was the one that tried to keep him. Madureira was not a club in a position to demand much of its players. One could say what­ever one liked about Jair da Rosa Pinto—­even that he had been paid off by Botafogo, by Vasco—­and Madureira would not lift a fin­ger to investigate anything. They wanted Jair da Rosa Pinto just like that. Vasco, when they took him from Conselheiro Galvão Stadium, was perhaps ­going on the premise that at São Januário no one was bought. Vasco was a rich club. Who could pay more than them? ­Because they paid more, they demanded more from Jair da Rosa Pinto. They i­ magined Jair da Rosa Pinto r­ unning on the field nonstop, soaking his shirt, killing himself for Vasco. And Jair da Rosa Pinto was a Domingos da Guia, playing up front. What was permitted for Domingos—­a lthough sometimes ­there was some doubt about him—­was not permitted for Jair da Rosa Pinto. Possibly ­because one was a back and the other a forward. The back would wait, could wait, quietly, like Domingos; the attacker, no. The attacker had to go seek out the ball, to fight for it. Thus, Vasco opened the door for Jair da Rosa Pinto to leave. Flamengo burnt his shirt with a Dominican fervor. Palmeiras took a bit longer to scorn him. Who did not know that Jair da Rosa Pinto was like that? The curious t­hing is that it had always been known. Jair da Rosa Pinto was not fooling anyone. He had always made a point of showing himself as he was. Walking on the field, leaving the game with a dry shirt, as if he h ­ adn’t played. Hardly had Palmeiras dropped him when Santos picked him up. Jair da Rosa Pinto, disdained and desired by all the clubs, would be a repeat champion in Vila Belmiro. He just no longer had a place on the Brazilian side. He got on the paulista side, deciding the Brazilian championship in ­favor of São Paulo, but he was already on the blacklist of the CBD. Like Zizinho. Color had nothing to do with the blacklist. Other black players played in place of Jair da Rosa Pinto and Zizinho. Even Flávio Costa, who never admitted both, did not dare to call up one or the other. It is true that Flávio Costa took over the Brazilian side again in abnormal conditions. He had been run out of Vasco. The Black Man’s Turn  305

Vasco preferred to pay him his salary, religiously, e­ very month, and sign another coach and turn the team over to him. Thus Flávio Costa conformed to the interests of the CBD. ­There ­were two years remaining ­u ntil the World Cup in Sweden. It was necessary to change. Instead of Zizinho, Didi. Instead of Jair, Walter. Instead of getting whiter, the side got darker. It darkened so much that a racist shame was provoked. The one who played on the right wing, since Juliano was in Italy, was Sabará, almost the color of Veludo. Naturally ­there would be no margin for racist shame if the Brazilian side, as it kicked the ball for the first time on the road to 1958, had cut a good figure. The national team’s 1956 season in Eu­rope was melancholy. The team was still merely gold-­plated, not yet golden. The defeat that hurt the most was the one in London.25 Brazilians had not yet lost their colonial re­spect for the En­glish. In front of the En­glish, Brazil wanted, ardently, to be better than they w ­ ere. ­There is no other explanation for the perturbation of Didi, who, needing to be up front, moved back to play defense, as if he ­were Gilmar. He did not realize that he was already inside the Brazilian penalty area. So much so that he bent over backwards, almost doubling over, to grab the ball with two hands. It was a penalty. Brazil’s successful effort to come back from two goals down and tie the match had been for nought. All this, however, became secondary. Brazilians hid their shame about the losses to feel a greater shame: that of Sabará. It seemed that Sabará had chosen London on purpose. At least t­ here was no episode recounted about him in Lisbon, Vienna, Prague, Rome, Beirut, or Cairo. In London, ­after a practice, Sabará entered the tearoom of the Lane Park ­Hotel in sandals, towel, overalls, shirt, and sailor’s cap, the latter changed by some into a turban. This is the sacred hour of the En­glish, or rather of the En­glishwomen, above all the old En­glishwomen. Seeing, all of a sudden, framed in the open doorway of the tearoom, a black man in overalls and sandals appear, the old En­ glishwomen let fall the teacups they ­were holding with the tips of their extended fin­gers, even as they brought to their wide-­open mouths their ­free hands in order to stifle that quite En­glish cry of supreme revulsion: “Shocking!” That cry echoed throughout Brazil: “How is it that Brazil sent to London, in a sporting del­e­ga­tion, a Sabará?” “What must the En­glish think of us?” The En­glish ­were shocked as well. Since 1950, they had placed Brazilian soccer in a ­bubble. Soccer was Brazilian. The disappointment turned the British press ­bitter. Brazilian soccer, one read in the London papers, to Brazilians’ ­great shame, had every­thing a cir306  Chapter Six

cus had: the fire-­eater, the sword-­swallower, the acrobats, the trapeze artists, even the clowns. It just ­didn’t have that elementary ele­ment, which was a team. Nothing, however, could presage what 1958 would be for Brazilian soccer, quite the contrary. The losses put in doubt, again, the fiber of Brazilians in general, and that of the black man in par­tic­u­lar. Thus the small significance of a Garrincha or a Pelé, as messengers of hope. Pelé was a boy. Brazilians did not have the eyes to see him. They found amusement in Garrincha, who, e­ very time he did a dribble, left his opponent flat on his back, legs in the air. But Garrincha did not give up the ball. Perhaps this was what occurred to many, and the En­glish ­were right: Brazilian soccer even had clowns. It did not go unnoticed that the restrictions ­were made more for blacks than for whites. Not even Didi escaped, although, like Robson, he did not feel himself to be black. He had begun to whiten himself with a romance. Guiomar, for him, was a kind of Duchess of Windsor. He left his wife and ­children to pursue a forbidden love. He went to Botafogo less ­because of the money, although he had a price never before paid for any Brazilian player—in Brazil, that is—­than b ­ ecause of the g­ reat understanding or ­great pity of the club of General Severiano. Fluminense was making a point of paying his wife’s pension. Botafogo, or the ­people of Botafogo, w ­ ere trying to arrange an in flagrante that would take away, definitively, his wife’s pension. The ­whole fight between Didi and Fluminense was born from that. What Didi wanted was for Fluminense to pay him ­under the ­table, like an amateur. Or that they officially reduce his salary to a pittance, so that his wife would receive almost nothing. Once he went so far as to threaten to not embark with Fluminense to Eu­ rope. Benício Ferreira Filho went to convince him, and Didi ended up g­ oing.26 But Jorge Amaro de Freitas, the president of Fluminense, called Didi a street urchin.27 It was an expression that was used only to offend, in relation to a black man. The black players felt this. Especially t­ hose who could not say, like Robson, that they had already been black, t­ hose who, on the contrary, judged themselves to be condemned by color. Like Olavo. Olavo was a back on Olaria who was reenacting the revolt of Fausto, or of Aragão. When he played he kicked every­one, in a fury, as if he w ­ ere avenging every­t hing upon every­one. Not even the black players escaped the fury of Olavo. Perhaps ­because he considered them blacks who wished to be whites. The Black Man’s Turn  307

Not Olavo. He kicked like a black man. He did not even re­spect the referee. So says Antônio Musitano, referee of an Olaria versus Fluminense game in Bariri. He tossed out Olavo and had to run, with Olavo ­after him. The players of Olaria and Fluminense grabbed at Olavo, as one fences a chicken, and crazed Olavo was still ­after Antônio Musitano. Not even the police could f­ ree Antônio Musitano from the aggression of Olavo.28 The Court of Sporting Justice, with no deliberation, suspended Olavo for more than a year. And Olavo, as Olaria proved, was an excellent person, an exemplary ­father of a ­family, who lived only for his wife and ­children. He never managed to play soccer again. If he ­were from a big club, perhaps he would deserve a ­pardon. He was a typical player from a small club, with no chance of moving up. Didi belonged to the category of t­ hose who had left b ­ ehind being black. Nelson Rodrigues only remembered Didi’s color in order to dub him the Ethiopian Prince of the Ranch.29 Didi had the grace of a seal balancing a ball on his head. He played standing erect. Only on the occasion of a dribble or a pass did he apparently lose his balance. He did not pass the ball naturally, pushing it, making it roll. He would whip it with his foot to put a spin on it and make it fall where he wanted. That was how he in­ven­ted the dry leaf. With the dry leaf, he would classify Brazil for the World Cup in Sweden. The Brazilian side had their heads down ­after losing the South American Championship in Lima—­and to Argentina, of all countries. The first game of classification was in Lima. A tie score, zero to zero. The second was in the Maracanã. And t­ here, when every­one was despairing, from far out, almost forty meters, Didi took a f­ ree kick. It was the dry leaf, the ball tracing a curve, falling suddenly, to the despair of the goalkeeper, who had anticipated nothing of the sort.30

5. That victory of one to zero over Peru did not awaken the slightest enthusiasm. The disappointment of 1956 had not yet dis­appeared, and the South American Championship had only served to revive it.31 Thus, all ­were practically ignorant of every­thing that announced, in a harbinger of dawn, the conquest of 1958. The appearance of Pelé was enough for a renewal of hope. He was a sixteen-­ year-­old player whom Valdemar de Brito had already dubbed the greatest in the world. Brazilians, however, who had been deceived so many times, almost defended themselves with disbelief. 308  Chapter Six

Even a­ fter seeing him. Pelé would reveal himself to every­one’s eyes. While they ­were watching him, the public would let themselves be thrilled. Afterward, they would forget him. How many revelations had been lost, tragically? The press contained itself, except regarding the consecrated stars. Out of fear of praise. Of spoiling a Pelé. ­After the Copa Roca, which Brazil won, Nestor Rossi, the Argentine captain, singled out Pelé as the best. It was a rare consecration, attributed by an Argentine still ­under the illusion that the best soccer in the world was to be found on the other side of the La Plata river. Not even Garrincha was entirely appreciated. He was ­going to decide the carioca championship for Botafogo, letting the ball go for the first time. When one thought he was ­going to keep dribbling, he gave the ball up, and ­there was Paulo Valentin for the goal. Fluminense lost by six, and Botafogo was champion with Garrincha. All the goals had come from the feet of Garrincha.32 But São Paulo was also paulista champion, and the one who had taken São Paulo to the title had been Zizinho, rejuvenated. Zizinho was seen more, Didi was seen more. Zizinho was thinking about 1958, as was Didi. Zizinho would not even be called up. It was announced that he would be invited, and he was saying that he would not accept. It was enough for Doctor Hilton Gosling to go speak with him for him to say yes. He said yes and then was left out. His name was on the blacklist of the CBD. But it was not just for this reason. The CBD wanted to take the smallest number of black players to Sweden. They had not forgotten 1956, when Fábio Costa’s report advised, b ­ ecause of the black Sabará, to call up only players who, at a minimum, knew how to dress themselves and sit at a t­ able. Thus the CBD’s preoccupation with having a side that, if not all white, had as few black players as pos­si­ble. The deterioration of the mulatto in Nordic climates was still being debated, more the mulatto than the black player. Thus the concern of the CBD was not racist: it believed more in the white player to play in the cold, although the period of the World Cup fell during the Swedish summer. The proof of non-­racism is in the calling up of the mulattoes and blacks, who ended up playing and contributing decisively to the Brazilian win. Between Zózimo, who had been participating regularly on the Brazilian side, and Orlando, they went with Orlando. Better the white man than the black man. In the specific case of Orlando, the choice was fortunate. But Djalma Santos would be left out ­until the final game. And, playing only one game, he had succeeded in appearing to be one of the greatest players of the World Cup, The Black Man’s Turn  309

while De Sordi, the white starter, did not attract the attention of the Eu­ro­ pean press. The preoccupation with whitening the team reached such a point that in the debut against Austria, the only black player was Didi.33 It was a position, that of Didi, about which ­there was no choice. The reserve player was another black man: Moacir. When one could pick between a white man and a black man, one stuck, initially, with the white one. De Sordi instead of Djalma Santos, Orlando instead of Zózimo. In the place of Garrincha, Joel, in that of Pelé, Dida. And even between the mestizo but dark brown Vavá and the blond Mazola, the blond Mazola. And the management of the side was the best. They acted correctly for the good of the side. This explains their flexibility. If they had not had it, they would never have placed Garrincha in the place of Joel. Garrincha had been labeled irresponsible by the psychological coach of the del­e­ga­tion, Professor Carvalhaes, with the full approval of the selector, the fat and placid Feola, and of the supervisor, the thin and ner­vous Carlos Nascimento. They had formed a team by treating the side, physically and psychologically. Up ­until then it was the coach who resolved every­thing. The player with the prob­lem had to go to the coach. The result: the coach felt himself thrown to the wolves, having to bend over backwards and with the full knowledge that he could not attend to every­thing and every­one. The player, for his part, felt himself alone, abandoned. Thus he would cling to any excuse that appeared for the defeat that perhaps would come, and ended up coming indeed.34 Now, no longer. The coach was just the coach. He did not even assume the responsibility of putting together the side, which had to be approved by the Technical Commission. They all voted: the boss, Paulo Machado de Carvalho; the supervisor, Carlos Nascimento; the coach, Vicente Feola; the physical preparation coach, Paulo Amaral; and the doctor, Hilton Gosling. The dentist Mário Trigo and the psychological coach Professor Carvalhaes did not vote. The two ended up serving to relax the players. Mário Trigo was telling anecdotes, while Professor Carvalhaes told jokes. Having to calm down the players, he became panicked as soon as he got on the plane. The players ­were the ones who had to calm him down. It was a new experience. And it would work through the flexibility of the so-­called bigwigs, rowing in the same boat as the players, wanting what the players wanted. Garrincha had been left out a­ fter a goal against Fiorentina, the last of a four-­ to-­one victory. He had dribbled past the entire Italian defense, including the 310  Chapter Six

