by Adam Peacock
‘All the presidents and people close to the club, they are really not 100 per cent with this,’ says Kayke. ‘They are looking [out] for themselves so they don’t care about players. It’s difficult for young kids born in the club, like I [was], at Flamengo.’
Patience is non-existent within the hierarchy, their egos can’t cope with the notion of a few losses or pressure from fans, so the temptation to try and buy success is actually not a temptation at all. It’s a given.
‘For me was very frustrating because I would really love to play professional [with Flamengo] and why, what happened? So many things happened with me, they bring a lot of big players from outside. They get more money, so they have to play first team not you, no matter how you play, no matter how good, you cannot fight through this.’
Eventually, Kayke left Flamengo, the door slammed in his face. A new world was opened, where his view of Brazil – up until this point all about football and the streets and Copacabana where he grew up – was to be completely altered, seen from a different angle altogether.
‘When you go outside of the country you start to see the good things elsewhere. You focus on [those] good things and see how it could be better in Brazil,’ he explains. ‘My life has changed because of football. I speak English, just because of football.’
That English is near perfect, a smooth sound honed out of necessity by playing in Sweden, Norway and Denmark.
‘It’s just because I play outside Brazil, I start to see other things.’
And like George the journalist with half a century of experience, Kayke knows where the root of the problem lies.
‘Education is the first thing we have to change. People from favela go to free schools. These kind of schools, they are really bad. Others have a good situation, they pay for good schools, they pay for good teachers, they have a completely different education.’
It’s obvious those in the ‘good situation’ are the only ones who can do anything about it.
‘The rich part of Brazil, these people can do something, but they have a good life, so they don’t care about the bad. They have a bad mentality, they say, “I have money, why do I have to care about those people?” … we don’t help each other. But if you go into a favela, people trying to help, people trying to make a difference, bring the young kids to play football and not be a gangster. Brazil is not a big country in the world because of education.’
Kayke was lucky: Flamengo paid for private schooling. Football has given him everything, though for every Kayke, there are thousands who can’t break through and remain on the social periphery. With that disconnect between its own, it’s a wonder Brazil doesn’t descend into a culture of total anarchy. The country has never had enemies, neither caught up in foreign policy nor involved in wars in far-flung lands. No, Brazil’s enemy is itself and it accepts what it sees in the mirror, for better or worse.
‘We get used to the bad things. People don’t want to fight any more,’ says Kayke, before adding definitively, ‘It’s been like this for a long time. Nuuuuthing gunna change.’
Trouble flared 12 months before the World Cup rolled into town. Two million people across every major city protested, initially over a rise in ticket prices for public transport, but this soon turned into a movement about all of Brazil’s failings, and hosting an expensive football tournament was the perfect illustration of wasting money desperately needed for its own.
The world waits for chaos, ugly chaos. There would be protests on a much smaller scale, like outside the Maracanã in Rio after one match. ‘FUCK FIFA’ reads one woman’s sign. Police come from every corner to move the protest on, peacefully.
Protests like this one outside the Maracanã on quarter-final day were kept to a minimum, but they made their point clear.
Ultimately there is no anarchy. The social struggles that plague Brazil are not cured. The stadia are finished. The transport system works. Well, the bits that are completed do. And FIFA goes on its merry way. None of it is perfect and nor should it be. Life, and life’s great love, football, is like that in Brazil.
3.
THE FURNACE
The heat, the sapping heat. And the humidity. Where are we? Venus? FIFA, perhaps at the discretion of Sepp Blatter and his wish for inter-planetary football, has gone and put a World Cup on Venus. How long until the sulphuric acid clouds roll in to offer some sort of respite?
Welcome to Cuiabá, where seven days from the winter solstice it is 35°C and abuzz with football fans from Australia and Chile, wondering how it’s possible a match of this magnitude could be held somewhere so out of this world.
