Futebol

by Alex Bellos

  I ask what happens to the football shirts, since I fancy buying one. He tells me: 'No can do'. He says strict rules dictate where the football shirts go. Any gift from a famous sportsperson is kept in the cabinet in the Room of Miracles. Shirts from non-famous people are recycled and handed to the local seminary – for the trainee priests to wear in the seminary's football team.

  Before I leave I arrange with Padre Barreiro to produce a questionnaire for pilgrims bringing sports-related ex-votos. I fax him a draft the next day and he kindly makes copies and gives them to Sister Maria in the Room of Miracles. Ten days later I receive the first responses. Seven people have filled in the form – a small number, explains the priest. So many visitors register gifts that his staff do not have the time to always hand out the questionnaire. Many pilgrims do not like to speak about their promises and others are illiterate.

  Two are from professional sportsmen. Henrique dos Santos Eliel, a forward at Portuguese first division club Belenenses, brought a pair of football boots and a photo of the club in thanks for playing abroad. Antonio Mesquita Neto took his boxing gown in thanks for winning the WB.O.'s Latin American light-welterweight belt five months before. The most common ex-voto, however, is a Palmeiras shirt, which make up three of the seven statements. It is initially surprising, since the club has not won a title recently. Bizarrer still, the miracle that was granted was victory in the semi-final of last year's Libertadores Cup. Then the reason becomes clear. In three days Palmeiras play the semi-final of this year's Libertadores. (Like cardholders who pay their Visa bill on the last day of the month, the pilgrims are rushing to pay last year's spiritual debts lest the interest accrued affect this year's performance. It was not quite enough. Palmeiras draw both legs 2-2 and lost on penalties.)

  The remaining two ex-votos are Corinthians shirts. I suspect Divine intervention. One of the pilgrims is from the São Paulo neighbourhood Belem, which is the Portuguese for 'Bethlehem'. Sergeant Maia of the Belem Fire Station gave the shirt he wore when he saw Corinthians win the 2000 World Club Championship. A few days later I happen to be visiting São Paulo. I call Sergeant Maia and spend the morning with him. He is very happy to see me because he believes it is a sign that Corinthians will win the Brazilian Cup the following weekend. (They don't.)

  I had assumed that pilgrims were generally dirt-poor and uneducated. Sergeant Maia is neither. He owns a three-bedroom house, drives a VW car and has a fine career in the fire service. Unlike Western Europeans, modernity and progress do not seem to be causing Brazilians to lose their religiosity.

  Sergeant Maia is short, stocky and has a neck as thick as a champion pitbull. A man of boundless energy, he is unable to pass a fireman's pole without excitedly sliding down it. On the station shelf are jars stuffed with poisonous tropical snakes. 'I killed all of them,' he boasts. 'I love my profession, I've done loads of big fires, I've saved lots of lives.' He shows me a Corinthians T-shirt. 'I rescued this guy. His first words to me were: "What team do you support?" Then he went out and bought me this shirt.'

  Corinthians fans like to think that God supports their club. 'We also think of Our Lady of Aparecida as a Corinthians fan, although we must remember that other teams pray to Her as well.' For the World Club Championship, says Sergeant Maia, She showed her true colours. 'I do not think the victory was totally down to Her, but I think She helped quite a lot – together with God, of course. I believe that had I not asked for it, it could even have not happened – and also if I do not pay the promise then maybe my team could be castigated in another way. You have to pay your promises because if you ask another time you will not be attended to.'

  If there was ever a need for a Promisers Anonymous, Sergeant Maia would be the founding member. His life is measured in holy vows. When he was promoted to corporal he donated his soldier's uniform to the National Shrine. He often goes for a month without alcohol after pledging he will not drink if Corinthians win. He makes promises to a whole range of saints, depending on the nature of his request – money matters to St Hedwig, the patron saint of debtors, professional matters to St Expeditus, the military saint, football matters to St George, Corinthians' patron saint, and if all else fails to St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

  In his wife, Maria Aparecida Franciulli, he found not only Our Lady's name but someone equally devout. Shortly after they married she took her wedding dress to the National Shrine. Once their first child was born they took flowers to another Brazilian saint, Our Lady of the Good Birth. She also shares his fanaticism for football, although she supports Corinthians' archrivals. 'The problem is that I fell in love with the woman,' he laments. 'I did not fall in love with the Palmeiras fan.' The couple's attrition over football overshadows the marriage. It consumes their passion. When Palmeiras lost to Manchester United in the 1999 World Club Championship, Sergeant Maia, the prayerful and responsible fireman, set off fire crackers joyously in the street.