goalkeeper; the goal was open, but he waited for the back to return to pull him away from the three posts with another dribble. The back left the goal, and when he saw Garrincha entering the goal with the ball, he tried to go back and then hit his face into the bar.35 Even the crowd who filled the field of Fiorentina, which was all Italian, broke out into laughter. The only ones who did not laugh ­were Carlos Nascimento, Vicente Feola, and Professor Carvalhaes. Carlos Nascimento yelled right away: “Irresponsible!” Vicente Feola echoed him: “Do not join my side again.” It was not b ­ ecause of Garrincha’s color. So much so that Dida, a­ fter his debut against Austria, was left out summarily. From then on, Feola, Nascimento, Gosling, and Paulo Amaral only thought about the recuperating Pelé, who was injured. The man­ag­ers of the team did not even want to talk about Garrincha. It was that Garrincha always gave every­one nicknames and played “­you’re arrested” and “­you’re f­ree.” He would go out through the Hindas gardens ­every morning, grabbing and releasing the players: “­You’re arrested. ­You’re ­free.” Before the game with Rus­sia, Belini, the captain; Nilton Santos; and Didi found it necessary to appeal to Feola: “Mr. Feola: we came ­here to win the World Cup. Without Garrincha, it w ­ on’t happen.” They already knew that they would not be able to win without Garrincha and Pelé. But Pelé would be put on the side on the day in which he could stand the two full sessions of a practice. And Didi tried to convince Pelé to make it through the two sessions of the last practice. Then the side almost took on its definitive aspect, darkening. Only Djalma Santos was lacking. For that reason, they had a roaring start against Rus­sia. Rus­sia had sent scouts with Dynamo to analyze Brazilian soccer. The scouts brought back the following report on Garrincha: he was undefendable in his dribble to the right. The curious ­thing is that in Brazil, ­there ­were ­people who said the same ­thing: Garrincha had just one dribble, that dribble to the right. Despite that, even just dribbling to the right, he was unstoppable. Rus­sia assigned two men to defend Garrincha. One to pick up the dribble, the other to take the ball, which Garrincha would thrust to the right side, when he dribbled. What happened, however, was the following: the first dribble of Garrincha went to the left. Garrincha dribbled to the left, invaded the Rus­sian area, and shot into the post, a few seconds into the game. The Rus­sians only got the ball a­ fter the first Brazilian goal, a long ball from Garrincha, at the edge of the area, which Vavá corrected into the back of the net. The Black Man’s Turn  311

The road was opening to the ­great conquest.36 Up ­until that point, no one believed in the final victory of Brazil. Rus­sia was the big favorite. They had just launched Sputnik. How far would Rus­sian science go? Soccer had transformed itself, in Rus­sia, into a laboratory experiment. ­Those who loved the most popu­lar sport in the world greeted the victory of Brazil over Rus­sia as the salvation of futebol arte (art soccer). What laboratory could produce a Didi, a Garrincha, a Pelé? Or a Nilton Santos, a Zito, a Zagalo? ­These artists ­were born in the ­free fields, the empty lots, for the love of the ball, soccer. They called the ball a “girl.” They treated it with affection, like a girlfriend. It was their first girlfriend. The love of childhood prolonged itself, intensifying more and more, throughout their lives. Willy Meisl, the ­great international columnist, an Austrian from the era of the Wonderful Team, and a naturalized En­glishman, made a point of personally thanking the Brazilian press: “You saved soccer as an art.” “You” was not the Brazilian columnists; it was the Brazilians. The ­people who had produced Pelé, god of the stadium, seventeen years of age. Pelé explained the o ­ thers just as the ­others explained Pelé. Only ball control—­full, complete, almost a sexual act; a biblical knowledge of the ball, the girl, the girlfriend, the fiancée, the wife—­could have made Pelé find the path to the goal against Wales.37 The goal was not just the work of Pelé. It was born of a ball threaded by Didi through a forest of legs. When he received it, Pelé could not take a shot. An enormous foot lifted up and came down with cleats exposed, to cover his foot and the ball. Pelé touched the ball, lifting it, at the same time that he spun around on his other foot. The ball was out of reach of the enormous foot, as was he, since he had turned his back, as if he had left the play ­behind. Completing his spin, however, he faced the goal in the exact moment when the ball descended for the fatal blow, a tip of the ball into the corner of the goal. One saw then, in its full splendor, the best and most beautiful soccer in the world. The Brazilian side, now in its definitive formation—or almost, ­because Djalma Santos, “the Nose,” was missing—­was darker, neither black nor white, coffee with milk, and had become unstoppable. Above all, when a difficulty arose, as against France, which managed to tie the score at one to one, and against Sweden, which scored the first goal. Didi came back from the front to grab the ball from the back of Gilmar’s net. He put it beneath his arm, extended his seal’s neck, and yelled through clenched teeth: “Let’s give it to ­these gringos!” When the French referee, M. Guigue, went to blow the final whistle, right on time, Pelé was scoring the fifth goal for Brazil. He asked for the ball from 312  Chapter Six

Zagalo, Zagalo lifted it, Pelé went up so high that the Swedish goalkeeper touched him, with his arms extended, on his waist, as if he w ­ ere grabbing at a ghost. Pelé’s head threw the ball to the other side, and the Swedish goalie ran, flailing his arms, to embrace the post, which arose suddenly in front of him, defeated. It was an image that would stick from this World Cup: Pelé seated in the goal area, crying like a weaned boy and punching the humid grass of the Stockholm stadium. To best express Brazil’s victory, only the gesture of Belini, the G ­ reat Captain, handsome like an Apollo, lifting high above him, to the heavens, the golden trophy. No one had ever held the golden trophy with more piety, like the host, in a pure gesture of someone who raises his eyes to regard God. The World Cup was ours.38 At noon, the businesses of Rio shut their doors.39 The ­whole city went to the streets. It seemed like a Carnival Tuesday from times past, when the ­houses would empty out and every­one planned to meet on Rio Branco Ave­nue. Only in order to greet the world champions, Rio Branco Ave­nue was not enough. The crowd began to grow in front of Catete Palace, where the presidential stage had been set up. It was ­there that the world champions ­were ­going to receive the gold medals specially ordered to be minted by President Juscelino Kubitschek. It mattered ­little that it would take the players quite a while to get ­there. It was necessary, however, to save one’s spot. Cariocas ­were ­doing nothing ­else, from Catete to Galeão Airport. The crowd spread out, more and more compact, lengthening itself, elbowing one another, in front of Catete Palace, along Silveira Martins Street, Beira-­Mar Ave­nue, Rio Branco Ave­nue, Presidente Vargas Ave­nue, Mangue Ave­nue, Brasil Ave­nue, and Galeão. Many knew, or calculated, that at Galeão they would not even be able to see the players. T ­ hose who went to Galeão went t­ here mostly out of impatience. To see from afar, exiting the plane, the players. Waving to them, and then hurrying back to the city. ­There was time to return and arrive before them, well before. The champions of the world would not pass down Rio Branco Ave­nue till almost ten o ­ ’clock at night. On the ave­nue, no one could move. The samba schools and the carnival groups had come down, and one heard from afar the contagious drum rhythms. Only one player could show himself in the most beautiful moment of the world championship: Belini. He repeated the gesture that Brazilians had stored away as in a jewel case: his arms raised, his hands closing around the golden trophy. Of Pelé, one could only see his broad, white smile, his wide-­open eyes of a child. Of Garrincha, not even his uneven legs. Garrincha smiled, a bit awkwardly. Didi was extending his seal’s neck. Vavá puckered his face, squinting, The Black Man’s Turn  313

to show a Chinese smile. He was a tall Chinese man, and dark brown. Irresistibly the eyes returned to Belini, who was like a Greek statue. Especially the eyes of the ­women, white, mulatto, and black. In the car of the Fire Department, Belini was the golden cup, he was victory. Even on the presidential stage, next to Juscelino Kubitschek, Belini, while he was with the cup, dominated like a god. It was enough, however, for autograph time to arrive to perceive that the idol was someone e­ lse. It was not one, but two: Pelé and Garrincha. The Eu­ro­pean press had chosen Didi as the most valuable player of the world championship, but not as an idol. The idol was Pelé; it was Garrincha. The newspaper of Götenburg had printed the headline, “­Today T ­ here Is Garrincha.” Paris Match was calling Pelé “the King”: Le Roi Pelé. Didi knew he would not be the idol. The choice of Pelé and Garrincha was no surprise to him. For this reason, soon a­ fter the victory against Rus­sia, certain that the title already belonged to Brazil, Didi gathered the starting and reserve players together to avoid a repeat of what had happened in 1938, when Leônidas da Silva, transformed into a national idol, symbol of victory in defeat, monopolized all the attention. A tribute to the side reduced itself to a tribute to Leônidas. The flowers, the pre­sents, just for Leônidas, the other players like fools, background color to the glory of the Black Diamond. Thus Didi’s hurry.40 Brazil was ­going to be champion. It was time for a promise: that all of them ­were equals. ­Those who had played and ­those who had not played. Even ­those who ­were not players, like Assis, who was up ­until the wee hours cleaning soccer cleats, fixing cleats, and preparing the equipment of t­ hose who would play. Good black Assis, the equipment man­ag­er, could not be forgotten. Nor Mário Américo, the black man with the agile hands, who warmed up the muscles of the players before games, and spent his days making hot and cold compresses. All of them w ­ ere equal. Castilho rooting for Gilmar, Joel wanting Garrincha to wreak havoc on the field, Mazola feeling happy b ­ ecause Vavá was a beast on the loose, and Dida believing that the spot r­ eally did belong to Pelé. One of them would be chosen as an idol. The idol, whoever it may be, had to make the promise that what­ever he received for the title would not be just his, it would belong to all. Thus no one could take away Brazil’s title. If a reserve player wanted the starting position, if he did not put Brazil above every­thing, Brazil could not be champion. It was necessary not to think of oneself, to think only of Brazil, of the title. For this reason, no Brazilian player could retaliate for being kicked, or rebel against any decision of the referee. If the referee annulled a Brazilian goal, the solution was to score another. If the referee awarded, as valid, an illegitimate goal to the other team, the solution was to score another. 314  Chapter Six

It was a championship won without any stain. A team was never so clean, so En­glish, in the ideal sense of En­glish, a hidden ideal of ­every Brazilian. The curious ­thing is that when imagining an idol, Brazilians ­were thinking, due to an eight-­year-­old habit, of Obdúlio Varela. About the G ­ reat Captain. So much so that the so-­called Paulo Machado de Carvalho Plan emphasized the captain, considering him the essential figure for the conquest of the title. And one could not dream of a better captain than Belini. He was an En­glish or a Nordic Obdúlio Varela, if not Greek. A clean Obdúlio Varela. Without that air of a scoundrel, of the mulatto Uruguayan, Belini recalled a knight errant, a Robin Hood of soccer. Or El Cid. When Mazola, against ­England, had an attack of nerves and began to cry, in a real hissy fit, Belini came up from ­behind and smacked him to get him up. He did not smack him several times to assault him but rather to bolster Mazola’s spirits.41 He repeated, unknowingly, the scene of Obdúlio Varela with Gigghia. The difference lay in Bigode, a Bigode on the other team, who did not exist. One can say that the fan always prefers the attacker over the defender, the one who decides up in the front over the one who decides in the back, the one who gives the victory over the one who avoids defeat. But one could have made an exception for Belini, for the eight-­year wait. A native Obdúlio Varela was awaited, like a messiah. At the time of choosing, however, Brazilians stuck with what best represented their soccer: Pelé and Garrincha. Why two and not one? ­There had always ever only been one: first Arthur Friedenreich, then Leônidas da Silva. Pelé and Garrincha ­were two dif­fer­ent players. The two, however, resembled each other in the capacity they had to open up the route to victory through seas as yet unnavigated. Garrincha imitated the character of a thousand and one comedies, the enchantment of generations. The fool who was not a fool. The fool who was the hero. One watched that ­simple player, with crooked legs, who apparently wanted nothing. It was enough for him to touch the ball to transform himself. Then the fool became the wise man, the wisest of all, without losing his face of a fool, his manner of a fool. For this reason, the c­ hildren and el­derly of Sweden rolled around on the steps of the stadium, as if they ­were watching a reel of Charlie Chaplin. That was the impression that Garrincha gave off: the clumsy man who never missed. His defenders keeled over with their feet in the air, and the crowd fell over into uproarious laughter. The funny t­ hing was that Garrincha’s dribble was more than well known. Not that it was, as some still mistakenly affirm, a dribble like the ­others, only to the right. Garrincha would dribble to the right, to the left, to the center. The dribble is what was always the same. The Black Man’s Turn  315

