by Alex Bellos
The statistics come through later: 168 people are injured, two seriously: a man has a cranial wound and five-year-old girl has a perforated abdomen. It is a miracle that no one was crushed to death.
The following day, Lance!, the main sports paper, publishes a front-page editorial:
Many people share the blame for yesterday's tragedy at São Januário, but only one is responsible: Eurico Miranda. The cartola, who believes he is the most senior authority in the country, has always been praised by Vasco supporters and criticised by his opponents for putting his club's interests above anything else. No one imagined that he was capable of taking this obsession to the limit of not respecting human lives.
It is New Year's Eve, the last day of the twentieth century. The match resonates with a fin de siecle symbolism. The João Havelange final, the most prestigious match in the Brazilian football calendar, has turned into a tragic showcase of incompetence.
Brazil is a continent-sized country. The distance between its most northerly and southerly points is further than the distance between London and Baghdad. There is no rail system and, even today, most intercity roads have only one lane. Before air travel, a national league was a logistical impossibility. For seventy years, Brazilian football developed around state leagues.
The first attempt at a national tournament happened in 1922. It consisted of all-star teams representing seven states. The intention was to bring all the country's best players together in one place, so it was easier to choose players for the national squad. This 'Tournament of States' was for decades considered the national football championship. It grew to include twenty-four states and was held twenty-six times in the following forty-one years.
It was not until 1971 – once Brazil were already three times World Cup-winners – that a national club championship was inaugurated. The competition, which brought the country together through football, fitted the military regime's strategic and ideological objectives of national integration. Almost too well. A place in the league became a powerful tool for political bargaining. The first Brazilian league included twenty teams. The number increased steadily until, in 1979, it included ninety-four clubs. A popular saying stated that where the government was doing badly, a local team was put in the national league, and 'Where it's going well, one goes in as well'.
Political desires to include as many teams as possible for as long as possible caused unfeasibly complicated rules. Concentrate hard and try to understand the system used in 1978: There were seventy-four teams, divided into six groups (A to F). Four had twelve clubs and two had thirteen. Each team in each group played each other once. Who qualified to the second stage? They all did. The six top clubs in each of groups A to F formed four groups of nine (G to J). In these groups the six top clubs proceeded to the third phase. The other teams from the first phase formed six groups (K to P), two with seven and four with six, of which just the winners qualified for the third phase. That makes twenty-four from G to J and six from K to P. Are you still with me? Together with the best-placed loser from G to J and from K to P, these thirty teams formed four new groups of eight clubs (Q to T). The top two in each group went forward to the next phase of eight teams, who played a knockout of quarter-, semi-and then final finals. You can't help thinking that they only stopped because they were running out of letters in the alphabet.
Between 1971 and 2001 the format of the Brazilian league changed every year. Some years were more eccentric than others. In 1974, one criterion for classification was the amount of money taken in ticket sales. In 1975, teams gained an extra point for winning by two or more goals. In 1985 the rules were so perverse that Coritiba were champions with a negative goal difference. The system – used uncon-troversially in all the major European countries – in which every team plays each other once at home and once away, with the winner the team with the best combined results, has never been adopted. When there is a league, the best teams always proceed into a knockout stage. Brazilians do not understand championships without a 'final'.
Constantly changing rules have devalued the league's credibility, which is reflected in low match attendance. In 2000 the average crowd size is only 11,000 per game, a third of the figure for the 2000-2001 English Premier League. The crowds in Brazil look exaggeratedly small since stadiums are generally enormous – six used in 2000 have a capacity of more then 70,000.
The Brazilian league also suffers because it has to be squeezed in among everything else. State and regional leagues did not go quietly when the national league came along. The big clubs play up to seven tournaments annually – the state league, the regional league, the national league, the national cup, the cup of state champions and two South American cups. The calender is so complicated that some players go for years without taking a holiday.