  Catholicism in Brazil is as old as the discovery of South America. Four days after Portuguese navigator Pedro Alvares Cabral stumbled across an idyllic coastline on his way to India, on 22 April 1500, he ordered a Mass to be held on the shore. He baptised his discovery the Isle of the True Cross. During Portuguese colonisation, the militant Catholicism of the Iberian peninsula kept religion central to Brazilian life. It was only at the beginning of the republic, in 1889, that the link between Church and state was cut. But already a deep religiosity was part of the Brazilian psyche. Construction of the Christ statue in Rio in 1931 showed that the Church was a strong institution – stronger than the state, at least, which had just been through a revolution. Subsequent governments sought refuge in Catholicism's moral authority. More than 70 per cent of Brazilians are Roman Catholic, making it the world's largest Catholic country.

  The Portuguese community, proud of its heritage, has kept conspicuously Catholic. Portuguese social clubs invariably have a small chapel. Vasco da Gama, the colony's most prominent institution, has gone one step further. It has a chapel the size of a church inside its stadium. No club in Portugal has a chapel the size of Vasco's. It is as if Rio's Portuguese – infected by Brazil's sense of enormity-reinvented their own characteristics on a much larger scale. Vasco's chapel dates from the 1950s. When it was founded earth from all the main Portuguese clubs, including Benfica, Sporting and Porto, was brought over and buried underneath.

  Our Lady of the Victories is a striking white building with stained-glass windows about twenty metres behind one of São Januário's goals. It can be seen from every point in the stadium since the stands only cover three sides of the pitch. There were plans to move the chapel so seating could go all around but this was vetoed. Our Lady cannot be touched. A new project has been approved that will incorporate it. The structure will be an architectural oddity since not only will it leave a gaping hole for the chapel but there will be a passageway from the chapel that runs directly on to the pitch. Hallowed turf indeed.

  José Carlos Lino de Souza used to be a Vasco athlete. He competed in 100m and long-distance races and then fenced foil and sabre. The day he was ordained Padre Lino his colleagues at Rio's São José seminary cheered him with Vasco banners as if he'd won a gold. Padre Lino is now Vasco's priest. It is an evocative image – the spiritual leader of the team whose crest includes a caravel used five hundred years ago by sabre-rattling Catholic colonisers is a champion fencer.

  On Saturdays Padre Lino performs his priestly duties at Our Lady of the Victories. I visit one sunny autumn morning. The chapel is tidy and full of flowers. It fits about a hundred people, although only about twenty are inside. The comforting noise of tennis being played outside lightly echoes through the chapel walls. Padre Lino's first appointment is to baptise Thiago Garcia, aged two months and two weeks. The baby's father, Luiz, used to be in charge of banners at Vasco's organised fan group Young Force. He now works for a company that provides the club guarana soft drinks. To keep numbers down not everyone is allowed to be baptised in the chapel. Luiz enquired and was appro
ved because of his past and present links. 'I'm certain that Thiago will grow up to be a good Vasco fan,' he states proudly, coddling the baby in his arms. Poor child if he doesn't. Next in is Marcela Camargo Pessoa, a swimmer, celebrating her fifteenth birthday. She is dressed in a tangerine ball gown and heavily made up. Her family has paid a cameraman to video the occasion. 'As soon as I arrived here eleven years ago I fell in love with the chapel,' she says. Later, I ask to take a picture and she hugs the plinth under the bronze bust of Vasco da Gama.

  In the back chamber, Padre Lino hangs up his white robes, loosens his dog-collar and flicks through Lance!, the sports daily. Aged forty-one, he looks the perfect sporting cleric. He is respectably dressed, in trim physical condition, talks with a religious nod and has a relaxed body language. He sees himself as a pioneer. 'The Catholic religion doesn't officially work with sport. I'm trying to do something new. This is my laboratory.'