Cuiabá is in the geographical centre of South America. If you live in Cuiabá and want to swim in the ocean, it’s 2000 kilometres east to the Atlantic. Or 2000 kilometres west to the Pacific, if you can be bothered dealing with the Andes. A few hours to the south is the Pantanal, the world’s biggest tropical wetland reserve where cooling off for a swim would be great, if not for Piranha-infested waters, or Jaguars that sneak up on Caimans to devour them for a riverside banquet. Rodeo is big in Cuiabá. Eighty thousand people attend the annual showcase of cowboys taming bulls. Football, not so much. The city doesn’t have a club in Brazil’s top two divisions and the ones that do exist only draw a few thousand to games.
So it is completely reasonable for Australians and Chileans to wonder why on earth they are here. Simple. Politics, of course. Senator Blairo Maggi is a behemoth producer of soybeans, the state of Mato Grosso’s primary export, which is good because the world loves soybeans, both for food and to feed the world’s food. Before his role as Senator, Maggi was governor of Mato Grosso and had a knack of getting his way. Like building infrastructure to help the soybean business. Never mind the rampant deforestation – his most famous quote on the matter was ‘this thing about forest has no future’ – there was a buck to be made and his family’s company made billions of them, some of which was passed on as political donations.
When Senator Maggi decided he wanted his town to be a part of the World Cup, it was no surprise little Cuiabá, population 500,000 and with no big football team to support a 40,000-seat stadium, got the nod as one of the 12 host venues. Ego and ambition mixed with power and influence equals whatever you want in Brazil.
So on a stinking hot winter’s day this Brazilian town in the middle of nowhere has become the centre of the universe for Socceroos fans. And boisterous Chileans, car and busloads of them heavy on the horn, manically waving their nation’s flag and spraying verbal venom at anyone clad in Australian gold. To the thousands who have saved for years to make the trek from every corner of Australia, this scene is beyond the imagination. When they scoured the internet or walked into travel agents to book the trip of a lifetime, postcard scenes sprang to mind. Samba, sand and sun. Thanks to the draw that plonked them out here, one out of three will have to do.
As afternoon stretches into evening, the heat lingers, and the sweaty, breath-shortening walk to the ground along dusty backstreets offers reminder after reminder that this World Cup hasn’t thought of everyone. A homeless man sleeps on a front porch. Large fences protect rundown dwellings, and it’s not advisable to be curious about how rundown they are. Pit bulls – the real thing, not the rapper who performed the official World Cup song – lurk beyond, pacing concrete yards just waiting for someone to do something stupid, like climb the fence. As adventurous as Australian travellers are, no-one does, and the procession through the streets finally arrives at an oasis amid the poverty and struggle – Arena Pantanal. Landscaping is absent around the stadium, just red dirt, but it’s a wonder there’s a stadium at all given the fires, deaths and delays that plagued construction. Despite Senator Maggi’s politicking, FIFA threatened to take away games, before the stadium was finally completed with a month to spare.
Socceroos families walking to the ground in Cuiabá for the Chile game.
The journey for the fans and Cuiabá is over. The World Cup is here, ready or not. Same goes for Ange Postecoglou�
��s lambs to the slaughter.
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Like most goalkeepers, Mat Ryan didn’t start life between the posts. Like most active Aussie kids he tried everything that requires a competitive instinct. And like most of his fellow Socceroos, he had to negotiate a unique path to reach Cuiabá. Growing up in Sydney’s Western Suburbs, Ryan did the weekend thing as a kid – sport, sport and more sport. For him it meant playing for a local team in Blacktown while also developing a handy tennis game. His best friend who lived next door knocked with opportunity – a spare spot on his representative team, the Marconi under 10s. One of Australia’s most famous breeding grounds, Marconi has produced numerous Socceroos, including one Mark Schwarzer. When he got that knock on the door, Ryan was a defender who loved to tackle. The spare spot was for a goalkeeper. Not being the picky type – 10 year olds who love sport generally aren’t – Ryan went with his mate to see what this Marconi joint and goalkeeping caper was all about.