It seemed like the simplest ­thing in the world to defend Garrincha. But in the end, Garrincha was unstoppable. Thus the surprise, the shock, the laughter. Seeing Garrincha, all the fans of the world became ­children. Only a child, or someone who returns to childhood, if only for a moment, finds amusement in the slipup of someone impor­tant, like, for example, a defender of Garrincha. Garrincha’s defender is placed on the field to impede him. Generally it is not just one. It is two or three. And Garrincha goes by all of them and they all fall, as if they ­were slipping on a banana peel placed on the field by the street urchin, Garrincha. Another t­ hing that made one laugh: Garrincha’s face, serious, grave even. And the more serious and grave the more laughter he produced. As if he did not understand, or understood less than anyone e­ lse, what was happening. This was what explained Garrincha’s safety. Someone ­else, who tried to do the same t­ hing, would do it once. The second time would earn a slap. Many a player, ­after being taken down by Garrincha, got up to fight. But he would be disarmed by seeing an awkward, ­humble Garrincha, almost apol­o­getic. The only way was to try again. To try, uselessly yet again, to take the ball from Garrincha, only to fall again, legs in the air, provoking the laughter of the crowd. Pelé did not invite laughter. Even when he did t­ hings you could not believe. He liked to do a give and take off the leg of the opponent. The opponent felt the ball on his leg. He would try to get it, and it was already back on Pelé’s foot. ­There was something in Pelé that called for every­one’s re­spect. Seeing him play, the crowd felt themselves to be in a t­ emple of soccer, where only the enthusiasm of the applause was permitted. Instead of laughing, the crowd would give standing ovations worthy of the Municipal Opera, the Scala of Milan, the Metropolitan of New York. Even when they did not stand up, they would be heating up their hands, clapping with more and more vigor. In Pelé, one felt all the greatness of soccer as the passion of the ­people, as drama, as destiny. Pelé was destiny itself. He was the destiny that wore the yellow jersey of the Brazilian side. The God is Brazilian of the popu­lar expression. It is true that Brazilians only had eyes to see Pelé and Garrincha ­after the World Cup of 1958. Pelé and Garrincha had done almost the same t­ hings that they would then do ­later. We saw t­ hose and soon forgot them. The proof is that no one in Brazil had protested when the two ­were left off the side. Pelé was hurt, he was still hurt in Sweden, but the starter was Dida. Garrincha, then, did not have a scratch. He just had the crooked legs, which he had always had. Perhaps when it came to the national team, Brazilians preferred the straight legs of Joel. At least the barring of Garrincha did not provoke any reaction. It was considered natu­ral. 316  Chapter Six

And Garrincha was Garrincha and Pelé was Pelé. Garrincha made p ­ eople laugh, as he would make ­people laugh l­ater on, taking down the defenders, who would fall on their backs, their feet in the air. Pelé already was victory. At sixteen, he had worn the yellow jersey of the Brazilian side to win the Copa Roca.42 Nevertheless, no one remembered the statement of Nestor Rossi, the captain of the Argentinian side: “Pelé es lo mejor de todos.”43 Indeed, Pelé kept demonstrating this. He made goals that had never been seen before. As against the Belenenses, when, ­after having scored two exemplary ones, he invaded the area and saw himself before a compact barrier of Portuguese: four, shoulder to shoulder, to block his passage. Pelé turned his back to them, fled, received a boo, turned around ­because he knew that his flight had undone the barrier, that all the Portuguese w ­ ere chasing him, and dribbled through five of them to place the ball, g­ ently, into the back of the net.44 Every­one was amazed. But amazed as if they had seen something they would never see again, like a haunt. If one took into account Pelé’s age, sixteen years, one had discovered Pelé a year before. It was just that despite having seen the amazing play, no one wanted to accept the existence of a genius of soccer, much less that of a sixteen-­year-­old boy genius. This is b ­ ecause one only accepts the consecrated. If a Didi or a Zizinho ­were to do that, which they did not, the amazement would be long-­lasting, as one more proof that Didi was Didi, that Zizinho was Zizinho. But who was Pelé? Who was Garrincha? Garrincha brought down defenders, leaving them with their legs in the air, before 1958. We doubted, however, that Garrincha would do this in a World Cup. And if he did, we doubted that this would finish off Rus­sia, as it did. We still thought, like the Rus­sians, that Garrincha only had a dribble to the right. We did not know at all that he, despite having just one dribble, dribbled in any direction. And we did not believe very much in a clown of soccer. Perhaps recalling the En­glish reservations about Brazilian soccer. That irredeemable condemnation that Brazilian soccer had every­thing belonging to a circus, the trapeze artists, the acrobats, the sword-­swallowers, the fire-­eaters, the clowns, but did not have the primary t­ hing, which was a team. Pelé, on the other hand, perhaps, was almost unknown due to his age. A boy. Maybe ­later, if he did not get lost. But at seventeen years old, what could a Pelé do in a world championship? Better a Dida, already twenty-­one years old, experienced, tested, wily. The 1958 World Cup gave us the eyes to see Pelé and Garrincha. In truth, we did not choose them as idols. They returned already chosen. If the Eu­ro­ pe­ans laughed with Garrincha, we could feel ­free to laugh with him. And we thanked him for the big laughs we had e­ very time he played. If the Eu­ro­pe­ ans called him Roi Pelé, we could freely stoke our pride in having a king, a The Black Man’s Turn  317

king of the sport that we loved the most and that had made us champions of the world.45

6. The popularity of Pelé and Garrincha was how the ­people showed their gratitude to the champions of the world. The players clearly expected more. Thus the disappointment of many—­particularly a­ fter the government did not fulfill its promise of a ­house and a government job for each one of them. At the time of the banquet, every­thing seemed s­ imple. President Kubitschek promised the ­house and the government job. He went so far as to send a message to Congress requesting credit for the h ­ ouses of the champions of the world. A congressman soon appeared with an amendment extending this benefit to all the World War II veterans. The veterans numbered fourteen thousand. Soon the champions of the world ended up without h ­ ouses. Some ­were not both­ered by this. They did not believe in government promises. ­Others, however, judged themselves victims of a con man’s story. This explains the ease with which they w ­ ere seduced by the temptations of Eu­ro­pean soccer. Vavá went so far as to beg to go to Spain. It was the opportunity of a lifetime for him. He let his beard grow, scowled, and only smiled again when Vasco, which wanted to sell him, starting out from the princi­ple that no one was worth eigh­teen million, used this pretext to send him to Atlético de Madrid. Didi had to play the same role as Vavá in order to wear the jersey of Real Madrid. He made such a point of leaving that he devalued himself. Botafogo had to give a discount, with Real Madrid pretending near disinterest. It is enough to say that Real Madrid purchased Didi for less than half of what Atlético paid for Vavá. Didi was the one who belched greatness. He was ­going to send his and Guiomar’s d ­ aughter, Rebeca, to a high school in Switzerland. And he explained that if it ­were not for that, he would stick around. The truth is that he was certain he would bump Di Stefano, whom Spain pointed to as the best in the world. Sir Alfredo was old. Didi was still twenty-­eight. This was the way to prove that the “King” was he and not Pelé. To go to Spain, he suffered boos. He played badly on purpose. And when Botafogo was bewildered, he explained every­thing in one phrase: “I d ­ on’t have the head to play ­here.” Botafogo had to let him go. But Didi would suffer a disappointment greater than the one he’d sustained as a result of Brazil’s ingratitude. In Madrid, not making it a secret that he wished to take from Sir Alfredo his place in the heart of Spain and the world, Didi awoke in him the worst of sentiments. 318  Chapter Six

One saw, then, the player who had been considered the greatest of the World Cup being barred from Real Madrid. Didi repeated the destiny of Leônidas, ­after the Rio Branco Cup of 1932, in the reserves of Peñarol. Uruguayan soccer, two-­time Olympic champion as well as world champion, took its revenge upon Leônidas, who had scored the two goals of the Brazilian victory. Real, proclaiming itself the greatest squad that had ever been, gave itself the luxury of putting Didi on the reserves bench. The other champions did not accept just like that, no more no less, the choice of Pelé and Garrincha as idols. The proof was in the reaction of the players who had not even gone to Sweden but who considered themselves world champions, as Brazilians. ­There ­wasn’t a back or a halfback who did not wish to take away the idol identity of Pelé and Garrincha. Suddenly the two ­were transformed into a kind of public e­ nemy number one for their colleagues in the profession. They w ­ ere hunted with the tip of the cleats in e­ very game. Garrincha did not react. He took the kick as if he ­were a package. He would fall a­ fter two meters, already wrapped up, then he would palpate his legs to see if anything was broken. Nothing was, so he arose and did not even look at the one who kicked him. Only sometimes, ­after receiving a stronger blow, ­really capable of breaking bones, would he raise his mild eyes, as if to ask, “What did I ever do to you?” It was for that reason, to calm the spirits of t­ hose who wished to send him off the field, that Garrincha in­ven­ted the purest Brazilian soccer play: that of kicking the ball out when the opponent gets hurt. He in­ven­ted this play in a Fluminense versus Botafogo game.46 Pinheiro went to clear a ball, sprained a muscle, and fell. The ball was left for Garrincha, who invaded the area. He could have scored the goal, but he saw Pinheiro fallen and calmly, as if he w ­ ere d ­ oing the most natu­ral t­ hing in the world, shot the ball out of bounds. He was a Gandhi of soccer, blooming, suddenly, in the midst of the fire of passions of a game. Altair, when he went to do the throw-in from the sideline, understood that he had to reciprocate. That ball was not Fluminense’s, it was Botafogo’s. And it was Botafogo’s, starting a tradition of Brazilian soccer that won the world, which is now cultivated in any corner where they play ball. Pelé would react. A ­ fter he was knocked over, as if a sickle had decapitated him, he would get up with a jump. And when he did not immediately strike back, he would look the gunslinger on the other team deep in the eyes. He had to react. His ­father, Dondinho, had been permanently injured in the knee, precisely when he was taking off as a player. Pelé did not forget the horror of his ­mother regarding soccer, which made her husband suffer. His mission was to rehabilitate soccer in the eyes of his ­mother. To give to his The Black Man’s Turn  319

f­ather the fame he never had. Thus the preoccupation with speaking about his ­father, with remembering him at any opportunity. ­After scoring three goals against France, when the world began to salute him as “the King of Soccer,” the first ­thing he did, without rhyme or reason, was to say that Dondinho was the real soccer player: “Dad played much better than I.”47 One could not explain Pelé without this love of ­family, for his ­father, for his ­mother, for his grand­mother, for the u ­ ncle who oversaw the f­ amily expenses, for his siblings. He did not smoke or drink ­because his ­father told him not to smoke or drink: “If you ­really want to be a soccer player, Dico, ­don’t smoke nor drink.” It was a f­ amily, Pelé’s, of good, God-­fearing black folks. Poor and grateful. What they had is what God gave them. How not to thank God for their daily bread? Now, Garrincha had had a dif­fer­ent start. His f­ ather was a fall-­down drunk. He was lame. One leg was shorter than the other. To walk he had to bend the longer leg. One could see Garrincha ­doing this, to stay on his feet and walk correctly, at any time. All one had to do was look at him when he got up. Standing, he did not walk right away. First he would pose on one foot, then adjust the other leg, which he would bend, curving it. Only then would Garrincha take his first step. It was a miracle for him to play soccer. He had never left Pau Grande, in Raiz da Serra. It had been ­there where he learned every­thing. How? Less in the empty lots, where he played in any position except right winger, than in the woods, where he went to hunt. He always had his slingshot. It was his most beloved toy. He slept with it hung around his neck, like a golden chain with a medallion of St.  Judas Thaddeus. One only understands Garrincha by identifying him as a hunter. Or, better yet, as the hunted. It was the ­little birds, the pacas, the possums, that taught him the best of his soccer. Garrincha’s dribble is the flight of an animal or a l­ ittle bird. More animal than l­ ittle bird. The l­ ittle bird would almost always be on the branch of a tree, resting, without suspecting anything. And t­ here would come Garrincha, one foot in front of the other, with slingshot in hand. He liked to kill garrinchas, which is the name of the nightingales of the North. Thus his nickname. He would arrive home, his sack full of nightingales, and his s­ ister would point, horrified. She would not look at the nightingales; she looked at him, pointing an accusing fin­ger and saying, “Garrincha! Garrincha!” And he became Garrincha. But what could the poor nightingales teach him? The pacas, the possums, yes. They would keep watching him, his eyes, 320  Chapter Six

his hands, his legs, his entire body, to sense any movement in him. Garrincha had to remain quiet, still, like someone who wanted nothing at all. How many times did an animal dribble him and leave him on the ground, his legs in the air? Garrincha, in front of a defender, saw himself as a paca, a possum. He did not look at the eyes of the defender; he looked at his legs. And all of a sudden he would pretend to go. He would throw his body to one side, announcing the dribble. He would not go; he would only go when the defender inclined his body in the direction that he wanted. Then he would set out the other way. A fall was certain. The defender would lose his balance, try to recover it; he would not achieve this and collapse, legs in the air. Nothing simpler. So ­simple, so infallible, that it always provoked surprise. It was as if someone saw a banana peel and lifted his foot to avoid it but stepped on it without fail. Pelé had a soccer school. First the ball of stockings; then the ball won in a sticker contest, smaller than that of the league; and fi­nally the big ball, of the championship. At eleven years of age he was wearing cleats. He already did what he wanted with the ball. Since he was five years old, he would go around with the round one. When he had his first real ball, he would sleep hugging it, as if it ­were a w ­ oman. Dondinho was his first teacher. Although he liked to dress up a play, to show that he was the renowned Dondinho, to his son he advised against flourishes: “Play simply, Dico. The more simply the better.” It was necessary, however, to know every­thing. Sometimes the only way to score a goal was with a rabona, a bicycle kick. If he did not know how to do a rabona to stop the ball in a kickup, to kick over the player on the other team with a chip shot, to sway one’s body, to pretend effectively that one is ­going and to quickly change one’s intention, to retract one’s chest to kill the ball, to shoot with power or with a soft touch, it would not be a big deal. When one knew how to do all this, the desire that one had was to show that one knew. A ­whole game could pass without the necessity for a good chip shot, with a tall, long arc, like a mountain, or a short, narrow arc, like a ­little hill, as needed. The ­great player had to limit himself to the necessary, with the humility of one who r­ eally knows. If it’s not necessary, why show off knowledge? This was what amazed Valdemar de Brito the most: Pelé’s maturity. A twelve-­year-­old boy who seemed like a man in his manner of playing. And thinking. For this reason, already training Pelé, being a second f­ ather to him, Valdemar de Brito said to Petronilho: “In Bauru t­ here is a boy who plays more than both of us put together used to play.” Pelé was then thirteen years old. For Valdemar de Brito, he was already the greatest player in the world. Nobody had ever come to do with the ball what The Black Man’s Turn  321