  Padre Lino is down to earth. He admits he is still working out what his role is at Vasco. He learnt the hard way. Edmundo and Romario, Vasco's two strikers, once had a very public falling-out. Father Lino tried to mediate. His efforts blew up in his face. The press's zoom lenses caught him talking to Edmundo during a training session, which embarrassed them both. 'The football player is very different from all other athletes. He comes from a much more difficult social situation. The ones with problems shut themselves off.'

  Our Lady of the Victories only functions on Saturdays because during the week Padre Lino attends a parish in the Rio suburbs. But he goes to São Januário for as many matches as possible and is a regular sight in the stand in his collar and tunic. Padre Lino's presence with the team in the changing rooms depends heavily on the coach. When a devout believer is in charge he takes Mass before big games, sits on the subs bench and flies with the delegation to international matches. He has married Vasco players with whom he has formed strong bonds.

  Vasco was the club of Portuguese merchants that revolutionised Brazilian football by fielding black players. Padre Lino represents its Portuguese heritage, Father Santana its black. The club is a neat microcosm of Brazil. Both religious spaces happily coexist. 'I respect Father Santana for the figure that he represents. He is very dear to me,' Padre Lino says. 'Vasco has a strong black tradition. We can live together. There is a syncretism here that you see in Brazil as a whole.'

  Beyond the protocol the roles are almost identical. 'I think the Masses do help because it gives peace of mind. It certainly doesn't hurt,' comments Padre Lino. He adds: 'Once we were losing 2-0 and at half-time [the coach] asked me to bless the pitch by throwing holy water on it. We turned the match round and won 3-2.' He is not very far from talk of frogs and miracles. The religions are differentiated more along social lines. The Portuguese run the club. 'Father Santana does not have an entree among the directors the way I do,' adds Padre Lino. 'Father Santana is really restricted to the footballers and the fans.'

  On match days Padre Lino drives in from his parish in the Rio suburbs, clips on his dog-collar and enters the changing rooms. He purifies the players with holy water. 'I arrived late on Thursday and the only water I could get in time was a cup of mineral water. I blessed it quickly and threw it on the team,' he says light-heartedly. Most want a mild sprinkle. Some ask for more. Helton, Vasco's goalkeeper, stands upright with his long arms outstretched like the Christ the Redeemer statue. Padre Lino throws water on one hand and then the other. Once in goal Helton says a prayer to each post. 'Generally goalkeepers are the most religious,' he says, adding that keepers' pre-match rituals are so elaborate they should be considered 'true liturgies'.

  Goalkeeper in typical pose

  Goalkeepers are perhaps excessively godly because they need all the moral support they can get. It is the least glamorous position and the one most blamed when things go wrong. They are in the shadow of Barbosa, who was never forgiven for letting in one goal. Brazilian goalkeepers have been known to kick the posts with their heels, spit on them and kiss them for good luck. None were quite as superstitious as Darci, of Bragantino, who before each match kicked the ball in a circle around the referee. He then kneeled on the ground to pray, pretending to tie his laces. He finished off the ritual tracing his leg along his goal line and kicking a few balls in the opposing net.

  Goalkeepers' religiosity reflects Brazilian psychology. The language fans use to describe goalkeepers is itself liturgical. A brilliant outfield player is called a craque, a crack player. A brilliant goalkeeper is never a craque. He is referred to as a 'saint'. Great saves are invariably 'miraculous'. It is very common for magazines and television bulletins to superimpose halos on outstanding keepers. It is as if Brazilians do not believe in the concept of goalkeeping skill. Castilho, who wore Flumirfense's number one shirt from 1947 to 1964, was nicknamed Leiteria, slang for Lucky Man.

  Saint Taffarel who is in goal

  Like a guardian angel

  Sweet like honey

  Defending our goal, our hope, our happiness

  This urge to sing and dance

  That comes from you

  That comes from your blessed hands

  Which defend the last piece of earth

  Of the Fatherland.

