Fio Dental - Chapter 5: Futebol é Religião

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Brazil’s national soccer team has claimed the World Cup five times, setting off a national celebration that would make Carnaval come across as a family backyard barbecue. All the heavenly bodies were in perfect alignment for “Germany 2006”: The Green and Gold of Brazil had not lost an important international contest for ages. Their reserves are the envy of wishful sides like the Americans, Danes, and Colombians. In fact, the Brazilian bench would not only qualify for the World Cup if it were its own entry, but I would argue it would advance deeply into the second round. Nothing on earth compares to world dominance in soccer for a Brazilian.

However, a distant second would be a heart-smashing, last minute loss for Argentina, sending their southern neighbors home in disgrace. Brazilians speak almost as passionately of their dislike of Argentina as they do their dedication to their national team. The origins of this tension lie a great deal with current culture than anything else. European rivalries derive from deep historical conflict. The friction between Brazil and Argentina is more contemporary. Argentines often choose Brazil as a vacation destination, a wise decision indeed. Before the financial instabilities of the late 1990’s, Brazilians felt the Argentines considered Brazil their own personal playground. Argentines flooded into Brazil during holiday time, particularly to the southern states, but also the Northeast, where the water is always warm, beaches magnificent, and summer endless. They continue to come nowadays. Spanish being not very distant to Portuguese, the two quite often, but not always, are mutually intelligible. Yet, Argentines tend to use little Portuguese and try even less to learn it. It irks Brazilians to hear gracias in place of obrigado, Buenos Días instead of Bom Dia. It is a simple gesture of courtesy not lost on most visitors to a foreign country. Brazilians perceive Argentines as uppity and arrogant. When soccer is added into the mix, the potion becomes volatile.
Enter the quarterfinal, matching Argentina against Germany. I never thought I would see a nation as large as Brazil firmly support Germany, a country that would never receive such backing on its own continent. Germany scored late in the second half, sending all of Tiradentes, including those in body casts and on valium, into delirium. After two scoreless overtime halves, World Cup matches go to the best-of-five penalty kicks. As scripted, when the pressure was on, Argentina found a new way to grasp defeat from the jaws of victory. Argentina has shown an unimaginable talent in being its own worst enemy. Defeated, dejected, emotionally distraught, and inflated pride bruised over the loss, the Argentine and German players crossed paths after the match’s conclusion. A shoving match ensued and the Argentines released their frustrations. It was a classless and undignified display of behavior you’d come to expect from a four-year-old Paris Hilton upon being told she would not have two, but only one pony for her birthday. Par for the course for Argentina.
Marcos and his wife, a young couple from Belo Horizonte, couldn’t be more delighted as they wrung their hands with delight. They taunted the players via the projection screen on the open courtyard, jumping and pointing fingers at the involved players. Certainly, they thought the content of their animated message would be directly delivered via the satellite image over 3,500 miles away. Spit flew from their lips as they screamed. The defeat of Argentina clearly had become the highlight of their entire getaway to Tiradentes.
“Ha! Ha! The Argentines! They come here and think they own the place! Marcos rose from his chair and danced. No one joined him. Marcos continued unshaken. His wife did nothing to discourage his foolish actions.

All the time, there was my Brazilian shadow, Célio. I just can’t shake this guy! He had been taking photos of the onlookers during the match. The night before, he and I closed Sabor com Arte on the Largo do Forro over a countless number of Skol long-neck bottles. As the empty ones were exchanged for full and the wait staff smacked down clean glasses, Célio took delight in explaining to me the nuances between Brazilian Portuguese and the Continental form. Sentences highlighting personal pronouns shot off in every direction on paper napkins, the ink blurred from the condensation that had fallen from the bottles.
“Rich! Do you want to meet tomorrow?”
“No bother. We’ll see each other at the café.”
Célio jumped in again, “When?” Like that mattered.
“Morning.” Célio and I shot off into the night in different directions. The pub’s wooden blue shutters were locked. Content with my choice to come to Brazil, I now knew I belonged here.