the boy Pelé did. The most unheard of t­ hing was that knowing how to do every­thing, r­ eally every­thing, in the game, he ­limited himself to the essential. He was a classic in the best sense. Valdemar de Brito knew that it was very difficult to resist the desire to put on a show. How many times had he scratched this itch of showing off? It was stronger than he was. He wished to hear applause and the harp ­music of the angels for any player, and ­there was no more sure way. Valdemar de Brito had been a Dondinho who managed to taste glory. If they had not gotten him in his weak, angular knee, maybe, who knows, the place of Leônidas da Silva would have been his. Seeing Pelé, the bitterness of Valdemar de Brito went away. The bitterness of Valdemar de Brito and Dondinho. Soccer had not given every­thing it could have to the two. But it had given them Pelé, to be that which they had never been. Thus the precautions of the ­father, of Valdemar de Brito. Even the advice of not reading the newspapers he gave to Pelé: “The best you can do is not to read the newspapers.” The newspapers would mess a player up with praise or perturb him with criticism. If he had played well, why listen to praise? He who liked to hear praise would end up pretentious. And t­ here was nothing worse than pretension in a player. And if one had played badly, why martyr oneself reading criticisms and even ridicule that came out in the papers? For this reason, Pelé rarely picked up a newspaper.48 One could get an idea of what came out in the papers by what one heard on the radio. Leônidas da Silva speaking ill of him. It was that the Black Diamond had not adapted himself to the glory of Pelé, greater than his own. Pelé was “the King.” A better idol had never been chosen. Or a better king to reign over soccer. The difference between Pelé and Garrincha: Pelé grabbed the crown and placed it on his head. Not to show it off: so that no one would take it from him. Garrincha, not at all. One could note the difference between the two in an individual training session. Garrincha tried to hide. He went to the back, far from the eyes of the physical preparation coach. Pelé put himself in the front row, in full view. What the physical preparation coach did, he did, with the same level of energy. What Garrincha liked was to run ­after a ball, touch it, caress it. It seemed as if he had a paper foot, cottony. The ball would hit his foot and die. Or fall asleep, as in a m ­ other’s lap. He had thighs like ­those of Pelé. As least they ­were just as strong. It’s just that the muscles of Pelé’s thighs ­were more sculpted. They ­were stiffening ­little by ­little, through exercises, through the gymnastic method. T ­ hose of Garrincha’s thighs had a dif­fer­ent origin. That of the greater effort required to bend 322  Chapter Six

his legs to be able to walk. That of the runs through the woods, hunting nightingales, pacas, and possums. That of the empty lots, one ­after the other, almost all day, when he ­wasn’t on a hunt. The impression one had of Garrincha was that his peak was faster. He ran like an animal, zigzagging, fleeing while he attacked. In the field he discovered game trails, as if in the forest, which only animals used. Now Pelé seemed as if he went along with a compass in his hand. He knew all the ways. The field was his kingdom; the ball, his scepter. It was impossible not to recognize that he was the King of Soccer. It is true that it took a while for Brazilians to call Pelé “the King.” Perhaps ­because of the fear of admiration that remained from 1950, like an almost pathological inheritance. It was when they most admired the player, or Brazilian soccer, that they experienced the bitterness of 16 July. Brazilians ­were defending themselves, restraining themselves. The Eu­ro­pe­ ans, no. They gave themselves over entirely to enjoy, in ecstasy, the soccer of Pelé and Garrincha. And if it could not be of Pelé or Garrincha, of a Brazilian. Thus the exploitation of the champion of the world’s soccer. Any Brazilian team could find space in the Eu­ro­pean market. Even Bela Vista, an unqualified team from the interior of Minas Gerais, managed to tour the ­whole world ­after the conquest of 1958. It was Brazilian and that was enough. A Santos with Pelé, a Botafogo with Garrincha, could play ­every day if they wished. And they almost did play ­every day. They only remained in Brazil during the time of the Rio–­São Paulo, playing quickly the carioca championship and the paulista championship. Santos always arrived late to the paulista championship. They had to deduct the missed rounds, playing three games a week. Santos broke the rec­ord of twenty-­five games in forty-­five days. The excuse was the dollar, traded on the black market in Brazil. Abroad, they received much more per game, despite the unfair competition of the other clubs. The clubs that did not have world champions and that played for any price. Pelé was the big victim. He did not know how to play without putting the pedal to the metal. With all his heart and soul. Playing and practicing. Even in a practice he made a point of being king. Garrincha did not feel himself to have a crown on his head. He was dif­fer­ent. In the majority of games, he contented himself with d ­ oing a few dribbles and making the crowd laugh without killing himself on the field. It was the only way to stand game a­ fter game. One game would end, and it was necessary to run to catch a train or a plane, to travel without sleeping well, only to play the next day, or at most two days l­ater. All this while changing climate, food, every­thing. At times in entirely adverse conditions. Playing one day in Egypt, in forty-­something degrees The Black Man’s Turn  323

[Celsius] in the shade, only to play, forty-­eight hours l­ ater, a game in Sweden, at twelve degrees above zero.49 When he arrived at a ­hotel, Pelé locked himself in to rest, his legs stretched out, the muscles still hurting. He played with a dislocated collar­bone, with a broken toe. He could not say no. In all the contracts, t­ here was a clause indicating that Pelé’s presence was obligatory. If Pelé did not play, nothing ­doing. Santos was his club. Pelé was loyal by nature. Loyal to Brazilian soccer. Santos depended on him. ­Because of him, they charged more and more per game. Charging more, they could pay more to his teammates. What saved Pelé was his age. He had been champion of the world at seventeen. He was ­going to make it two-­time champion at twenty-­one. But when he was twenty, he had to stay off the Brazilian side due to medical prohibition. It ended up in print, due to an indiscretion of the doctor, that Pelé was useless for soccer. A ­ fter a month of rest, he returned to reign supreme. The warning, however, had been given. In dealing with Pelé, one could not be ignorant. Without Pelé, would Brazil be world champion? President Jânio Quadros, as a Brazilian, got alarmed. It was necessary to save Pelé. This was how soccer players gained a vacation of twenty days. E ­ very year, from 17 December to 6 January, the practice of soccer became entirely prohibited. B ­ ecause of Pelé, too, the interval of seventy-­two hours was established between two games of the same team.50 Pelé’s sacrifice was not in vain, although since the promulgation of the law, clubs keep fighting for a reduction of the interval of seventy-­two hours. To achieve the support of the players, they offer bonuses of 100,000, 150,000, 200,000, or 300,000 cruzeiros. It is a way of corrupting the player. Of in­ter­est­ing him in the multiplication of games. Many players already prefer to play more in order to earn more beasts. Without Pelé, nevertheless, they would not have tried at all to humanize the profession of soccer player in Brazil. Thinking about Pelé, thinking about the soccer player. Pelé was the soccer player per se. All one had to do was announce “Pelé ­will play” for any stadium in the world to become small. Brazilians could not remain aloof to this fascination. When they realized it, all they r­ eally had was an idol. Or a king. Not ­because of ingratitude t­oward Garrincha. The truth is that Garrincha was not fit to be a king. He lacked a minimal vocation. Maybe if he looked in the mirror, with a crown on his head, and asked himself, like in the samba: “Which king am I?” That was the answer he gave when they greeted him as “King” over in Chile. Pelé was hurt, without being able to play, and only Garrincha remained, the natu­ral heir to the crown. From the game against ­England through the final, Garrincha was indeed the King.51 324  Chapter Six

The curious t­ hing is, to play the role of King, he did not play on the right wing, like he usually did; he played as a midfielder and in the center, like Pelé. He tried to fill the empty place, to be Pelé. Pelé could not be missing; for this reason Garrincha was much more Pelé, in the repeat championship, than he was Garrincha. He did not score a single goal from the right wing. When the game began, he tried right away to go to the core of the attack. It was ­there that every­thing was de­cided. It’s true that he tried to be Garrincha. Against Spain was the last time, in the World Cup in Chile, that he managed to be Garrincha, freely. Brazil’s second goal was born of one of his typical plays from the wing. He began to dribble a Spaniard, and the written and spoken press of Brazil ­were panicking. The least that the announcers called Garrincha was irresponsible: “Miserable! ­Mental weakling! Irresponsible! Pass!” And Garrincha was calling all the Spaniards for his dribble. The Spanish formed a circle around him as Garrincha dribbled. When he thought t­ here must be no more Spaniards in the penalty area, he lifted the ball up for a l­ ittle header by Amarildo. For the win.52 But that was a hard-­won game. The continuation of the nightmare. ­There is a photo­graph of Pelé, fallen ­after trying for a goal against Czecho­slo­va­k ia. Aimoré and Mário Américo appear with their jaws dropping, desolation in their f­aces. And three steps away is Garrincha with his hands clasped, eyes closed in prayer. As a player he knew, by the movement of Pelé on the ground, trying to get up without being able to, that it was a sprain. A sprain, and the King was out of the Cup. With the King out of the Cup, what would become of Brazil? Pelé did not receive a greater tribute than that one, paid by Garrincha. It was the public, ­humble, Christian recognition that Pelé was the King. When Garrincha tried to substitute for Pelé, to do what Pelé would do, to be Pelé, he was fi­nally hailed as the King. He had destroyed the En­glish team, and he was g­ oing to destroy Chile. The first goal he scored against E ­ ngland was a header, with a jump that, up ­until then, it was believed only Pelé could do. T ­ here ­were t­ hose who thought themselves victims of an optical illusion. It could not be Garrincha, it must be Pelé. And only when Garrincha came back down, the number seven on his back, and landed awkwardly, on his uneven legs, did all doubt dis­appear: it was r­ eally Garrincha.53 Then he was hailed as the King. He refused, however, to put the crown on his head. He smiled, timidly, like a country girl given a ruby, and asked, “Which king am I?” Botafogo plastered banners to its colonial headquarters: “King of Kings.” Pelé might be the King, but Garrincha was the King of Kings. At this time, it The Black Man’s Turn  325

seemed as if Garrincha had to assume the kingdom, ­whether he wanted to or not. Pelé’s groin sprain was taking a while to heal. It was even feared that Pelé would never play again. And then? It was enough, however, for Pelé to return. He came back more king than ever. As if he needed to make it very clear that he was the King. He came back to lead Santos to the world club championship. In Buenos Aires, ­after the defeat of Peñarol, the crowd of Argentinian pibes invaded the field to rip Pelé’s jersey and save a piece as a relic.54 This was the scene that would be repeated in Lisbon. Even in London: the En­glish team, defeated, formed two lines to create a passage for Pelé. First, however, Pelé had to take off his jersey. The En­glish ­were g­ oing to save it, w ­ hole, still smelling of the King, still moist with the King’s sweat. The world had not seen a player like him. It was something no one argued about: Pelé was the greatest player of all time. He played in back and in front, from goalkeeper to left winger. And wherever he played, he was the best. In Viña del Mar, the En­glish columnists saw him practicing on goal and could not contain themselves: “Better than Gilmar!” How many times, when the opposing team was attacking, did the fan who had known Domingos da Guia see him come out of the penalty area, ­doing dribbles of half a millimeter? ­Until the eyes corrected the illusion. It was not Domingos da Guia, it was Pelé. And when he was playing in midfield, who defended and supported better than he? As for attacking, no one had ever seen anything like it. Ever since he began to play on the first team, at sixteen years of age, still a boy, with stick legs, the muscles of his thighs barely beginning to thicken, he was by far, year ­after year, without a single lapse, the top goal scorer of the paulista championship.55 Once they wanted to put up a plaque in the Maracanã to commemorate one of his goals. It was the goal from one end to the other, in a Fluminense versus Santos game for the Rio–­São Paulo championship. He got the ball in Santos’s penalty area and went on his way. He dribbled past one player, another, always moving forward. Suddenly, he envisioned the goal, which he had not thought of scoring. Castilho was moving around ­under the three bars, and Pinheiro de­cided to advance on Pelé. What did Pelé do? He ran straight at Pinheiro, who ­stopped, waiting for him. All of a sudden, Pelé changed direction, taking the path to the goal.56 Pinheiro took a dribble at five meters’ distance. Pelé would do this again and again. Particularly ­after a series of dribbles, when ­there was only one back left to dribble. He would direct himself t­ oward the back, oblige him to wait, as if he ­were setting up an encounter, and suddenly change his intention. This was what made Pinheiro fall as if para­lyzed, five meters away from Pelé. 326  Chapter Six