  This prayer was written by the novelist Carlos Drummond and printed in the highbrow Jornal do Brasil the day after Brazil beat Holland in the semi-final of the 1998 World Cup. The game went to penalties and Taffarel's saves sealed the victory. Penalty shoot-outs, when the outcome depends most on goalkeepers, are matches' religious epiphanies.

  João Leite was known as God's Goalie. At matches he distributed the Bible to the referee and opposing teams. In 1981 he joined forced with Baltazar, nicknamed God's Goalscorer, to found the sports movement Athletes of Christ. João Leite was in the Brazilian national side and Baltazar would later play for Atlético Madrid, where he broke the record for number of goals scored during a season. The Athletes of Christ was a high-profile group that reflected the emergence of a new religious phenomenon in Brazil-protestant evangelism.

  Evangelicals are currently the most visible religious presence in football. Due to the proselytising nature of their worship, they are walking propaganda machines. Football is a great stage to show what God can do. Their hero is never Pelé. It is always Jesus. They evoke God at all times. Underneath their football strips they wear vests with religious messages like 100 per cent Jesus and God is True. Their spare time is spent at Bible readings and they give 10 per cent of their earnings to the Church.

  The prominence of evangelicals in football reflects the enormous growth of such churches in the lower classes. In less than thirty years, the evangelical flock has grown from almost zero to more than twenty million. Strongest where social structures are weakest, where crime, unemployment and poverty are highest, evangelism offers an exciting new spiritual life and a break from the past. The believer is told that prayer can bring miraculous cures because you have direct contact with the Holy Spirit. Services are full of ecstasy, singing and exorcising demons.

  Evangelicals demonstrate their faith constantly in their daily life. They are typically more disciplined, more saintly and sanctimonious. Regina Novaes, of Rio's Institute for Religious Studies, believes that as football has become more money-oriented and competitive this style of life attracted a disproportionate number of footballers. 'The career of a footballer is very difficult. You need a lot of persistence and help from your family. I think being an evangelical gives them a sense of direction.'

  Athletes of Christ, made up of evangelicals from diverse denominations, now number about 7,000. Most are footballers. Many are famous. In the 1994 World Cup six of the Brazil squad were Athletes of Christ: Zinho, Mazinho, Jorginho, Müller, Paulo Sérgio and – no surprises – God's other goalie, Taffarel. Four played in the final. They were accompanied in the US by their own chaplain, ex-Formula One racer Alex Dias Ribeiro, who published a behind-the-scenes account of the cleanest-living men in the competition called: Who Won The Cup? The answer: Him Up There.

&nbs
p; Müller, who was appearing in his third World Cup, took religion further than his colleagues did. He subsequently founded his own denomination, Pentecostal Life With Christ, for which he built a church in Belo Horizonte costing several hundred thousand pounds.

  Rio's chapter of the Athletes of Christ meets on Monday nights in a Baptist church hall near the Maracanã. The service involves lots of singing accompanied by an electronic keyboard. The sound is an instantly recognisable dirge that one hears wafting from evangelical churches on street corners all over Brazil. On Friday mornings unemployed Athletes of Christ footballers meet at Jorginho's football school on the outskirts of Rio. Successful footballers in Brazil tend to build sports centres in the communities they grew up in. Jorginho's has four synthetic pitches, a bar and his 1994 World Cup number 2 shirt framed in a window.

  Evangelicals used to fight against profane activities like football and pop music. They warned against the game, saying footballs were 'the Devil's eggs'. But once they embraced popular culture, membership took off. The Athletes of Christ feel they have a global responsibility. After the kickabout at Jorginho's the thirty footballers sit in a circle of plastic chairs. Edilson, who has returned from the Portuguese club Maritimo, tells his colleagues: 'God is using Brazil in a special way. Brazil is the country that has the best football. Football is a tremendous way to talk about evangelism. We are a very powerful arm of God.' The discussion is very repetitive and self-congratulatory. Sérgio Morales, who played in Saudi Arabia, enters his opinion: 'The best way to evangelise is to do it with your conduct. You don't need to say anything. People will see. You can be put on the bench and still be happy. People start to see that Christ lives with you.' Edilson, aged thirty-two, and Sérgio, aged thirty, have a deep self-assuredness. Evangelicals have a way of talking and listening; an almost menacingly flat expression across their eyes.