Futebol

by Alex Bellos

  Eurico masterfully turns the episode to his advantage. He plays on people's beliefs that everything is motivated by personal interest. He attacks the media. Eurico claims that Globo put pressure on Governor Garotinho to intervene when it realised that the match's delay would mess up its programming schedule. Eurico's assault on Globo works. Like a dictator declaring war on an outside threat, he unites Vascainos and detracts from the accusations against him. It attracts public sympathy too, since Globo, Brazil's main channel, is as unpopular as he is – possibly more so. Weekday football matches, for example, always start at the prohibitively late time of 9.40pm because Globo dictates that they must follow its evening soap opera.

  A fire at Globo's Rio studios, in which a seven-year-old girl almost dies with 40 per cent burns, is seized on by Vascainos as divine justice. 'The spells are turning against the spellmaker,' says Eurico's son Euriquinho. 'The more [Globo] persecutes my dad, the more the idolatry grows.' As if to prove this point Vasco organises a 'hug' around São Januário, in which its fans link arms around the stadium walls. Father Lino, the Vasco priest, holds Mass on the pitch.

  The rescheduled final of the 2000 Brazilian league takes place on 18 January 2001 at the Maracanã. It is live on Globo. When Vasco's team appears, viewers cannot quite believe what they are seeing. The players have the logo of the SBT television channel, which is Globo's main rival, prominently on their shirts. Strange. Not only are Vasco not sponsored by SBT, but it is against the law for TV companies to advertise on football kit. It transpires that Eurico ordered the SBT logo to be printed – without even asking SBT's permission. He is sticking two fingers up at Globo. And with style too – since Globo are forced to broadcast their rivals' logo for the duration of the game. He has the last laugh too – since his audacity wins him more support. Only Eurico has the nerve – or lunacy – to attack Globo.

  About 60,000 fans are in the Maracanã. São Caetano start well, but the experience and quality of Vasco's players soon shows. Vasco win 3-1 and – with justification, this time – lift the João Havelange Cup. Romario says afterwards: 'I dedicate the title to Eurico. He is Vasco's number-one fan. He treats the club like a son. Fathers always want the best for their sons.'

  Vasco's full name is the Vasco da Gama Regatta Club, founded in 1898, on the four-hundredth anniversary of when the Portuguese navigator sailed to India. The club still competes in rowing, and has a base on the banks of the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon. The building was chosen for Eurico's presidential inauguration ceremony, four days after the João Havelange victory. Even though he has acted like the president for more than a decade, he was only the veep.

  I watch the whole evening's proceedings from the balcony. In the main hall are several hundred people, mostly men in dark suits and ties, who are mingling and, when they recognise a friend, hug each other demonstratively. There is an awesome feeling of male bonding, power and self-importance. The guests are heavyweights from football, politics and the judiciary. The real João Havelange is talking to Ricardo Teixeira, the president of the Brazilian Football Confederation. Cesar Maia, the mayor of Rio, is present as are other local and national politicians. The event is a triumphant show of force for a man who only weeks before was the most despised man in the country. He is still courted by the people that matter.

  On a stage there is a long wooden bench. Behind it are twenty-two medieval-style chairs with tall backs and no arm rests. When Vasco's dignitaries are called up to their seats, at least twelve judges are named; proof, it seems to me, of Eurico's constant success in the law courts. Eurico is called last, and there are many cheers. Two attractive girls, dressed glamorously, walk on with the João Havelange Cup, an odd-shaped trophy with a gold-coloured football. The crowd shouts 'Tetracampeao', or 'Four-times champion', since it is the fourth time they have won the national league. Eurico smiles broadly.

  Francisco Dornelles, the federal Employment Secretary, describes Eurico as a 'fascinating person'. He adds: 'He has a great big heart even if sometimes he's like a tank. He is a victim of his love for Vasco.' Bernardo Cabral, a senator from the Amazon region, describes Eurico as a 'jabuti' – an Amazonian tortoise – and tells the myth of its indestructibility. Trees may fall on it but when they rot the tortoise moves on. Likewise with the criticisms of Eurico, the criticisms will die and he will continue. Cesar Maia calls Eurico 'our great sporting and political leader – the greatest football boss that this city has had in many years'. He insinuates that Eurico is the club director that every other team wants. 'Thank you very much for existing. Rio thanks you very much for having a director like you. I really hope that all our other clubs discover a talent like yours.'