Once a game began, Pelé’s head would be a “tropel de potros en la pampa inmensa,” from the verse of Santos Chocano.57 “The ­things that pass through our heads at the time of a play!” said Pelé to Nilton Santos. “­There are fellows with nothing passing through t­ here,” responded the Old Man. “Well, in mine,” confessed Pelé, “a feature film is playing.” What in Garrincha is instinct, in Pelé is reason. He does not do a play that is not thought out. And thought out with his eyes open, ­those eyes of a child, wide open, discovering the world. The curtains on the entire field are pulled back before him. And the plays continue to arise, in a whirlwind. He just has to choose one of them, the best. He has to choose in a fraction of a second. Sometimes he decides in an instant among Coutinho or Pepe or Dorval. He passes them the ball before they cross the offside line. Thus the swelling of the crowds, in ­every part of the world, ­every time Pelé touches the ball. Immediately every­thing is transfigured. The players on the other team run e­ very which way, or­ga­nize themselves, disor­ga­nize themselves, Pelé has the ball. And the question being asked, on and off the field, is: What is Pelé g­ oing to do? Who knows if he ­doesn’t have a thousand plays? Or if he could create a new one, one that no one expects or had ever seen before? Thus the expectation all around, uncontrollable. No one can contain themselves. Pelé has the ball, and every­one prepares themselves to see the never-­seen-­before. ­Because Pelé does not repeat himself. ­Every game is dif­fer­ent. He has to change, to adapt himself to the new situations in each game. What surprises in Garrincha is the sameness. In Pelé it is the contrary. When the ball comes to Garrincha, every­one prepares themselves to laugh. One looks around when the ball goes to Pelé. Eyes light up, mouths gape open, ready for amazement. It is as if they are ­going to witness a mystery being unveiled. The ball is between Pelé’s two feet. He runs with it like that. Thus the perplexity of the defenders. Which foot w ­ ill Pelé use? He can use one or the other, without distinction. To do something no one dares even to predict. What a game is, to t­ hose who pull for a team or a national side, the mystery that w ­ ill unveil itself, always indecipherable u ­ ntil the last veil is pulled back, is what each and ­every play of Pelé is for ­those who love soccer. For this reason, the black man born in Três Coracões, who grew up in Bauru and transformed Santos, and who brought the mysticism of victory to Brazilian soccer, cannot not walk down any street, in any city in the world, where soccer is soccer. He is hailed in all the languages of the world as the greatest idol that the most popu­lar sport on earth has ever produced. The Black Man’s Turn  327

No one could leave ­behind being black more than Pelé, to embody the ideal of the street urchin Robson, “I used to be black, and I know what that’s like.” Pelé, however, made a point of being black. Dondinho was black, Mrs. Celeste was black, Granny Ambrosina was black, ­Uncle Jorge was black, as well as Zoca and Maria Lúcia. How could he be ashamed of the color of his parents, of his grand­mother who had taught him to pray, of the good ­Uncle Jorge who took his salary and turned it over to his ­sister to take care of the f­ amily expenses, of his siblings whom he had to protect? His color was the same. He had to be black. If he ­were not black, he would not be Pelé. He could only be Pelé in that way, without changing anything. Not even on the difficult days, which ­were not few but which made him better understand his ­father, his ­mother, his grand­mother, his ­uncle, turned over to God, to the cult of Our Lady of Aparecida, without hesitating an instant, however ­great the tribulation, between good and evil. For this reason, Pelé made a point of being black. So much so that he became “the Black Man.” “Negro!” It is the best way for them to exalt their own color. Looking at themselves in the mirror of Pelé. If Pelé is black, one can be black. Whoever is black should be black. Someone like Pelé had been lacking to complete the work of Princess Isabel.58 Black ­people ­were ­free, but they felt the curse of their color. The slavery of color. Thus, so many black p ­ eople not wanting to be black. The higher a black man was, the less he wished to be black. If he was a mulatto, he would try to pass as moreno, straightening his hair. If he was black, he would straighten his hair, too, trying to transform himself into the descendant of an Indian. Brazilian soccer came to know vari­ous Indians. One would see that ­there ­were no Indians at all. At the most, mulattoes, dark mulattoes with straight hair. What did all this mean if not fleeing from one’s color? Robson had truly found a magical formula, that of “I used to be black.” It was an open door. Better than certain blacks, artists of theater, radio, and tele­vi­sion, who made the color the butt, or leitmotif, of a joke.59 As if by making ­people laugh, they ­were laughing at their own color. And they seemed, in that way, less black. Whites painted black. So black that one saw right away that they w ­ ere not black. This is the explanation one finds for the scorn of t­ hese black folks for all blacks. For the black man. At its base, black humor. The most stinging black humor. 328  Chapter Six

Soccer had wiped out the color line. The club forgot it had black players on the team; the black player forgot too, not ­really remembering that he was black. How to remember if they treated him as if he w ­ ere white? Or as if he w ­ ere not black? It was good not to have a color. Not to feel, in one’s body, the mark of color. To be confused with the whites. Flight, for the black man in soccer, seemed, irresistibly, the best solution. Pelé did not accept it. He had a mission to accomplish. ­Earlier, his mission had been to exalt Dondinho, that of obliging ­people to talk about Dondinho: “Dondinho was the real player,” “Dondinho played much better than I.” Now he was no longer. E ­ very time he spoke about Dondinho, t­ here ­were t­ hose who asked: “Dondinho? What Dondinho?” He had found the perfect way to exalt Dondinho. And not just Dondinho: Mrs. Celeste, Granny Ambrosina, U ­ ncle Jorge, Zoca, and Maria Lúcia. How could he be ashamed of being black if he was proud of them? If every­thing he had he owed to them? Dondinho and Celeste gave him life. Granny Ambrosina had taught him to pray. ­Uncle Jorge had showed him how far ­human solidarity could go. All of them gave him advice. ­Because of them, he did not drink or smoke. ­Because of them, ­every time he went on the field, it was to play the best he knew how and the best he could. If he was the King, who ­were ­those admirable black folks who raised him, who ­shaped him, who taught him only what was good? That was what every­ one needed to know. For that reason, he had to be what he was: a black man. “The Black Man.” “The Negro.” ­Those who admired him throughout the world would have to admire him as a black man. He did not wish to be better than anybody. The black man was not better than the white man, the white man was not better than the black man. And he was black. God had given him his color, but he had also given him Dondinho and Mrs.  Celeste, Granny Ambrosina, and U ­ ncle Jorge. So  that he would be more than a black man. So that he would be “the Black Man.” And he would help, through the admiration that he inspired—­both as a player and as a man—to break down racial barriers. Clubs from all over the world dreamed about Pelé, a black man. Wanting Pelé, dreaming about Pelé, they accustomed themselves with the black man. To the idea of wanting a black man, even if it was not Pelé. As in the case of Italy. The greatest clubs of Italy competed, among themselves, to hire Pelé. Their attempts, which began from a base amount of 500,000 dollars, soon went to a million, reaching the figure, hitherto unimagined for the purchase of a transfer, of 1,500,000 dollars. The Black Man’s Turn  329

No amount affected Pelé. To each attempt from a Eu­ro­pean club he had one reply: he would not leave Santos and much less Brazil. Perhaps to show how loyal a black man can be. To his club. To Brazil. Without being able to conquer Pelé, the only black man they wanted, Italy ended up opening the doors of a racist soccer to black players. The successors of Pelé began to darken the Italian teams. Thus Pelé was seeking to accomplish a mission. That of exalting the color of Dondinho and Mrs. Celeste, of Granny Ambrosina, of ­Uncle Jorge, of Zoca and Maria Lúcia. To allow black p ­ eople, from Brazil and all over the world, to be freely able to be black. However, as long as this mission remains unfulfilled, Pelé grows as a g­ reat solitary figure. That of “the Black Man.” That of “the Negro,” as all black folks call him, to accustom themselves with being black.

330  Chapter Six

Acknowl­edgments

I originally conceived the proj­ect to—at long last—­translate Mario Filho’s classic work into En­glish in 2016. Thanks are due to a number of p ­ eople who helped foster this translation proj­ect along in the intervening years. I thank editor Elaine Maisner at UNC Press for her early support, and for her patience and commitment to the proj­ect l­ ater on, when negotiations ­were necessary for the translation rights. Thanks also to the Latin Amer­i­ca in Translation / en Traducción / em Tradução series of the Consortium in Latin American and Ca­r ib­bean Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Duke University. It is an honor to have this work be included in this distinguished series. My gratitude also goes to both John D. French of Duke University and Joshua Nadel of North Carolina Central University, both of whom wrote letters of support for the book to be published in the series.

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Notes

Translator’s Note to the First En­glish Edition 1. Gilberto Freyre, The Masters and the Slaves: A Study in the Development of Brazilian Civilization, trans. Samuel Putnam (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986 [1933]). 2. Roberto DaMatta, Carnivals, Rogues, and Heroes: An Interpretation of the Brazilian Dilemma, trans. John Drury (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991 [1978]). 3. Gilberto Freyre, “Mulatto Football,” in Keen’s Latin American Civilization, vol. 2, The Modern Era, ed. Robert Buffington and Lila Caimari (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2016 [1938]), 184–87. 4. The word “black” in Filho’s narrative is generally a translation of one of two Portuguese words, preto or negro, the former referring relatively more to skin color and the latter to ancestry. For the most part, context makes it clear which connotation the author has in mind with any given usage. Filho’s use of the term negro is in accordance with con­ temporary usage in Brazil, encompassing both individuals he would consider to be purely of Afro-­Brazilian descent and ­t hose of mixed race, such as mulatos (mulattoes), the term he most frequently uses to refer to ­people of mixed race with African and Eu­ro­pean ancestry. Additional racial/color terms are glossed below when further clarification is needed. 5. Mestiço is the most general adjective indicating racial mixture in Brazilian Portuguese, more generic in terms of racial mixture than its cognate “mestizo” in Spanish/En­g lish (which itself tends to indicate a more specific mixture of Eu­ro­pean and indigenous ancestry or culture). Jack A. Draper III, “Reading Race and Gender in The Black Man in Brazilian Soccer and Beyond,” in The Routledge Companion to Gender, Sex and Latin American Culture, ed. Frederick Luis Aldama (New York: Routledge, 2018), 300–309.

Author’s Note to the Second Edition 1. [­Here and below, the word “side,” when used to refer to a par­tic­u ­lar team or club (usually one assembled from players who do not regularly play together, such as a national team or an all-­star team from a city or state), is a translation of escrete. This now less common term for a team was derived from the word “scratch” in the phrase “scratch team.” I take advantage of the more British-­English usage of the word “side” in order to capture the Brazilianized Anglicism escrete. Filho f­avors this term over ­others such as time or seleção, which are more common ­today.]

Author’s Note to the First Edition 1. [Carioca is the adjective used to refer to Rio de Janeiro. In certain cases (as in this Author’s Note), it also refers to the proper name of a specific soccer club or league, in which case it w ­ ill be capitalized.]

2. [Enfant-­gâté translates as “spoiled child” (French in original); Amea stands for Associação Metropolitana de Esportes Athleticos, or Metropolitan Association of Athletic Sports; Floriano refers to Floriano Vieira Peixoto, who was the second president of the first Brazilian Republic (1891–94) and marshal in the Brazilian army who supported the military coup that gave origin to the Republic (1889–1930); Col­o­nel Antônio Pedroso Reis was president of the Bangu club at the time; the “Pai-­de-­Santo,” or “­Father of the Saint,” was a priest in the Afro-­Brazilian religion of Candomblé, the syncretic religion of Umbanda; AMFA stands for the Associação Metropolitana de Futebol Amador / Metropolitan Association of Amateur Soccer (a São Paulo–­based organ­ization of amateur teams).]