Brazil's size also counts against the national league, since it is too expensive for fans to travel to away games. Matches that are not local derbies generally only have one set of fans. This makes the state leagues much more exciting, meaningful tournaments. Low gate receipts and low credibility all through the year are reasons why Brazilian clubs cannot raise the money to hold on to their best players. Most prefer to play in Europe, which devalues the domestic scene even further.
There have been efforts to attract crowds by making football a more dynamic spectacle. Most are inventions by Eduardo José Farah, the São Paulo Football Federation president. Over the last decade he has introduced a three-minute basketball-style 'time-out' in each half and contracted football cheerleaders for the state league. He also experimented with putting two referees on the pitch at the same time-to lessen the number of fouls. (It worked.) Another way he tried to discourage violence was to award a free kick on the fifteenth foul. He has also pioneered the use of a white foam spray that referees use to mark the point from which a free kick should be taken and the line where the defensive wall should stand. (The foam disappears after a few minutes. Some clubs complained that the grass did too.) In 2001 Farah did away with the tie. Matches ending 0-0 resulted in no points for either team. Score draws were settled on penalties with one point for the loser and three for the victor. Tostao, the 1970 World Cup striker who is now a maguslike sports columnist, wrote Farah's no-draw rule was because 'in American football there are no draws. We love copying this North American style, where everything is based on winning and being a millionaire. We copy from them the taste for opulence, consumerism, obsession for practicalities, hypocritical moralism, superheroes and glass skyscrapers. But football and life aren't just made out of winners and losers. The draw is democratic, healthy and solidary. One learns to share.' FIFA agreed and banned Farah from transferring his rules to the regional and national leagues.
The end of the dictatorship did not take the politics out of the national league. It was shaped by a culture of vested interests and it continued that way. In 1996, for example, Fluminense finished second from bottom. The Rio team should have been relegated in 1997. Yet after backroom deals the league was expanded from twenty-four to twenty-six clubs, just so Fluminense could stay up. Eurico led the campaign to save Fluminense. 'Clubs with tradition, fans and investment should not be allowed to be relegated,' he argued. Unfortunately, Fluminense were second bottom again in 1997. This time they could not avoid the drop, and played 1998 in division two. In 1999, they were sent down to division three.
In order to protect the big clubs from unfair eventualities like relegation, in 1999 a new rule was introduced. First division teams would be relegated based on their performance over two years, the reasoning being that big clubs would not be penalised for one irregular season. It was copied from the Argentinian model, which bases its relegation criteria on results over three years.
But the ruse did not work. At the end of the 1999 season Botafogo were staring division two in the face. What could the big clubs do to keep Botafogo up?
Midway through the season, Botafogo had lost a game against São Paulo in which São Paulo fielded a player who had fraudulently altered his
birth certificate. Botafogo went to the Sports Supreme Court which – twisting the tournament's original rules – awarded them the points for that game. With these extra points Botafogo rose out the relegation zone at the expense of Gama, a small club from Brasilia.
The move, however, only caused more problems. Outraged at the Sports Supreme Court's biased decision, Gama went to a civil court and won the legal right to stay in the first division in 2000. This prompted FIFA, which punishes teams who enter the common justice system, to ban Gama from all affiliated leagues. It put the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF) in a Catch 22. If it organised a national league, then by law Gama had to be included. Yet it was forbidden from including Gama by order of FIFA. Less than a month before the beginning of the season no one knew if there would be a national league. In protest, a supporter started a hunger strike in front of the CBF headquarters in Rio.
A group of the biggest clubs devised a solution. They decided to organise a one-off league, called the João Havelange Cup, independently of the CBF. In order to be able to exclude Gama legally, any similarity between the João Havelange Cup and the national league had to be entirely coincidental. So, the 104 teams invited to take part were divided into four divisions, called 'modules', which were named after colours. As if that would fox anyone. Gama went straight back to court and won the legal right to be included in the 'blue module', the thinly disguised first division. When the João Havelange Cup eventually began, the number of teams had climbed to 116, making it the largest competition in Brazilian football history. The blue module had another surprise – Fluminense, hopping all the way up from the third division.