The main event the next day followed Portugal’s victory over England: Brazil versus France. The allusions back to Brazil’s mysterious loss to the French in the 1998 final had already been drawn. The survey question appeared in large block letters on the TV screen: Is this really a revenge match for 1998? Text message your answer now! I looked around and everyone from young men to invalid women stabbed and scurried for their cell phones in order to participate. It was a singular motion of public compliance. I’ll admit, ESPN overdramatizes sports stories to its own advantage. But even I found this pre-game trash pointless, yet indicative of its importance to those around me. I thought I was in the middle of the final episode of American Idol.
However, within the complexity of the Brazilian psyche vis-à-vis futebol dwell many flaws, all of which I was about to behold in awesome splendor. The first is that the Brazilian public demands a World Cup championship every four years, no exceptions. I would say no excuses as well, but I soon learned that excuses are part of the grieving process in Brazil. Anything less is tantamount to complete failure at all levels. The team’s plane crashes at the airport a day before the final? Not good enough. Fly in a reserve squad; they’ll do. Why? They’re Brazilian. And they know the jogo bonito. In other countires, a respectable showing in the second round or a semifinal appearance would suffice. However hard elimination would be to swallow, life would go on. This is because Europeans possess a sense of reality for soccer. They know, be the fanatic an Italian, German, or Englishman, that at the highest level any one of five teams can attain the planet’s most coveted trophy. Saudi and Jamaicans would just be delighted at the chance to be spanked by Brazil on the world stage.
Hence, the second flaw in a Brazilian soccer fan (at last count, they numbered about 180,000,000) is the complete lack of respect for the opposition. Sadly this haughtiness manifests itself on the field. France was not about to be intimidated by the world’s best team. Up until today, Brazil had faced almost no world-class competition in the tournament: Let’s just say the current Croatian squad, Japan, Australia, and Ghana don’t exactly cut it. And the team in blue with that goofy rooster patch was not the local Rotarian club from Tallahassee. Brazil had cruised unchallenged; only one goal had been tucked behind Dida, its brilliant goalkeeper.
As the scoreless match progressed, the expected cast of characters assembled at the outdoor table: Marcos and wife at my left, another Belo Horizonte couple I had seen earlier in my stay (the wife of which is stricken with footballitis, as you’ll soon see) opposite me. And, oh! Look! Here comes Célio. We are two peas in a pod. I am convinced he’ll be at my retirement party. He had camera in hand, of course. We picked among a mishmash of salami, croquets, fried cheese, and bread. Beers arrived at about fifteen-minute intervals.
Following a scoreless first half of violent waves of heightened cheers and lulls of missed opportunities, France did the unthinkable midway through the second half. They scored. The goal was a skillful one, but it also exposed Brazil’s defense as Henri for France entered the penalty area unmarked. Dida never had a chance. A vacuum of silence enveloped Tiradentes and about half of South America.
Some extraordinary chances aside for Brazil, Henri’s goal stood as the difference in the match. At the final whistle, I thought I was among the Canine Breeders of America upon learning that Benji won Best in Show at Westminster. I cannot recite the stages of grief one goes through upon the loss of a loved one. But I am sure I saw all of them in stages of five minutes each, except the part that deals with acceptance. OK, so we have disbelief. France had not decided to roll over and play dead. Ah, then comes deep grief. Men and women consoled each other under the palm trees. Tears flowed. Men consoled wives’ sorrowful howls and blubbering. Had Kennedy been shot again? I couldn’t help but let out a wry guffaw at the whole scene. I really shouldn’t have done that.
Next stage: anger. This is the best one! In the matter of about four minutes, I was introduced to a whole new category of profanity in Portuguese. Patrons threw papers and straws at the screen. “Don’t come back to Brazil! Bastards! Sons of whores!” The language got far worse from there. Multiple pairs of crossed middle fingers pushed forward to the players’ images leaving the field. At least they stopped short of tossing the silverware or anything sharp. The footballitis-stricken woman across from me caught my suffocated chortle. She was not amused. “Ricardo!” She rose to her feet and waved her forefinger at me. “I bet you were for France!” Anyone who knows me, knows that I will root for France only after they’ll admit that my country is a culturally superior society. So, I have nothing to worry about. In fact, I really kept a neutral outlook. “I didn’t see you ever cheer for Brazil!” Enraged, but still under control, she leaned into me more and kept up the tirade. Célio grabbed his camera. “Did you support Brazil?” I wasn’t going to lie.
“No. b-” Her husband intervened to calm her down. He even stepped between her and me. The whole time I remained seated and my expression never changed. The look on her face was venomous. “I just watched the match. I cheered for no one. The game was what I was interested in.” Brazilians need to have a hero. Now it is Portugal, by the way. I had no hero. The U.S. had been eliminated and the eventual victor to me was really of no consequence other than if Brazil had won it all, it would have been the greatest celebration I would have ever been a part of.
“Leave! Leave the table at once!” Now it was getting ugly. Her husband told her to stop. She seriously wanted me away from the table. Unbelievable. Their beloved squad had become bedeviled. And I was her outlet. What’s wrong with your wife, I wanted to say. I just keep quiet and those around her watched her make a fool of herself.
Shattering disappointment overtook the dispersing crowd. A quarterfinal elimination? It would snow in Honolulu first. “See you in South Africa 2010!” cried a waiter. If having to choose between a late-round World Cup victory or the premeditated death of a close family member, Brazilians would be lined up around the corner to buy caskets, and Auntie Susana better leave town.

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Photos

National Pride
After the loss, the flags disappeared...

Arrive Early
Tables are at a premium...

No Doubt
Soccer is beyond serious in Brazil...