1. Nostalgic Beginnings 1. [Note that the positions listed h ­ ere reflect the common 2-3-5 formation of the era, an offense-­heavy tactic that preceded the shift to the more common 4-4-2 formation in the 1950s. For more on this international pro­cess of “inverting the pyramid,” g­ oing from playing with just two defenders to playing with just two forwards, see Jonathan Wilson, Inverting the Pyramid: The History of Football Tactics (London: Orion, 2009).] 2. That is, to work for the En­glish telegraph com­pany. 3. [A reference to the annual St. John’s festival in the month of June, which involves bonfires and balloons released into the sky, along with traditional food and m ­ usic, among other t­ hings (also known as the festas juninas); ­later in this history, Filho w ­ ill associate ­these popu­lar festivities with soccer again; see chapter 3, note 2).] 4. [A paulista is a native of São Paulo.] 5. [The joke is that the translations are nonsensical imitations of the sound of the En­ glish words with Portuguese words, a common practice in singing along with English-­ language songs in Brazil.] 6. Luís Carneiro de Mendonça recounts that in that era, it was common for first-­team players to lend their soccer shoes to second-­team players. He loaned a lot of shoes in Catete, in Haddock Lobo, and in América. Only in Fluminense did he not lend any. 7. [Rio’s metropolitan area is generally spoken about out on a North–­South axis centering on the centro, or downtown area. The Northern Zone was and is generally poorer, while the Southern Zone ­housed and continues to ­house many of Rio’s wealthiest neighborhoods (several of which would not even become fully urbanized u ­ ntil a­ fter this period, in the 1950s).] 8. [White and black are the colors of Botafogo, and red, white, and green are the “tricolor” of Fluminense.] 9. [Pleureuses, or “mourners,” ­were ostrich feathers that hung down over the brim of a hat, seemingly “weeping.”] 10. The column “Salamina [Salamis]” by Olavo Bilac dates from 1890, exalting the victory of Vesper, a four-­man boat of the Botafogo Regatta Club. The poet says in one passage: “Just heavens! It s­ hall not be with my gaiters and the flowers of my boutonniére; poor spirit corroded and tortured by the profligacy of the imagination; it ­shall not be with this withered arm accustomed only to wielding a pen; it s­ hall not be with t­ hese eyes, fatigued by constant fixation on white paper, and with t­ hese miserable lungs intoxicated by bad air—­ they are from Ouvidor Street;—­a h! It s­ hall not be with all this that Brazil w ­ ill strike fear

334  Notes to Chapter One

within the modern Xerxes.” Bilac then cries: “To the sea, young folk!” And he finishes: “Boys! It was with muscles like ­t hese that they won the b ­ attle of Salamis!” 11. [The Portuguese or Brazilian version of U.S. fraternities, republics are student groups living in common housing.] 12. In the early days, the lack of players was so severe that the league permitted players to double up, playing on the same day on the second and first teams. 13. [This beach has since been built over, incorporated into Flamengo Park in 1960.] 14. Joaquim Guimarães spent a few months g­ oing to the races, half disillusioned with soccer. A nostalgic, t­ oday he does something similar: he goes to the Jockey Club. 15. [Flamengo literally means “Flemish.”] 16. O País, 9 July 1912, published the following: “Very much despite the turf and the rowing, one met on the field where the numerous, select, and expansive meeting (the first Fla-­Flu) was held.” [“Turf” ­here refers to ­horse racing.] 17. [Malandro translates to mean a street-­smart trickster, rogue, or hustler, often celebrated in samba m ­ usic.] 18. This rule was a league law. 19. Alcides D’Arcanchy fought for forty years for “Balípodo.” He discovered the word in 1917. 20. Fluminense was winning three to zero, reserved the ­table, and ended up losing five to three. The date of the game was 30 October 1915. 21. What is more, Neco scored the two goals that allowed Brazil to break the tie with Uruguay in the South American championship of 1919. The first match of Brazil and Uruguay was on the 25th of May; the second, on the 29th of May. 22. “­There is in the cult of heroes something of the affection of the cat—­t he classic affection of the cat for the ­human: seeming to be adoring the leg of its owner, the cat is ­really voluptuously caressing its own fur. Thus the negroid or mestizo masses when they encounter a hero or saint with the hair of an Indian or a curly beard rejoice in them more than in a blond hero: it is a way of giving affection to their own hair in that of the hero, of the genius or of the saint.” Gilberto Freyre, The Mansions and the Shanties: The Making of Modern Brazil, trans. Harriet de Onís (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986 [1966]), 367. 23. [Manteiga means “butter” in Portuguese.]

2. The Grass Field and the Empty Lot 1. Marcos de Mendonça also has the first book, or better yet pamphlet, published about soccer. Casa Clark distributed it to its clients, with the rules of soccer translated from the En­glish by Luís Fonseca, along with instructions for the players in ­every position, teaching how they should be played. Marcos de Mendonça wrote notes for the entire pamphlet. The street urchins could not have done this, as they w ­ ere neither clients of Casa Clark nor literate. 2. [French term meaning “litheness” or “smoothness.”] 3. Botafogo left the league ­because Abelardo Delamare slapped Gabriel de Carvalho in the first game between Botafogo and América in 1911, played on 25 July. The league suspended Abelardo Delamare, and Botafogo left in solidarity with its player.

Notes to Chapter Two  335

4. [I.e. the Escola Superior de Agronomia e Medicina Veterinária.] 5. [I.e. the Escola Militar de Realengo.] 6. [Rio de Janeiro’s electric utility com­pany at the time.] 7. [I.e. the Faculdade Livre de Direito do Rio de Janeiro.] 8. [The original text reads “would appear” (aparecia). Since this does not make sense in context (including the statement that ­t hese same balls ­were disappearing a few paragraphs ­later), I have assumed this is a misprint and replaced it with “would dis­appear.”] 9. The game was on 30 June 1912, the first year of Flamengo soccer. 10. It was Andaraí that took the place of Rio Cricket in the first division of the Metropolitan League in 1916. Rio Cricket, in 1915, was last place in the championship, played an elimination match with Andaraí and lost. They also soon ended with soccer. It was no joke to see an En­glishman beaten by a black man. 11. What Monteiro had was a g­ reat moral force, according to Orlando Bandeira Vilela, of the Andaraí of that era. The best example was always set by Monteiro. For that reason, the whites of Andaraí respected him so much. 12. [A popu­lar Rio night club at that time.] 13. To get an idea of the fanat­i­cism of the chauffeurs of Plaza Sete for Andaraí: one of them, Melquíades, when he was about to die, asked for his funeral pro­cession to pass in front of Andaraí’s field twice. His request was honored. 14. The final game of Monteiro was 6 October 1918. 15. The proof is that even Monteiro was accused of being bought in that Andaraí versus Fluminense game of 30 October 1917. If a black player did poorly, “he was bought.” 16. This was Christmas 1916. 17. [Saúde is a small Rio de Janeiro neighborhood on the Guanabara Bay.] 18. As Pascoal Silva, he played on Rio de Janeiro, on Vasco, on the carioca side, and on the Brazilian side. When he opened a paint store, however, he went back to being Cinelli. Even t­ oday [1947] Pascoal Silva has his paint store, Globo Paint Store. The parent com­pany is Pascoal Cinelli & Co. 19. [Brazil’s state bank since 1861.] 20. Soccer was, to Ana Amélia, what rowing was to Olavo Bilac. Watching a match, she felt transported to Greece, especially in the moment of a Marcos de Mendonça defensive play. ­There is a sonnet by Ana Amélia called “The Leap,” referring to the leap of a goalkeeper, of Marcos de Mendonça, of course. It goes like this: Upon seeing you leap for a tournament athletic Serene, strong, bold, like a figure of the Iliad All my being vibrated in an impulse frenetic As before a Greek, hero of an Olympiad. I trembled as I regarded your build aesthetic As before an Apollo had trembled the dryad. Twas an ensemble of art splendorous and poetic, Theme and inspiration for a Heliconiad. In the scenario without equal of a pallid crepuscule You launched yourself in the air, vibrating in each muscle Amid acclamations of young ladies enthusiastic, Like a God descending from Olympus, graceful, lepid. 336  Notes to Chapter Two

You touched the earth at last, glorious, ardent, intrepid, Beautiful in the perfection of Greek art, in form plastic. 21. Soccer had become so impor­tant that Gilberto Amado was writing articles beating up on the mayor ­because of a ­great defeat of the Rio de Janeiro side. The mayor, poor man, had nothing to do with the story. But for Gilberto Amado, a leader of a city who remained indifferent when seeing the carioca side get walloped by the paulista side was not a mayor, was nothing. 22. Neither ensign nor private, nor waiter, nor barber. Whoever received tips, whoever had a subaltern job, was cut. Even chauffeurs. 23. Manteiga debuted on 17 April 1921 in América’s first game in the championship, which was played against Fluminense, where the Borgeses and the Curtis had gone. 24. [Previously a member of the Haddock Lobo club management, and l­ ater, in 1934, the President of América, it is unclear what Mário Newton de Figueiredo’s specific role was with América at this time. He may have served as a temporary coach for their tour in Salvador.] 25. Before Vasco, t­ here was already a “beast.” Joaquim Guimarães, when he was brought on to put together a carioca side with Flávio Ramos in 1915, came up with the practice of paying tips to the players in order to cover their driving costs. The players who w ­ ere not showing up, the students of good families, made an effort to show up. What is more, the carioca side defeated the paulista side for the first time. The term “beast” dates from 1923. 26. [Vascaínos referred to fans of Vasco da Gama. “Fauna of the National Trea­sury” is a reference to the “animals” on paper money. The money at the time primarily had images of prominent Brazilians on it; thus, the term “fauna” is used ironically.] 27. [1 conto = 1,000 mil réis.] 28. The date of the game Vasco lost is one that many a Flamengo remembers to this day: 8 July 1923.

3. The Rebellion of the Black Man 1. Date of foundation: 1 March  1924. [Amea stands for Associação Metropolitana de ­Esportes Athleticos, or Metropolitan Association of Athletic Sports.] 2. [The festival of St. John (São João) is a harvest festival, part of a number of Catholic feast days in June that are celebrated annually in many parts of Brazil, known collectively as the Festas Juninas, or June festivals. See also chapter 4 for additional references to the St. John’s festival in connection to soccer fandom in Rio de Janeiro.] 3. [In this era in Brazil, “Turk” was a common designation for anyone from the Levant, including Syria and Lebanon.] 4. The one who arranged the job for him was Adriano Rodrigues dos Santos, a soccer director dif­fer­ent from the ­others in that he concerned himself with the players’ ­f uture. “Soccer lasts a short time” was the favorite line of Adriano Rodrigues dos Santos. Bolão, whose real name was Claudionor Corrêa, was a packer in 1924 and ­later a part owner of the Buttons and Metal Artifacts Factory Co. [as of 1947]. 5. Oscar Costa, CBD president, insisted on a white side. He did not believe much in a Brazilian victory, and for him, it was better to lose with whites. 6. [Spanish for “­little monkeys.”] Notes to Chapter Three  337

7. [A revue theater in Buenos Aires, which had been inaugurated the previous year (1924) and remains open for business to this day.] 8. The decisive game between Argentina and Brazil was played on 25 December 1925. 9. [The numbered lifeguard posts along Copacabana Beach serve as reference points for ­t hose wishing to meet at the beach (in this case for the players to meet up again with their bus).] 10. [The then so-­called Watchman’s Fort on Leme Hill is t­oday known as the Duke of Caxias Fort, located at the extreme northeastern end of Leme Beach. Proceeding along Leme Beach to the southwest, the joggers would reach Copacabana Beach and then its extreme southern tip at Post Six, in sight of Copacabana Fort.] 11. This was the night of 21 November 1926. 12. The win and pro­cession was 18 September 1927. 13. [This common saying denotes a decisive moment.] 14. The game was 13 November 1927. For this reason, Brazil did not go to the 1928 Olympic Games, as Washington Luís denied the subvention to the CBD. 15. [Apea stood for the Associação Paulista de Esportes Atléticos, the equivalent of Amea in São Paulo.] 16. [The Triangle was an upscale commercial district in São Paulo at the time.] 17. Fábio Horta still has t­ oday [1947] Floriano’s notes, many scratched on the back of an image, all of them asking for money. 18. Years l­ater, another black player of América, Oscarino, would be the “­father of the saint” [Afro-­Brazilian religious official] in a Brazilian soccer del­e­ga­tion to the Rio Branco Cup competition, in Montevideo. Castelo Branco, the head of the del­e­ga­tion, and Luís Vinhaes, the technical director, made Oscarino’s macumba [Afro-­Brazilian religious rite] official. No player on the Brazilian side failed to go to Oscarino’s room ­after lunch on the day of each game. The three games ­were three of the most brilliant victories in the history of our soccer. All of this is narrated in minute detail in my Rio Branco Cup, 1932. The story represents the Africanization of the white man, which Artur Ramos explains as a true shock of return. 19. [The term caboclo designates mixed ethnic heritage, usually referring to an individual or a culture with a mixture of Portuguese and indigenous ancestors or influences (elsewhere I translate this term with the rough equivalent “mestizo”). ­Here the term specifically refers to mythical-­folkloric spirits invoked in a macumba ritual.] 20. [In rites of possession in Afro-­Brazilian and syncretic religions in Brazil, such as the macumba ritual depicted h ­ ere, the medium speaking in the voice of the spirits or orixás is often referred to as a “horse” being “ridden” by the spirit(s). Thus, the medium ­here is speaking for the World Turns Caboclo spirit and is referring to himself as the caboclo’s “horse.”] 21. [That is, he feared Andaraí’s fans would make the sign of the cross as part of a prayer calling down a divine curse against him.] 22. This occurred on 7 July 1929. Espanhol was at the height of his ­career. 23. The dates of the best of three of América versus Vasco: 10, 15, and 24 November 1929. 24. This was a result of the Monroe contest, or­ga­nized by the Veado Cigarette Com­pany. 25. This defeat was 24 November 1929. 26. This game was 3 March 1929. 27. This was 18 July 1933, at the game of Bonsucesso against São Paulo. 28. Osvaldo Melo, “the Prince of Passes,” said in an interview with O Globo, published 9 July 1931: “The amateur is a clown.” Four days l­ ater, another player, Ennes Teixeira, unbur338  Notes to Chapter Three

dened himself in the same paper: “­There is only one amusement park in the ­whole world in which they d ­ on’t pay the clown: the soccer field.”