Even by the pitiful standards of previous leagues, the João Havelange Cup was a terribly organised creation. In the blue module, some teams played three more home games than others, a third of games were rescheduled and one team went for a month without playing a game. The knockout stage included teams from every module, which meant that – theoretically – a club which was not in the first division could win the national title. This was, in fact, on course to happen. São Caetano qualified to the knockout stage after they were runners-up in the second division, sorry, yellow module. In many ways the São Januário disaster was the final that the monstrous João Havelange Cup deserved.
When they need to, Brazilians always find a way around the rules. In 1940, two clubs from Rio Grande played each other in the final of a local tournament. The first match was a tie. Three rematches also ended in ties. A creative solution was found: the tournament was declared a draw and the trophy sawn in half.
Laws exist to be subverted. This could be the motto of the Sports Supreme Court, the judicial power of Brazilian football, which will judge whether there will be a rematch of the João Havelange Cup final. Contrary to my ideas of justice, the court is not made up of neutral lawyers. It is divided into three Flamengo fans and two each for Vasco, Botafogo and Fluminense. These nine men are hostages to the teams they support. The system constitutionalises the defence of the large Rio clubs' interests over the common good. Brazilian society is marked by unfairness against the less privileged, and this is reflected in football.
I decide to interview Luiz Zveiter, the court's president and a Botafogo fan. Zveiter's secretary tells me that he will see me on Tuesday. When I call on Tuesday to confirm, she asks me to call the following Tuesday. When I call again to confirm, Zveiter is again not available. We continue this charade for a month. I can tell from the tone of mild surprise when I call, that no effort is being made for my interview. Finally, I ask why Zveiter does not want to see me. His secretary replies: 'He's very busy at the moment. He's running for Grand Master of the masons.'
I remark: 'Isn't there an incompatibility in being a judge and a mason?'
'Why?' she questions. 'You don't make any money from being Grand Master.'
Failing to reach Zveiter, I speak to the sports lawyer Heraldo Panhoca. In his opinion the partisan nature of Brazilian sports justice is a consequence of twenty years of dictatorship. 'When liberty came, there was no control any more. People did not know how to live with this freedom. The Rio group has been using all its interests to keep hegemony over the court's decisions.'
If there is one man who appreciates the relativity of sports justice, it is Eurico Miranda. He describes the tribunal as 'there to be used' as if it was a personal ally, since he knows that he can use his weight and influence to get results-which he usually does. Eurico is in favour of disorganisation so long as it favours his club. The Sports Supreme Court decides that there should be a rematch of the Vasco vs. São Caetano final. This is a victory for Vasco which, according to the rules, should have been penalised for the accident.
Eurico's influence in bending justice happens not just in the tribunals. Zico, the former national team player who now runs his own small Rio club, says that the state divisions are organised so as to favour Eurico's friends. José Roberto Wright, a former referee, adds: 'Referees are chosen for political reasons. They know that if they displease [the federation president] and Eurico Miranda they will never referee again.'
One incident which sums up the impotence of small teams occurred in 1997. Vasco were playing Itaperuna, a small upstate Rio club. Itaperuna were winning 2—1. Vasco drew level. 'Our team was playing well, we were going to win. Then suddenly the ref sent off three of our players. And every time we approached the Vasco goal we were offside,' says Paulo Matta, who was Itaperuna's coach.
Matta, who played for Vasco and in Europe when he was a player, stormed on to the pitch in protest. He took off his shirt. He took off his shoes. He undid his trousers and took them off too. He was soon buck naked in the middle of the pitch.