  Eurico finally makes his speech. He talks about how proud his father would be. He breaks out in tears which are overwhelmed by clapping.

  Eurico describes himself as a David against the Goliath of the Brazilian establishment. He identifies himself with Vasco, and compares his struggle against public opinion to Vasco's struggle in the 1920s against racism.

  'Ever since we were founded we were destined to be the small club among the big ones.'

  He rallies the faithful: 'I was elected to defend the interests of Vasco and Vascainos.'

  The crowd booms: 'Hear! Hear!'

  To cap the absurdity of Eurico's rehabilitation as a democrat, he receives a peculiar tribute one thousand miles away. Tocantins, a club from Imperatriz, a city in the state Maranhao, prints a picture of the Vasco president on their football shirts.

  I telephone the president of Tocantins, Justino Oliveira Filho and ask why. 'Eurico has many injustices against him. He fights for his ideals,' he says. 'We always saw him as a role model. He is the only director in the whole world whose whole life is his club. You need to confront things the way Eurico does.'

  While it is outrageous that a man like Eurico is portayed as a downtrodden freedom-fighter, it is not illogical. Eurico is fighting for more than Vasco, he is fighting for the status quo. And his grand inauguration shows that he is winning. Football is still controlled by old, dictatorial Brazil. By the 'coronels'. But Brazil is changing. For how much longer will – or can – it last?

  Eurico Miranda loses his seat in Congress in the 2002 general elections. He only receives 25,033 votes, less than a quarter of his total four years before. Arnon de Mello also stands as a candidate in 2002 and also fails to be elected. The Brazilian national league changes format again in 2002.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WE LOST BECAUSE WE DIDN'T WIN

  'I also hope that my truth pleases you, because there are many truths, many truths. It's up to you to decide which is the true truth and analyse it afterwards.'

  Ronaldo

  On Sunday 12 July 1998, Brazil played France in the World Cup final. The match took place at the Stade de France, in St Denis, Paris. I watched it on television in Rio de Janeiro. Brazilians tend not to watch international matches in public places, preferring instead to stay at home with their families. I was invited to a friend's flat. On the way over I bought a T-shirt from a street-seller with Ronaldo's name on the back. July is Brazilian midwinter. The weather was in the low 20s, grey and drizzly.

  Brazil were favourites. Not only were they the title-holders but they also had Ronaldo, aged twenty-one, who had twice been voted FIFA player of the year. If he was the best in the world, then it stood to reason that his team would be the best in the world too. But when I arrived I was told that Ronaldo was not in the starting line-up. Apart from the realisation that I – and a few million others – were wearing shirts that had suddenly lost their relevance, I sensed a changed mood. Brazilians had taken victory for granted. Now there was doubt.

  Shortly before the game, the TV commentary announced that Ronaldo would, after all, be playing. We watched the team come out, hand in hand, a gimmick invented four years before to show unity. Ronaldo was indeed included. Yet the relief was momentary. Once the game had started, Brazil played with no sense of purpose. Ronaldo seemed slow and apathetic, his posture
downcast. After twenty-seven minutes, Zinedine Zidane headed France into the lead. At the end of the first half, he headed in another. Emmanuel Petit completed the 3-0 scoreline: the heaviest defeat Brazil had ever suffered in a World Cup. When the final whistle blew, some of the women in the room had already stopped watching and – I remember this very strongly – the men were crying. I sensed that the tears were not just for the defeat but for the manner of the defeat. Brazil had not even put up a fight.