4. The Social Ascension of the Black Man 1. [Arnaldo Guinle (1884–1963) was a Fluminense bigwig, serving vari­ous positions at the club, including athletic director and president, in an era spanning from the turn of the twentieth ­century through the 1940s. This was a reference to the Casa Sloper, an elegant Brazilian department store chain with stores in Rio de Janeiro at the time, which sold formal menswear and jewelry, among other t­ hings.] 2. The Arlanza was the ship that was ­going to take Vasco to its season in Spain and Portugal. The departure was confirmed at 6:00 p.m. on 7 June 1931, the day of the match between Fluminense and Botafogo, which gave Fernando Giudicelli the opportunity to attack Leandro Carnaval. 3. Passing through Rio on 1 July 1931, Amílcar Barburi, interviewed by O Globo, said, among other ­t hings, “In Italy players live like princes. With money and in comfort.” An example was Raimundo Orsi, an Argentinian player on Juventus: “Orsi is a sultan.” 4. On 8 August 1931, Il Littorali, the official organ of the Italian National Olympic Committee, published interviews of Brazilian players who had just arrived to play in Italy. ­Those players, according to the journalist who interviewed them, w ­ ere not content with being Italo-­Brazilians: “We are not Italo-­Brazilians, we are Italians.” 5. The two matches that closed the Rio championship of 1931 took place on 20 December. 6. This was on 13 September 1931. [Filho is referring to Leônidas’s participation on the Seleção Carioca, the team that represented the city and state of Rio de Janeiro at the time.] 7. [So-­called mosquito killers had been employed by the city of Rio de Janeiro since the early twentieth c­ entury to kill the Aedes aegypti species that had been spreading yellow fever among the city’s residents. See Roberta Jansen, “Há 111 anos, Brasil vencia os mosquitos [111 years ago, Brazil defeated mosquitos],” 20 January 2018, O Estado de São Paulo, https://­saude​.­estadao​.­com​.­br​/­noticias​/­geral,ha​-­111​-­anos​-­brasil​-­vencia​-­os​-­mosquitos,​7000​2​ 158797​.­] 8. Domingos signed up as a member with América on 24 December 1931. On the 31st, he retracted his membership agreement with América and signed a new one, with Vasco. 9. Not to mention the old story of color, a black man on a big team. Leônidas was frank with the reporter from O Globo that interviewed him on 17 October 1931. “On the club anniversary (of Bonsucesso), Gentil (Gentil Cardoso) appealed to me. He has a beef with América, ­because América made Manteiga leave the Navy. . . . ​Now Manteiga spends his days drinking in Bahia. He asked me if any player of color coming from another team had become a star at América. . . . ​The individual of color who comes onto a big team is never well received.” 10. On 3 March 1932, the papers published the following: “Protesting Against the Inclusion of Leônidas: Sílvio and Hildegardo Refused to Embark.” Leônidas went on with the Olympic team to Santos, played in the first game on the 5th, and then, before the following match on the 7th, he had already returned home. Shortly thereafter, on 17 March, when the side was being or­ga­nized that would face Wanders of Montevideo, the América players refused to train with Leônidas. Leônidas was removed from the team that played the Uruguayans. 11. This was 1 May 1932. Notes to Chapter Four  339

12. The accusation against Leônidas arose shortly a­ fter the return of Bonsucesso from an excursion to São Paulo in January 1932. The trip lasted from the 22nd to the 31st. On February 1, ­t here was already talk of the necklace. 13. [Bloco = “parade group,” often associated with a par­tic­u ­lar neighborhood.] 14. O Globo reproduced, on 17 January 1933, the words of Fluminense’s director, “The question of color w ­ ill no longer exist at Fluminense with the implementation of the new regime (of professionalism).” 15. “The boys who won in Montevideo w ­ ere a picture of our social democracy, where Paulinho, son of an impor­tant ­family, united with the black Leônidas, the mulatto Oscarino, and the white Martim. Every­thing carried out in good Brazilian style.” José Lins do Rêgo, preface to Copa Rio Branco 32, by Mário Filho (Rio de Janeiro: Pongetti, 1943). 16. [Leônidas was ultimately allowed to play b ­ ecause the starting player in his position, Nilo, had suffered an injury. (See https://­pt​.­w ikipedia​.­org​/­w iki​/­Leônidas​_­da​_­Silva​.­)] 17. This was 19 December 1932. 18. Interview with Marineti, a Hungarian coach, upon his return from São Paulo, published in O Globo, 10 January 1933: “Sírio has not been paying its players for a while. They are ­going through a difficult situation, so much so that Petronilho has not played in three months.” 19. The Carioca League was founded on 23 January 1933, implementing professionalism. Flamengo, remaining with Amea, took care to arrange a tour, g­ oing to play in Montevideo and Buenos Aires. They returned at the end of April. Then the players refused to wait any longer. In just one day, Flamengo lost Luciano and Vicentino, which hurried their request for membership in the Carioca League, May 19. São Cristóvão, in less of a hurry, almost ended up without a team. Six of their players, Juca, Ernesto, Afonsinho, Roberto, Cebo, and Carreiro, sought out clubs that had already professionalized. And on top of that, the Carioca League only assured them a spot in its sub-­league. 20. Vasco versus Palestra, 18 July 1933. 21. This was something that Osvaldo Veloso, goalie for Fluminense, had predicted in his response to a poll from O Globo: “When the ­grand moment arrives, a lot of masked professionals ­w ill prefer g­ oing hungry over embracing professionalism.” 22. From an interview with Veloso: “That life (that of a professional player) would be intolerable for me, b ­ ecause I love parties, dancing and socializing.” 23. [Cachaça is Brazilian sugarcane rum.] 24. [In a tactical system with five attackers and five defenders (plus the goalkeeper), the halfbacks w ­ ere the three forward defenders. Thus, the players’ accommodations ­were grouped according to their relative positions on the field.] 25. [Feijoada is a traditional Brazilian black-­bean stew, said to have been originally developed as a meal for enslaved Africans and Afro-­Brazilians, but which gradually became a national dish.] 26. The books of the Industrial Pro­gress Com­pany of Brazil register this fact. 27. [In Spanish in the original, the praises are “the dancer,” “the artist of the ball,” and “the juggler,” in that order.] 28. Leônidas signed a contract with the CBD on 28 April 1934. Two days l­ ater, Valdemar did the same. 29. [­Because of a dispute with Flamengo, Vasco da Gama quickly abandoned the nascent Carioca League and formed the Metropolitan Sports Federation (Federação Metropolitana 340  Notes to Chapter Four

de Desportos) alongside Botafogo, Bangu, São Cristóvão, Andarahy, Olaria, Carioca and Madureira in 1934. The schism between the major soccer clubs of Rio would not be resolved ­until 1937, when they w ­ ere re­united in the Soccer League of Rio de Janeiro (Liga de Futebol do Rio de Janeiro). (See https://­pt​.­wikipedia​.­org​/­wiki​/­História​_­do​_­Club​_­de​_­Regatas​_­Vasco​ _­da ​_­Gama and https://­pt​.­w ikipedia​.­org​/­w iki​/­Federação​_­Metropolitana​_­de​_­Desportos​.­)] 30. [The nickname (originally pop­u ­lar­ized by Filho himself) for the classic match between two Rio club rivals, Flamengo and Fluminense.] 31. This was 11 May 1935. 32. This was 6 July 1936. [“Cent” ­here is a translation of tostão—­loosely, the equivalent coin of small value.] 33. Sobral joined Fluminense on 14 December 1934, Hércules and Orozimbo in May 1935, the first on the 22th and the second on the 29th. [A caboclo is a person of mixed race, usually with some Portuguese and indigenous ancestors, and perhaps Afro-­Brazilian as well. Moreno is a term that literally means “brunette” but is often used as an ambiguous term for someone with a relatively light skin color that is not considered branco (white) or even as a “polite” term for someone that might other­w ise be called mulato (mulatto) or preto/ negro (black). Filho’s point ­here is that the team hired two players of somewhat ambiguous racial identity and mixture before hiring a third that could be more or less clearly identified as being of mixed Eu­ro­pean and African descent.] 34. [The reco-­reco is a handheld percussive instrument commonly used in samba and ­earlier popu­lar musical forms.] 35. [The festival of St. John (São João) is a harvest festival, part of a number of Catholic feast days in June that are celebrated annually in many parts of Brazil. St. John’s feast day is especially impor­tant in the northeastern region of Brazil and among mi­grants from that region in other parts of Brazil—in this case, Rio de Janeiro.] 36. The Magnólia contest ended on 3 March 1938. Leônidas took first place with 249,080 votes, Hércules second with 121,850, and Oscarino third with 113,544. In actuality, Leônidas received 329,080 votes. [Regarding the gross total of 329,080 votes ascribed to Leônidas, it is unclear in Filho’s text where the additional 10,000 votes come from, beyond the 70,000 he gifted to Hércules and Oscarino.] 37. [Moacyr “Russinho” Siqueira de Queiroz (1902–92) was a midfielder who won a previous popularity contest and who played for Vasco da Gama, among other clubs, and also for the Brazilian national team in the 1930 World Cup.] 38. [This refers to the Caixa Econômica, the Brazilian federal bank originally founded by Emperor Pedro II in 1861.] 39. [The nickname of a famous Vasco da Gama supporter in the 1930s, who himself had received 90,000 votes in a contest held by A Crítica, the short-­lived newspaper for which Mário Filho served as sports editor at the time. The contest was held in 1930 to choose an individual who would receive a f­ ree trip to Uruguay in order to represent the Brazilian fan base at the 1930 World Cup. Jorge Medeiros, 100 anos da torcida vascaína [100 years of Vasco fans], accessed 12 July 2017, http://­torcidasdovasco​.­blogspot​.­com​/­2016​/­09​/­vasco​-­2016​-­livro​ -­100​-­a nos​-­da​-­torcida​_­11​.­html​?­m​=1­ ​.­] 40. [Bangu (“up t­ here”) was a working-­class neighborhood at the time, located in Rio’s Western Zone, away from the wealthier city center and Southern Zone (“down ­here”), where many of the elite teams, including Flamengo and Fluminense, ­were and continue to be based.] Notes to Chapter Four  341

41. [Rogério Pisani Marinho (1919–2011), younger ­brother of Roberto Pisani Marinho (1904–2003), both of the Marinho ­family, which founded and still owns the power­ful Globo media conglomerate. Mário Filho was the editor of the sports page for its Globo newspaper in the early 1930s.] 42. 1 July 1934, game between São Cristóvão and Vasco. [Filho follows the standard practice h ­ ere of referring to the amount 600 réis less than 5 mil réis as 4 mil réis and 400. The latter has been simplified for the modern reader as 4.4 mil réis.] 43. [Machado de Assis (1839–1908) was an Afro-­Brazilian author whose artistic ­career spanned the Brazilian Empire and First Republic, and to this day is Brazil’s most acclaimed novelist. His sardonic style has often been compared to that of En­glish author Laurence Sterne (1713–68).] 44. [Malandro in the original. See chapter 1, note 17.] 45. Valdemar de Brito’s confession to Kruschner. 46. “The Brazilian of mixed race, the Bahian, the native of Rio, the lively mulatto from the coast, plays a soccer that is no longer the Apollonian game of the British but rather an almost Dionysian dance. . . . ​In soccer as in politics Brazilian mulattoism makes itself known through a taste for bending, for surprise, for flourishes, which reminds one of dance steps and of capoeira. But above all of dance.” Gilberto Freyre, Sociology, vol. 2 (Rio de Jeneiro: Olympio, 1945), 375, 423n. 47. [The 1938 World Cup took place in France, where Brazil finished in third place ­behind Italy and Hungary.] 48. [Olavo Bilac (1865–1918), Brazilian poet of the Parnassian movement.] 49. [Getúlio Vargas (1882–1954), Brazil’s president at the time.] 50. Leônidas’s lecture in Belo Horizonte was held on Friday, 29 July 1938, on the initiative of Procópio Ferreira, who was occupying the Municipal Theater on the occasion with his com­ pany. Leônidas received half of the proceeds, but all the expenses w ­ ere covered by Procópio. On that night, the Black Diamond wore, for the first time, a tuxedo, offered by the Capital shoe store. The lecture was divided into two parts: Leônidas read some typed-­out pages written by José Scassa; thereafter, he directed himself to the blackboard, placed just so in the m ­ iddle of the stage, and drew diagrams of the seven goals that he had scored during the World Cup. The Belo Horizonte lecture was a reprisal of another presented in Rio by Leônidas himself, a ­little ­earlier, on 23 July, in the João Caetano Theater. The Jornal dos Sports printed, on that day, as one of the night’s attractions, “Once the party has ended, Leônidas ­w ill sign autographs.” 51. [Dori Kruschner (aka Izidor Kürschner, 1885–1941) was a Hungarian mi­grant to Brazil who coached Flamengo from 1937 to 1938.] 52. Fausto died on 29 March 1939. 53. Flamengo communicated to the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer that Leônidas’s contract was suspended on 16 June 1941. On 3 July, Leônidas was operated on; on the 26th of that month, he was convicted by the military court, and began serving his sentence on the following day. 54. Leônidas was released on 26 March 1942. 55. [Ary Barroso (1903–64) was an influential Brazilian songwriter as well as a soccer commentator.] 56. The date was 19 April 1942. 57. [Zé is a common nickname for José.] 342  Notes to Chapter Four

