The greatest luxury I ever had in my life was the football field. It was in the backyard of the last house we lived in in Becas, at the top of Avenida Brasília. It occupied the only flat part of the courtyard that went up the hill to the new city hospital (I was born in the old hospital) and had lemon trees, tangerine trees, Bahia oranges, and Conde fruits. We set up goalposts using bamboo, and when one of the group found out that Esporte Clube Biquense was changing the nets on the field, we went there to get the old nets. We connected them the way we did and started to imagine our kicks blowing them up like the ones at the Maracanã.
One side has no line. The sign was fanciful, based on a guava tree that played the role of a planted left-back, its single thick branch serving as a platform for the away team’s players. Along the other side was a low fence. The baby’s toothball went over her several times and landed in the back of a neighbor’s house, guarded by an unfriendly German shepherd. Our strategy to get her back was devised by Erler, my father’s godson Nevito: he stuck a stick between the bamboo stakes and provoked the dog, while I jumped over the wall and walked on tiptoes, without breathing, risking my role as ball boy. I survived.
Each team can have two or three players on the line. There were not enough numbers to devise a tactical plan, and no one had any idea of their position. We all wanted to be number 10. It was the 1970s that began with many number 10s being chosen around Pele, the greatest of all time. It is true that in the next two World Cups, the first of which we remember as a country boy, Brazil was a far cry from the beautiful game that had enchanted the world in Mexico and become synonymous with Brazilian football for foreigners – as has happened again this century.
This wall of nostalgia opened when I saw Brazil play beautifully in the friendly match against Senegal. Arsenal’s stadium is fancier than my childhood stadium, but the front four looked like they were playing in the backyard. The combination of Vini Junior and Rodrigo on the left side reminded me of the Real Madrid match I saw on the edge of the pitch, at the Club World Cup in Morocco, when I wanted to cross the goal line to give a solidarity hug to the Al Ahly defenders who were trying to mark them. The goals were a reward for the good performances of youngster Estévão and veteran Casemiro.
I know, I know. Senegal, a better opponent than the Asians in previous FIFA history (they were coming off a 26-game unbeaten run, including a 4-2 defeat to Ramon Menezes’ chaotic Brazil), pressed more in the first half and evened things up in the second half, almost scoring through an error from Ederson. Ancelotti’s team is not and will not be the team of 70, a friendly match is not the standard for a World Cup match, and it is not possible to know if what we saw in London will be enough to face a major European team.
Adult life will continue to bring these and other considerations. But it was a relief to see this beautiful match again, and even more so to realize that it was the result of an idea, an action and a structure – all that had been missing in recent years, and that yesterday was the basis on which Brazil recaptured the magic of a child in football.
About The Author