  Brazil's wanton performance was a mystery. They were unrecognisable from the exciting team of the quarter-and semi-finals. In the postmortem, reports emerged that Ronaldo had felt unwell before the match. We learnt that he had been rushed to a clinic for tests, which explained why Mário Zagallo, the coach, had left him off the first team list. When he returned from the clinic, with the all clear, Zagallo put him back on. The situation's unique circumstances lent itself to fabulous conspiracy theories. Here was the world's most famous sportsman, about to take part in the most important match in his career, when he suddenly, inexplicably fell ill. Was it stress, or epilepsy, or had he, perhaps, been drugged?

  Ronaldo, it was confirmed, had experienced some kind of fit in the afternoon of the game. The team doctors were not sure what it was, since the striker had no medical history of fits. The tests, which gave Ronaldo a clean bill of health, also gave no clues. Questions started to be asked about the role of Nike, the sportswear manufacturer, which sponsored both Ronaldo individually and the Brazilian team. Perhaps Nike, since it had invested so much money in him, insisted that Ronaldo play when medical common sense suggested that he should be left out. It might have been far-fetched – why would Nike risk the life of its poster boy? – but it was the conspiracy theory that stuck.

  Nike was a ready-made scapegoat. During the tournament, it had already drawn suspicion about the power it wielded behind the scenes. Its $160-million ten-year contract with Brazil was the largest ever sponsorship deal of a national team. Combined with a general xenophobic distrust of a foreign company, there were worries that for such a large sum the team had surrendered too much control.

  As happened in 1950 – the only other time they lost a World Cup final – Brazil discovered that coming second leaves more of an emotional impact than coming first. Within weeks, a lawyer began a civil action in a Rio court demanding explanations about what happened on the day of the defeat. The judge even summonsed Zagallo, although nothing came of the case. Concurrently, the Rio de Janeiro Regional Medical Council started a professional ethics action against Lidio Toledo and Joaquim da Matta, the team medics. Both Zagallo and Ronaldo gave evidence. The medics were eventually unanimously absolved.

  Suspicions about Nike refused to go away. The conspiracy theorists felt vindicated when, in January 1999, the contract between Nike and the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF), was leaked to the press. The contract revealed that Nike did have a say in the organisation of matches. The firm had the right to organise up to fifty 'Nike friendlies' in which at least eight first-team regulars must play. One influential journalist called the deal a 'melancholy surrender to the power of money. I understand now the wave of popular feeling that blamed the Brazilian defeat on a commercial deal.'

  In Brasilia, a little-known Communist Congressman called Aldo Rebelo took on the case. He entered a petition in the House of Deputies – the lower house of Congress – to start an inquiry into the Nike-CBF contract. He based his argument on the possibility that the contract could have violated 'sovereignty, autonomy and national identity', which are guaranteed by the Brazilian constitution.

  Aldo's petition sat in the queue for a year and a half. The CBF lobbied hard against its realisation. The inquiry looked as if it had passed its sell-by date when, in September 2000, along came Cameroon and Renata Alves.

  Renata Alves first reminds me of how beautiful she is on the telephone before we meet.

  'Are you sure you will recognise me?' she asks.

  I reply that since she has appeared regularly in newspapers and on television, I am well acquainted with her appearance.

  'Look,' she says anyway. 'You can't miss me. I'm tall and thin and people say I'm very pretty.'

  Her arrival, late, at a ritzy pizza restaurant near Ipanema, causes the other diners to ogle. We move to a discreet table. Renata sits down and reassures me: 'I am very famous.'

  Renata is, unquestionably, infamous. Her beauty is less assured. She has a big, broad physique, and concise, slightly harsh features. Above a birdlike mouth, her eyebrows are thickly pencilled. She is wearing a gold necklace with an 'R' medallion, gold bracelets, three gold rings and gold nail polish. Her hair, in a tom-boyish bob, has golden highlights. We order pizza, which she eats with Heinz mustard and ketchup. (This is a sign of Brazilian sophistication. In cheaper venues the mustard and ketchup are never Heinz.)

  Renata, who is in her thirties, used to date the football coach Wanderley Luxemburgo. She explains, in between mouthfuls, how they met. 'It was on the Avenida Brasil. He followed my car. When we both parked I told him to stop following me. He said he couldn't stop following such a beautiful woman.' I nod my head as if to say, 'Of course!'