‘I came along to the first training session, didn’t have any gloves or anything,’ he recalls. ‘The coach asked me why not, and my answer was, “My mum said if I make the team then she’ll buy me a pair”. Don’t know if it was the smartest thing to say, pretty much showing that I’d never been a goalkeeper, maybe could have thought up a better excuse, but he threw me in there, I threw myself about in that first session and the next weekend I was playing for them.’
The half-season done, Ryan ended up back at Blacktown the following year, where he’d eventually leave the days as a defender behind for good and stick to goalkeeping. When he wasn’t playing tennis, that is. He was quite handy too, until the age of 12 when his coach wanted him to get more serious about it. It backfired, because Ryan chose football, for the mateship and also the expense. Racquet frames are rather fragile when it comes to combating fits of adolescent rage. So football it was and under the guidance of John Crawley, a goalkeeper coach who would be with him for the next eight years, Ryan would go from Blacktown Juniors to Blacktown Seniors, then Central Coast Mariners in the A-League to a European contract.
All along, there was one constant. His mum, Carol, was always there. Carol raised Mat and his sister Megan as a single mum. On around $40,000 a year working in the office of a transport company, her priority was her kids. For Mat that meant training four to five times a week, travel on weekends to games, paying for the cost of making state teams and, when there wasn’t enough to do so, borrowing from other family members so he could go.
‘Without her, who knows where I’d be now,’ he says.
A young Mat Ryan in his first season as a professional at Central Coast Mariners. Four years later, he’d be playing in a World Cup (photo courtesy Kevin Airs).
Certainly not a Socceroo, and definitely not in Cuiabá. So it’s only fitting as he warms up in the cauldron, his mum and sister are there in the stands, on a trip paid for by Mat.
As the two teams make their way onto the park, the Chileans, who have been singing and chanting all day, reserve their most flamboyant vocal gymnastics for their national anthem. Ryan can’t spot his mum or sister, but waiting for ‘Advance Australia Fair’, he certainly notices 25,000 Chileans yelling at the top of their lungs, tears streaming down faces. This is not Marconi under 10s.
Ange Postecoglou, too, has family in the stands, including teenage son James who later relayed to his dad that he was ‘shitting himself’ when the Chileans sang their national anthem.
‘And I reckon that’s about right,’ said the coach. ‘The music stopped and they’re still singing and the whole stadium is vibrating and you’re going, this is it, this is for real.’
After the eight-month lead-up that was not long enough, and eight minutes since both teams walked out that felt like forever, the Socceroos’ venture into the unknown with inexperience and intent is about to begin.
Intent and inexperience. When joined together, they’ve produced some of sport’s great upsets. Unfortunately for Postecoglou and Australia only one is apparent in the first 15 minutes. Spending a quarter of an hour wading with the Piranhas of the Pantanal would be more comfortable.
‘CHI CHI CHI, LE LE LE, VIIIVA CHII-LE!!!’
‘CHI CHI CHI, LE LE LE, VIIIVA CHII-LE!!!’
It booms from every corner of the ground, from every seat occupied by those clad in red. Their 11 chosen ones, including superstars like Alexis Sanchez of FC Barcelona and Arturo Vidal of Juventus, respond with a torrent of skill and movement implored by their maniacal coach Jorge Sampaoli. Chile, like Australia’s new-found approach under Postecoglou, are all about imposing themselves on their opponent. Attack, attack, attack. And when the ball is lost, attack, attack, attack to get it back. Fast.
The Socceroos know this – Postecoglou has prepared in finite detail how it will unfold – but their immediate reaction, surrounded by this swirl of havoc, is to rush. There’s a split second more to make that right decision, but it is not taken. The senses are harried, composure a commodity more valuable than gold or, around here, soybeans.
Chile are on autopilot. Red jumpers are seldom still, dropping into space in and around but not near the strange look of double gold – shirts and shorts – the Socceroos are wearing. Mile Jedinak and Mark Milligan, deployed in the centre of midfield to nullify threats and win back possession, look like they are stranded in the middle on a dodgem car track, trying to contain hyped-up delinquents high on fairy floss. It’s impossible, with little Jorge Valdivia, Chile’s number 10 whizzing about and Alexis spinning like a ballet dancer and using sublime skill to free himself of danger.
