STAY ON THE BALL with our weekly newsletter

by Aldyr Garcia Schlee But for me the story of this World Cup started well beforehand. In 1979, the Brazilian Sports Confederation (CBD) turned into the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF). The new organisation didn’t change the strip, created in 1953 by the CBD, it just changed the blue crest by taking off what was there – a white Maltese cross on a green cross with a blue trim – and putting a yellow image of the Jules Rimet Cup instead. Also beforehand, in 1981, there was a mini World Cup – the Mundialito – in Uruguay. The Brazilian national team was there, drawing with Argentina (1x1), beating West Germany (4x1) and losing the title, once more, to Uruguay by the traditional and fatelful score of 2x1. And I was there in Montevideo, with my wife and kids, enjoying the classical beauty of the old Centenary Stadium, tired of the rectangular precision of TV, to witness in the light of the January sun, without the arrogant falsity of the commentator’s football-inspired patriotism and without the demystifying, reductive technology of the replay. There I saw obscure players like Edevaldo, Getulio and Zé Sérgio promoted to the national team, as well as poor players like the devout João Leite and the withered-footted Renato. But names like Sócrates, Oscar, Luisinho, Junior, Toninho Cerezo also affirmed themselves there – to whom were added Falcão , Zico, Leandro and Éder – making a side of truly great players for Seville and Barcelona. That great team beat the USSR (2x1), Scotland (4x1) and New Zealand (4x0). But, maybe even because of the show-offy ease that they qualified into the next stage, the team never took their football seriously. They beat Argentina (3x1) and committed suicide in front of Italy.It was a game we could have drawn, we were drawing 1x1 (when Cerezo made that unacceptable and unbelievable pass for Rossi to put the Italians ahead), we drew level again (2x2) with Falcão – and then, generalised stupidity, so that the Italians made the third goal, liquidating the game and knocking off its perch the little bird in the song “Fly, Canary, Fly!” recorded by the ever-smiling Junior, repeated exhaustively by radio and TV all over Brazil and turned into a swinging anthem of playful football, silly football, football with a happy rhythm and mocking and sad irresponsibility. And so it was that only football taken with a professional seriousness would make the final. The final brought out something extraordinary and unsuspected: the unkown passion that my dad had for football (he, who always thought football the opium of the people). A passion that quickly caught on with all of us– with enthusiasm and then hopelessness. My family was watching in the house of a brother in law, cheering for West Germany, with re-discovered German blood boiling in our veins. Everything was summed up by the shred of hope we had in Breitner’s goal, which was killed off like a fire that suddenly puts itself out, in the deserved Italian victory. Nothing marked me so strongly in this cup than June 13, 1982, (I don’t need to consult my notes to remember this date). The fixture was Argentina vs Belgium, the opening of the tournament. I was waiting at home for some friends to watch the game with me. The door knocked. It was a door-to-door beauty product saleswoman who wanted to talk to my wife. I asked her to come in when the phone went. The saleswoman stood there, waiting, when I heard the news that my first book, Contos de Sempre, had won the first Bienal of Brazilian Literature. I broke into a fit of tears, infront of my wife and the saleswoman, both equally perplexed. Bah! Previous Shirt     Next Shirt Comment on this Story If you want to make comments about this story or send emails to Aldyr then send us an email (). To Top Copyright © 2004 by Aldyr Garcia Schlee.