Matta, who has a sunken face and a tattoo of a football on his left arm, tells me he was suspended for a year and two months. He says, as an ironic boast: 'It was the longest suspension anyone has ever had.' He adds: 'The problem with referees is that the majority of refs make their living from it. I'm not saying that he was paid by Vasco to throw the game but if Vasco wins then he knows he is more likely to be picked to referee the next Vasco game.'
Eurico Miranda was born in Rio on 7 June 1944, the son of Portuguese parents. He went to a well-known Jesuit school although, unlike his middle-class peers, he also spent his youth working behind the counter at his family's chain of bakeries. Eurico studied law at the federal university, and in the 1970s got a job at a Volkswagen car dealer's. Yet wherever he went he caused problems. He left the car dealership under a cloud of allegations of financial impropriety. Brazilian media have also reported that in the 1970s he was sued for 'undue appropriation' of his condominium's funds.
When Eurico was five years old his father first took him to see Vasco. Less than two decades later he was already formally involved at the club, as head of the register. In 1975 he was made director of basketball and in 1986 vice-president responsible for football. Married with four children, he has few friends and few hobbies outside Vasco. When he has time he plays cards and, due to chronic insomnia, spends hours at night piecing together jigsaws.
In the aftermath of the São Januário tragedy, I am taken aback by the vitriol in the media attacks against Eurico-even though he undoubtedly deserves it – because he has been involved in countless controversies before. His behaviour was perhaps shocking, but it was not inconsistent with previous acts. There is a strong sense that the media is gleefully letting out years of pent-up hatred. Eurico becomes a national pariah. He plays the role of pantomime villain perfectly, never apologising nor showing the slightest remorse.
Partly because football is so linked to national identity, and partly because of the seasonal mood of self-reflection, Eurico's vilification prompts a wave of national soul-searching. He is seen as an expression not just of the backwardness of football, but a metaphor for all that is backward about Brazil. He is damned as a relic of the era of the dictatorship – a symbol of power without shame. 'He represents a world of psychological feudalism that has not yet passed, but that wher
ever it goes, rules, and that we need to free ourselves from,' says the poet Geraldo Carneiro.
Because Eurico is a Congressman, he is protected from prosecution. Even so, Governor Garotinho starts a criminal legal action for libel and slander and sends it to the Supreme Court, requesting them to lift Eurico's parliamentary immunity. A police investigation is launched into the incident. Public mood is so strong that when the policeman in charge defends Eurico by saying that he was 'evidently traumatised', the officer is summarily sacked.
The cause of the São Januário tragedy is traced back to a scuffle at the back of the terraces. An argument between two Vasco fans about Romario's substitution broke into a fight. The flight of people out of the way caused the crowd to charge forward, which gathered force and became a stampede. The pressure of the crowd on the metal perimeter fence at the front of the terraces was too much and it gave way. Hundreds of people were squashed on top of it. As the days go by, all the injured recover. But Eurico's irresponsibility seems beyond doubt. It appears that he put his own fans' lives at risk by letting the terraces fill to way past their capacity. The antique São Januário was in no condition to hold such an important match.
Eurico denies that the stadium was overcrowded. He claims that he helped the victims for the first few minutes and then, when he saw that they were no longer in any risk, decided that the game should continue – for fear that the terraces would turn violent.
A week later I am in a bar when I bump into a Vascaino friend. I always considered him a moderate – ashamed and embarrassed by Eurico's authoritarian methods. I am stunned by his reaction to the São Januário crush. 'The stadium wasn't overfull,' he says immediately. 'Eurico was right to want to continue the game. There was no further danger to the crowd. The only reason the game was stopped was because TV Globo wanted to broadcast its soap opera.' He explains that in 1992, when two people fell to their deaths at the Maracanã, the match was played. 'And at Heysel too.' My friend repeats the mantra: 'Everyone just wants to get at Vasco.' The horrible thought dawns on me that the events of the São Januário, rather than turning Vascainos against Eurico, instead strengthened their support for him.