  The couple started a relationship – extramarital, on his part – which in 1993 grew from sexual to financial. Luxemburgo employed Renata as his proxy. She would attend auctions and buy him assets such as property, cars and jet-skis. Only she bought so much that it caught the attention of tax investigators. In August 2000, a Rio judge approved a police request to inspect Luxemburgo's private bank accounts on suspicion of tax evasion. The ruling was an issue of great public interest since by that time Luxemburgo was coach of the national football team.

  Luxemburgo had inherited the post – the most important in the country, it is often said, next to the Brazilian president – after the 1998 World Cup. Under his command the team won the 1999 Copa America. Yet performances had subsequently deteriorated. Embarrassingly so. In the qualifying group for the 2002 World Cup, Brazil lost to Paraguay and Chile within a month. It was only the second and third time that Brazil had lost a qualifier in the tournament's seventy-year history. Luxemburgo's popularity was in freefall. When news of his alleged financial improprieties broke, the public hooted with schadenfreude.

  Journalists following up the tax case discovered, to their delight, that Renata was not standing by her ex-man. Quite the opposite. Renata and Luxemburgo had fallen out and she was suing him for about £500,000 in allegedly unpaid wages and commissions. Egged on by the press it was not long before both were venting their spleens in public. She tells me that her intention was never to attack her ex-boss, but she was provoked by his comments about her. 'When I heard him say that he didn't know me, I cried and cried. People told me that I had to stop being a little girl and start to say what I knew.'

  And boy, what did she know! Or what she said she knew. Renata opened the lid on football's sleaze like no one before. Her most seriously-taken claim was that Luxemburgo, when he was a club coach, made illegal 'bungs' from buying and selling players. It was assumed that this went on anyway, but Renata's allegations had pressing relevance because of Luxemburgo's position and because she claimed she had proof.

  Renata also displayed an innate talent for self-publicity. Luxemburgo, she said, insisted she dress in Palmeiras's football shirt, long white football socks and high heels for sex.

  Bombarded by allegations, Luxemburgo flew to the Sydney Olympics. The Olympic gold is the only major football title that eludes Brazil. Had Luxemburgo won it he may have regained public favour. Instead, Brazil were knocked out in the most unexpected and humiliating fashion – in the quarter-finals against Cameroon, who had only nine men on the pitch. A week later Luxemburgo was sacked.

  The combined effect of Cameroon and Renata Alves put Brazilian football into an unprecedented crisis. Brazilians were already aware that there was something rotten at the heart of their domestic game. They were barely able to organise a national league, games were played to half-empty stadiums, most clubs
were on the verge of bankruptcy and their best footballers played in Europe. Yet while the national team did well these problems could be brushed under the carpet. Now the national team was an international laughing stock. Politicians sensed the climate to act. Within days of Luxemburgo's dismissal, the Senate – the upper house of Congress – launched a high-profile investigation into the state of the game.

  The investigation had the status of a Parliamentary Commission of Inquiry (CPI), which is the most serious type of congressional hearing. CPIs have stronger powers of investigation than police, since they can open up bank accounts, tax and telephone records. CPIs had previously concerned themselves with issues such as drug-trafficking, banking corruption and the judiciary. Now, for the first time, football was in the dock.

  Renata's accusations were crucial – if not pivotal – in provoking the Senate's CPI, since they provided a starting point for investigations. She was football's whistle-blower. I can tell Renata has adapted to her public role with brio. She is playing brilliantly the soap-opera role of a wronged woman fighting for justice. 'I am no longer the "ex-secretary" or "ex-lover",' she gloats. 'I am "Renata Alves". I am public property.' She relishes telling me that she has nine lawyers and that she has bought six wigs to disguise herself and sometimes travels in the boot of a car to avoid the press. She is starting up a website – www.renataalves.com.br – on which I later read such indispensable tips such as: 'If you start a new relationship never take your mobile phone to the restaurant. Your ex-boyfriend could call.'