The pyramids, the sphinx and even the sand of the Sahara know that Flamengo is the absolute favorite today. But doubting a zebra is currently as dangerous an activity as unsuspectingly boarding a businessman’s plane. It’s dangerous to have a cold-hearted lawyer – and kids still don’t understand that what we call bad luck in football is often karma in disguise. Imagine the end of the world of traveling so much only for your team to lose because a judge (!) acquitted Pulgar when he hit the opponent’s shin?
Flamengo had nothing to do with this investigation – and didn’t win because of it (although it didn’t really bother him). He won thanks to his talent, experience and skill – and repeated the feat against Cruz Azul last Wednesday. Skill especially from Filipe Luís, the polite samurai, who changed the game at half-time and got the tired Mexicans back on their feet by swapping Samu Lino for Plata – and above all by starting a resurgent Everton Cebolinha to switch from Arrascaeta to Arrascaeta.
Cebolinha was forgotten as a linesman – and, suddenly, no more than suddenly, he was born again as a player who was worth almost 100 million reais when he was purchased. He has regained speed, he is still looking for Robben’s reverse goal – but now he also finds passes to the future point and he has given up holding the ball like some kind of delegate in need.
And of course, Arrascaeta remains Arrascaeta, the minimalist artist, a kind of humanized AI in the field. His movements are short, almost imperceptible, his solutions are elegant and fluid. He effortlessly performs the trick that other humans perform, like a crane that changes its mind. And it simplifies… how it simplifies!
Simplifiers in football are not always valued. It’s like the economic goalkeeper: who doesn’t need to jump, who doesn’t need acrobatics. The projector seeks the ornament, the Deyverson, the entertainer. Arrascaeta is a shy genius. Noise attracts attention – silent artist takes shortcuts
Arrascaeta is short and effective. He is an author of straight lines and precise parables. One touch and the ball goes in without even touching the net – the Swedish referee’s watch flashes – and generates an infinite number of memes in which the author of the work does not appear. Nothing more suitable. The anonymous statement, almost a haiku in its simplicity, is a distinctive mark of his workshop. I am a minor poet, forgive me.
If Flamengo is today at the Intercontinental – and if it dreams of defeating the powerful PSG in the final – it is because, in the strangeness of football, its discreet star was not globalized. They say it lacks power, strength or certain valences that we don’t exactly understand. The fans are grateful. He therefore remains in Brazil, intervening little, deciding a lot.
Its economy of movement and its precision without excess in some way echo the eternal owner of the number 10 in red and black, a certain Arthur Antunes, who conquered the world and became the supreme symbol of a way of living football. Giorgian de Arrascaeta is obviously not Zico — let’s not commit heresy. No one will ever climb this altar in the red-black universe. But mentioning the greatest footballer of them all – or honoring his memory on the pitch – is more than enough to make the Uruguayan a sort of sacred accessory on the throne of fans’ hearts.
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