5. The Trial of the Black Man 1. Pearl Harbor was 7 December 1941. On 23 December, Palestra Itália signed Og Moreira. Brazil declared war on the Axis powers on 22 August 1942. On 14 September, Palestra Itália changed its name to Palmeiras. 2. [Parque Antártica was the original name of the Palestra Itália Stadium, named ­a fter the Antarctica Beverage Com­pany, its original ­owners.] 3. On 22 November 1944, Antônio Gomes de Avellar, patron of América, renounced his title of honorary member of Fluminense. 4. The Limas, including the ­father, made up a team from keeper to left winger. The ten sons went from black to almost blond. Thus, the Painter. 5. This was 10 July 1944. [Filho takes full advantage h ­ ere of the name Santo Cristo, meaning “Holy Christ.”] 6. This occurred on 20 September 1942. 7. [Ruy Barbosa (1849–1923) was a Bahian abolitionist and politician, with a distinguished ­career u ­ nder the Brazilian Empire as general deputy and then, u ­ nder the First Brazilian Republic, as trea­sury secretary, followed by many years as a senator. He was also a noted intellect and author, and a founding member of the Brazilian Acad­emy of Letters.] 8. This game was on 29 September 1940. 9. The Fla-­Flu took place on 27 July 1941. 10. This was 26 September 1943. 11. [This refers to the eponymous lagoon (lagoa) of Lagoa, the neighborhood along the northern shore of the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas in Rio.] 12. 23 November 1941, in the celebrated Fla-­Flu of the ball in Lagoa. 13. This marvel occurred on 11 October 1942. 14. Carlito Rocha took on the directorship of the Rio State side in October 1943. The debut match of the Rio State team was 1 November 1943 in Vitória, against the Espírito Santo State side. 15. The anniversary game was on 11 August 1940. 16. When Botafogo went to Mexico for the first time, Zezé Procópio lost his son. Ademar Babiano, head of the del­e­ga­tion, received the news when they arrived in New York. He kept it hidden, for obvious reasons, from Zezé Procópio. In New York, Zezé Procópio filled his suitcase with pre­sents for his son, whom he adored. 17. [The W-­M tactical formation of Arsenal coach Herbert Chapman. Replacing the traditional, attack-­heavy Brazilian system of five forwards, three half backs, and two fullbacks, the W-­M reduced the number of forwards to three, moving two back into the midfield while also moving one midfield player back to the defensive line, which consisted now of three players, who would stay deep near their own goalkeeper to defend against the long ball.] 18. This was 24 October 1945. Gentil Cardoso had signed a contract with Fluminense four months before, receiving 35,000 cruzeiros as a signing bonus and 2,500 cruzeiros as a salary. 19. [A second meaning of “bite” is to request money from.] 20. The was the night of 22 December 1946. 21. [Filho is likely referring to Sergeant Alvin C. York, a World War I veteran whose heroic exploits in ser­v ice of the United States Army w ­ ere featured in the 1941 Howard Hawks film Sergeant York, starring Gary Cooper.] Notes to Chapter Five  343

22. This bombardment took place on 29 August 1943. 23. [This was the name given to Getúlio Vargas’s authoritarian government in the period 1937–45.] 24. This second-­leg game took place on 23 December 1943. 25. [“La Madelon” was a popu­lar song sung by French soldiers during World War I.] 26. [Getulinho refers to Getúlio Vargas, the president of Brazil at the time. Manoel do Nascimento Vargas Netto was president of Rio’s Metropolitan Soccer Federation at the time.] 27. [This was 29 December 1937.] 28. When he broke Agostinho’s leg, a double fracture, in Figueira de Melo on 6 June 1946, Zizinho was expelled from the field. He was a marked player. Jorginho gave him the kick in the same leg, the left one, in a Flamengo versus América game on 5 October 1947 and was not expelled. 29. [This was a play on Maracai’s name, meaning literally “Mask yourself!”] 30. Maracai became a protestant pastor. Currently, [1947] he preaches the Gospel ­every day in the Presbyterian Church of Sertanópolis, in northern Paraná. 31. [José Lins do Rêgo (1901–57) was best known as a prominent northeastern Brazilian novelist but was also famous for being a die-­hard fan of Flamengo soccer, about which he wrote a series of newspaper columns (crônicas).] 32. [Zé is a common nickname for José, in this case for José Lins do Rêgo.] 33. [Filho is referencing a heroic character in Lins do Rêgo’s novel, Fogo Morto (Dead fire).] 34. The shootings at São Januário took place on 19 September 1943. 35. The final was played on 30 December 1943. 36. This was 29 October 1944. 37. [In addition to being one of Brazil’s most renowned songwriters, Ary Barroso (1903–64) was a soccer announcer on the radio and an inveterate fan of the Flamengo team.] 38. Bangu and Flamengo up t­ here, 12 October 1941. The doctor of the club acted like a fan. What was impor­tant was that the player stayed on the field, fighting. 39. This game was played on 16 September 1944. The head of the Medical Department of Fluminense was Dr. Sílvio Rocha Lima. The one who gave the injection, according to the testimony of João Coelho Neto, was Dr. Hilton Gosling. 40. Careca, who was not actually bald but rather shaved his head closely so as not to show his bad hair, was also called “the son of Gentil Cardoso.” [Careca means “bald” or “Baldy.”] 41. Antônio Gonçalves Dias (1823–64) was a Brazilian Romantic poet known, in part, for his depictions of Native Brazilians in poems like “Chant of the Warrior.” 42. The session of the Court of Sporting Justice of the Metropolitan Federation of Soccer was on 4 June 1947. It was the only time in history that the word of a player was worth more than the word of a referee. The referee, Waldemar Kidzinger, was a major in the army. 43. [Mineiro = a native of the state of Minas Gerais.] 44. [Benedito Valadares, governor of Minas Gerais, 1933–45.] 45. This first of three in the Copa Ropa was 16 December 1945. 46. The game at River Plate Stadium took place on 10 February 1946. 47. The game against the En­glishmen took place on 16 May 1948. 48. This was on 12 December 1948. 49. The game at General Severiano was 18 September 1949. 344  Notes to Chapter Five

50. [Gaúcho designates someone from the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul, in this case a team of players representing the state.] 51. This was 8 December 1946. 52. This was 7 November 1948. The game was up t­ here, on the new field of Bangu in Moça Bonita. 53. Jair da Rosa Pinto’s jersey was burned in Gávea on the morning a­ fter the Vasco versus Flamengo game, 22 August 1949. On the 24th, Palmeiras signed the execrated player. 54. The game was 17 March 1947. Maneco scored three goals and was lauded as the new Leônidas. 55. [Saci is a Brazilian mythological figure, a one-­legged black boy with magical powers, originating as a folk tale with Afro-­Brazilian and indigenous roots, and pop­u ­lar­ized nationally in a 1932 c­ hildren’s book by Monteiro Lobato. Of par­tic­u­lar relevance h ­ ere are Saci’s remarkable nimbleness despite his missing leg, and his ability to dis­appear.] 56. [The title of Abreu’s chorinho “Tico-­Tico no Fubá” translates as “Sparrow in the cornmeal”; thus, the “tico-­ticos” are sparrows.] 57. [An instrumental popu­lar m ­ usic genre related to samba, featuring syncopated rhythms and counterpoint.] 58. [Veludo means “velvet.”]

6. The Black Man’s Turn 1. Mário Polo, then president of the CBD, had full knowledge of this fact, confirming it ­later to the author. 2. [“La Celeste” or “Sky Blue” is the nickname of the Uruguayan national team, a reference to the color of their team jersey.] 3. This was 28 January 1951. 4. Vasco versus Peñarol was 8 April 1951. 5. [The ­Triple Crown in this case would be the combined titles of São Paulo, Brazil, and Rio Cup champions.] 6. The Rio Cup was won on 22 July 1951. 7. This was 18 July 1951. 8. [This translates as “We are the champions of the world” (from Spanish).] 9. Mário Américo’s slap of Augusto Isaias was on 30 March 1952. On 6 May 1953, Mário Américo was signed by Sporting Portuguesa of São Paulo. 10. This rematch was 16 April 1952. 11. Only a­ fter 1958, with the conquest of the World Cup for Brazil, did “Gigghia’s goal” lose its name. 12. This was 8 March 1950. The gratitude of the paulistas, above all the Corinthians fans, was demonstrated by a contest that gave Baltazar a gold Cadillac. 13. [“Sebastianists” are t­ hose who believe in a Portuguese and Brazilian my­t hol­ogy regarding the magical resurrection and return of a ­great king (Sebastian) who ­w ill lead his ­people to greatness. H ­ ere the analogy is with the potential return of Flávio Costa to Vasco da Gama as coach.] 14. This exchange occurred on 20 January 1953. 15. Years ­later, Fluminense would take the same care with Gradim, another clean black player, incapable of raising his voice. Taking over the first team was an excessively big risk. Notes to Chapter Six  345

Gradim ended up ­going to Vasco. He preferred to take the risk. Jaime de Almeida would follow an identical path to make his way as a coach. 16. Vasco rescinded Gentil Cardoso’s contract on 21 January 1953. Two days l­ater, “the Black Boy” was signed by Botafogo. 17. Confession of Bauer: playing on the national side, then, was like ­going to war. A defeat could mark a player for the rest of his life. 18. This was 27 June 1954. 19. [Mário Vianna himself was a Brazilian referee working in the 1954 World Cup before being fired by FIFA.] 20. This was when the Brazilian ideal of winning cleanly, of just playing the ball, was born. This explains 1950. Thus, 1954 made 1958 pos­si­ble. 21. This was 7 March 1954. Hundreds of Brazilians from the border invaded Asunción, armed, mostly with knives and daggers. 22. This was 4 April 1956. 23. The Fla-­Flu was on 18 December 1955. 24. Maneco’s eviction from the ­house he was living in was scheduled for 25 May 1956. In the morning, Maneco took formicide. The officials of the court, when they arrived, found him already dead. The eviction was delayed. 25. This was 9 May 1956. 26. This was 17 May 1955. 27. [This appears as “moleque” in the original, a racially charged term, but one used by Filho himself e­ arlier to describe boys in the street or in empty lots playing soccer, and thus also a key figure in Brazilian soccer history.] 28. This was 14 August 1955. 29. [Nelson Rodrigues (1912–80) was a renowned Brazilian author of fiction as well as journalism, including soccer journalism. He was also the b ­ rother of Mario Filho himself, who was a member of the Rodrigues ­family but did not use the ­family name in his pen name.] 30. This was 22 April 1957. 31. Brazil melancholically lost the South American championship of 1957. On 3 April, they ­were defeated by Argentina by a score of three to zero. Nothing ­really presaged 1958. Quite the contrary. 32. This was 22 December 1957. 33. This was 8 June 1958. 34. First, it was the referee. When the explanation of the referee was not accepted, then came the food. Thus, they thought about the side in terms of beans. Then came homesickness, nostalgia. 35. This was 29 May 1958. 36. Brazil defeated Rus­sia on 15 June 1958. 37. The Wales game was on 19 June 1958. 38. Brazil won the World Cup on 29 June 1958. 39. This was 2 July 1958. 40. Didi assembled his teammates in the eve­ning ­a fter the victory against Rus­sia. 41. This was 11 June 1958. 42. Pelé came in for the second half of the first game, 8 July 1957, to score the Brazilian goal. At eleven minutes in the final game, he scored another goal. Brazil kept the Roca Cup. 346  Notes to Chapter Six

43. [Spanish for “Pelé is the best of all.”] 44. This was 19 June 1957. 45. Read my Viagem em torno de Pelé [A journey around Pelé] (self-­pub., 1963). One can accompany, step by step, the formation and evolution of “the King of Soccer.” [As of this writing, this book is out of print and has not yet been published in En­glish.] 46. The game was on 27 March 1960. 47. This was 24 June 1958. Pelé repeated the declaration several times. All one had to do was give him a microphone. He knew that Dondinho was glued to the radio. He wanted to make his ­father champion of the world, as if he ­were taking a spot that belonged to his ­father. 48. To this day [1963], Pelé avoids reading newspapers, especially a­ fter a game. 49. The Brazilian side played in Cairo, against the team of the United Arab Republic, on 6 May 1960. The temperature was 43 degrees. On 8 May, they faced, in Malmoe, with the temperature at 12 degrees, the team of Malmoe. 50. Jânio Quadros’s decree was signed 20 June 1961. 51. The short reign of Garrincha is narrated in minute detail by the author in Copa do Mundo de 62 [World Cup 1962] (O Cruzeiro, 1962). [As of this writing, this book is out of print and has not yet been translated to En­glish.] 52. The game against Spain was on 6 June 1962. 53. The game against E ­ ngland was on 10 June 1962. 54. This was 30 August 1962. It was in that game that Pelé scored a cinematic goal. Fábio Cardoso requested a goal on the side where the camera was. They w ­ ere shooting King Pelé. Pelé had to score the goal on the camera side and to jump, punching the air in front of the camera. Which he did. He had only forty-­five minutes to obey the cinematic blocking of the goal. [Pibe is the Argentinian equivalent of the Brazilian moleque, or street urchin. In ­later years, an Argentinian pibe named Diego Maradona would arise to become that country’s ­great idol.] 55. In seven years in the paulista championship, Pelé scored 279 goals, giving him an average of 39.80 goals, never equaled, not by a long shot, by any goal scorer in the world. 56. This was 5 March 1961. 57. [Spanish for a “stampede of foals in the vast pampas.”] 58. [The d ­ aughter of Emperor Pedro II of the Brazilian Empire, Princess Isabel (1846–1921), ruling in her convalescent ­father’s place, signed the so-­called Golden Law, which unequivocally abolished slavery in Brazil in 1888.] 59. Among them Grande Otelo, Monsueto, and Choco­late. One could say they are following the script, perhaps by a white man, although many of their jokes are improvised on the spot, like a soccer play. Pelé would never lend himself to this role, however large the payoff might be. When Fábio Cardoso offered him four million cruzeiros to play “King Pelé,” he refused ­because he “would not play any ridicu­lous role.” It was necessary for them to guarantee the safeguard of his dignity for him to accept.

Notes to Chapter Six  347

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