All of this was happening in front of Mat Ryan who later summarised the opening period. ‘It felt like it was going a million miles an hour and we were gasping for air. Obviously in the excitement of the build-up we were buzzing off Ange and looking at a positive result. But all of a sudden BANG 2-0 down in the first 15 minutes.’
The first goal occurs on 11 minutes, when Charles Aranguiz wriggles his way through in the 18-yard box to the by-line, where Ryan rushes out to meet him.
‘The first action I came out to make a 1-1 situation and he touched it to the by-line and I was hoping he’d kick it into me, but he managed to scoop it back inside where it was Mile and one of their players.’
Eduardo Vargas is the man who managed to sneak up on the Australian captain and keep the ball in the area, bouncing around like a live grenade, soon to be detonated by Chile’s best.
‘I got back to the goal [by which time] Alexis Sanchez got it on his chest and the pace where he got the ball down and hit it straightaway,’ says Ryan. ‘He did it so quickly, in such a tight space, I barely had time to blink.’
Ryan gets a slight touch, but nowhere near enough to stop it disturbing the back of the net. Time stands still, but the whole sequence takes less than five seconds.
‘GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’
1-0 Chile and Arena Pantanal rumbles again, this time with the imposing signature sound of any South American goal. The eardrums rattle as if rolling thunder and jet planes are encircling the stadium. Barely two minutes have gone by before we hear it again and once more, their main man is involved. Mauricio Isla feeds Alexis a pass 30 metres from the Australian goal. Mile Jedinak is right on his tail, and he’s running away from the area and seemingly, danger. Then, in a split second, he’s kissed the ball with the outside of his foot, spun, lost the close attention of Jedinak and is burning towards goal. It’s an outrageous piece of skill that creates turmoil in the Australian defence. Milligan comes over to try to stop Alexis, while Vargas charges on a diagonal run that not only attracts Alex Wilkinson, but right-back Ivan Franjic. At the top of the box, Jorge Valdivia is left in more free space than any other human in the entire stadium. After performing the impossible, Alexis plays the simple ball to Valdivia, who takes a touch and loops the ball into the top corner.
‘GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’
2-0. Disaster. The bubble has burst and the critics were right. This raw Socceroos line-up is being taught the harshest lesson under t
he brightest lights. For a moment, Postecoglou is numb.
‘After 15 minutes you’re staring into an abyss, 15 minutes into a World Cup and you’ve copped two at a rate. We’re going to have about 20 in the back of the net by the end of the tournament.’
But then, somehow, Australia get back in the game. Sensing their dominance and reminding themselves of it with every glance at the scoreboard, Chile’s fizz slowly settles. Their passing a shade less exact, the need to get the ball back slightly less fanatical. Finally, Australia’s most experienced players, Mark Bresciano, as attacking midfielder, and Tim Cahill, as central striker, are able to bring others into the game.
After a couple of calm minutes – by this setting’s standard – and with the hive of activity from the opposition subsiding, the first inkling of a shift in control comes on 21 minutes. Bresciano is able to switch the play and open up the field, exposing Chile’s over-commitment to the attacking cause. Because they have it ingrained to shut down the ball at the source, usually in numbers, somewhere on the field is space. If the ball escapes, one correct decision is all it takes to turn a threatening situation on its head.
Bresciano is the right man to play that pass to the best destination with perfect weight, so to not kill the momentum of the movement. He’s been doing it for over 15 years in the public eye, the majority in Italy playing in Serie A. Now 34 and playing in Qatar, he still very much has it. Unlike Josh Kennedy, his creaky back is just good enough to allow him to play in a third World Cup, and many an Australian fan is grateful. On this occasion, after 21 menacing minutes, Bresciano sweeps the ball from the left flank to right, which is then delivered back to Oar, who fluffs a volley. But the point is made. Australia is finally in the game.
