World Cup?
Yes, for me it will happen!
By: Marco Augusto Gonçalves, translation: Joris Kleverlaan
One month
before the start of the World Cup, I realize that I will lose the opportunity to
see a World Cup happening in my own country, forever. I do not pretend to leave
New York, where I am staying for a while, to see the matches of Brazil. From
one side, it is a frustration, from the other a relieve. I will see the matches
on the television, from a distance, like, to be honest, I have done since 1970.
In 1962, I
was six years old, I remember vaguely some images from matches recorded on
video tapes. In 1966, living with my family in a small town in the interior of
Brazil, where there was hardly electricity – let alone TV – I followed the
disaster on the radio, a great, monster-type thing. Modern for that era, with
lots of buttons, screens, and wires.
The World
Cup of 1970 meant the top of my passion for football. It was one of my favorite
topics. The topic. With 14 years of
age, I was not well informed with what was happening politically in Brazil, or
with the fact that for some, cheering for the seleção meant nothing less than cheering for the military regime –
headed by Emílio Garrastazu Médici, the general-fan. A big joke, in hindsight.
The
national team was spectacular and all its players were playing in the national
competition. I saw them regularly in the Maracanã Stadium, I followed the talk
of the town, I was fan of the chronicles of Nelson Rodrigues and sympathized
with João Saldanha, who I considered both funny and intelligent.
I followed
the qualifications with great interest, when the team caused memorable losses
to their adversaries, with offensive tactics and an unforgettable attack –
Jairzinho, Tostão, Edu and Pelé – the best I had seen so far on the pitch by my
tired eyes.
In 1978, as
a young militant in university, I could have turned against the dictatorship,
both in Brazil, as much in Argentina, the host of the cup in that year, but I
didn’t hesitate for one minute. I supported the Brazilian team, headed by the
good coach Coutinho, who was unjustifiably called a joke afterwards, because he
considered Brazil the moral champion
of the tournament, which it really was! The team back then had its problems,
but played well – and left Argentina without losing a single match. The big
break the Argentinian hosts managed to get against Peru, eliminated Brazil on
goal difference, but it turned out to be one of the dark, mystified chapters in
the history of football.
I continued
to support my team in the World Cups that followed and I don’t pretend to
change that. I couldn’t even if I tried. My relationships with football and popular
music are important canals through which my identification, or access towards
Brazil is manifested. A Brazil that I know exists, even though I escape it
sometimes, but never to leave it. It’s like in the song of Morais Moreira: “eu
sou Elza Soares / eu sou Mané Garrincha” (I am Elza Soares / I am Mané
Garrincha)
For sure I
had my critical points in the way the organization of the World Cup was
managed. Earlier I wrote a column on how we lost the chance to show ourselves
that we can be efficient, creative and honest. But, political interests got on
the foreground, together with a bad planning, the losses, the push with the
belly, and leaving things until the last hour for the people to see and realize.
The sense
of discomfort, and lack of satisfaction spreads over the country; we don’t just
want food. Radicalized groups will take the opportunity to show some horror. I
don’t have anything against protests, but I hate stupidity and violence, whether
institutionalized or not. There will be no Cup, that’s what they say. Really?
Well, for me there will be, no doubt about it.
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