by Alex Bellos
Later I speak to Edilson and Sérgio. Evangelicals are often defined by what they left behind. Edilson's story is typical. 'I was almost an alcoholic. I only managed to stop drinking when I accepted Jesus. I was miraculously liberated from it when I became an Athlete of Christ. I had a lot of happiness with football, but not as much as accepting God into my heart.' Miracles are common enough for there to be a real chance of one happening to you. 'A while ago I got a big injury in my knee during training,' explains Sérgio. 'It was very swollen. A former Athlete of Christ did a prayer for me. As soon as it was finished I was instantly cured. You see that the Lord is real. You see He is not a long way away in the sky.'
Many clubs are wary of the Athletes of Christ. Not for theological reasons but because of the fear that a 'born-again' faction could disturb team unity. Grêmio once had more than ten evangelical players. The directors felt the number excessive and they were all transferred.
The Universal Church of the Kingdom of God is the largest evangelical church in Brazil and the most aggressively expansionist. It was started in Rio in 1977 by a preacher, Bishop Edir Macedo. By 1999 it had more than 3.5 million members in more than thirty countries. Bishop Macedo courted controversy by using the profits to buy one of Brazil's main terrestrial television stations. In one memorable broadcast a Universal priest kicked a statue of Our Lady of Aparecida to smithereens because it was a 'false idol'. You would not offend the average Brazilian more if you punched the president in the face. In 2000 Bishop Macedo bought a football club.
Universal FC, which played in the Rio state second division, caused a small revolution. Marcos 'Marquinhos' Antonio da Silva Nunes points to a newspaper cutting: 'Look at those crowds.' He still cannot believe it. 'Teams in the second division don't have supporters. In our opening match, the stadium was full. I was told it holds 15,000 – and there were people who weren't able to get in outside.' On a preparatory tour they attracted 11,000 in Brasilia, 45,000 in Salvador and 50,000 in Belo Horizonte. Tickets for Universal's matches, available in churches, sold out.
Marquinhos is neatly dressed in an ironed shirt and carries a black leather briefcase. He looks much younger than thirty-six, which, he likes to say, is testament to his puritanical ideals. We are in Nova Iguacu, a satellite town of Rio de Janeiro, in the office of three evangelical politicians. Even though they are from different parties, they operate together. In Congress, state assembly and city council evangelicals form a political bloc.
Universal FC made other innovations. Marquinhos tells me proudly that their fans changed terrace chants. 'Normally you shout "Ref you're blind, swear word is the answer".' He cannot bring himself to say a rude word. 'This was changed to "Ref you're blind, Jesus is the answer".' The word terror was swapped in another chant to amor, love. Marquinhos has this smug intensity; a humility that touches on self-righteousness. 'You had a young group of fans and what was surprising was that they didn't fight, they didn't swear and they didn't drink. No one sweared at the ref. Winning or losing – we were happy.'
In the 1970s Marquinhos was a promising left back. He won a Brazil cap at junior level. He had a moderately successful career, peaking at Botafogo. Coaching Universal was an opportunity to bring the Church into his profession. Even though there were only four other Universal members in the team, he says the ethos of the Church filtered through. 'We played cleaner. We had more ingenuity on the ball. These days, non-Christian players go to the ball with wickedness, they don't trust the other player. A footballer from the Church isn't like that. When we played there were fewer fouls. We played with more of a conscience.'
Under Marquinhos' control Universal started the season well. 'Our team was weak physically. We were all skinny and small, but technically we were a good team.' They would speak to God to ask for his help. Not to win, but to deliver them from accidents. Marquinhos knows God is not enough to win in football. 'There is a practical side too. You have to have a team. You have to have talented players.'
Universal's HQ brought in a more experienced coach, Renato Trinidade. It was a bad decision. Universal started to lose. The Brazilian translation for 'If it ain't broke don't fix it', is 'If the team's winning, don't meddle with it'. Marquinhos quotes this several times and adds: 'He meddled and look what happened. He came at the wrong moment.' He is still angry. For a second he almost loses his cool.
Shortly before the beginning of the 2001 season, the Church decided to close the club down. Marquinhos thinks their priorities went elsewhere. 'I think they should do it again next year. Even if they don't employ me. Universal was the only team that gave a meaning to the second division. No one else had any supporters.'
One other team in Brazil is owned by a church. In Jardim, a town near the Paraguayan border, Reverend Moon founded New Hope in late 1999, which disputes the first division of the Mato Grosso do Sul state championship. Moon arrived in Brazil in 1995 and set about trying to create a world base for his Unification Church. He bought 55,000 hectares around Jardim, a remote and undeveloped area, and built an educational centre that caters for 5,000. 'The movement sees sport as the only way to break barriers of race and religion,' says New Hope's press officer José Rodrigues. The club started with high expectations, poaching three players and the coaching team from the 1999 Mato Grosso do Sul champions, Ubiratan. New Hope was eighth out of seventeen in its first season, endearing itself to locals apprehensive about Moon's motives. 'The club gives the idea that the movement has only brought good things to Jardim,' adds José Rodrigues.
Religion, carnival and football form a Holy Trinity of Brazilian popular culture. Rio de Janeiro is the city of the Christ statue, the sambadrome and the Maracanã. It is common to say that football in Brazil is a religion. I think this is incorrect. Football is not an alternative faith, but a platform for Brazil's religions to express themselves. Before every game – from amateur leagues to the World Cup final – Brazilians say the Lord's Prayer and (except evangelicals) the Hail Mary. Each of Brazil's faiths coexists peacefully, often in the same person. Footballers can, without fear of contradiction, light a candle for Our Lady of Aparecida and leave a bottle of cachaça for Exu. Or wear a cross around their necks and a sprig of rue behind their ears. Football reflects the depth and variety of Brazilian faith. Religion too, has learnt from the sporting spectacle. The Maracanã now fills to its fullest for religious events. The temple of football is also the temple of Christ. With or without a frog under the pitch.
The 2002 World Cup was a Godly event. One of the strongest images of the final was of Edmilson, Liicio and Kakd praying together in victory, their hands clenched together and their heads all pressed against the grass. It was probably the most effective international TV advert that Brazilian evangelicism has ever had.
The Catholics paid their spiritual dues later. Luiz Felipe Scolari, the coach, made a ten mile walk to a pilgrimage site near his home in Porto Alegre. Ronaldo paid his promise at the National Shrine at Aparecida. Only he didn't go by foot – he flew there with his mum by helicopter, stayed for an hour and a half and then flew back. Marcos, the goalkeeper, received a reverential tribute. He was made an honorary citizen of São Marcos (St Mark), a town in the south of Brazil.
*I am describing Catholic priests using their Portuguese title, 'padre', to avoid confusion with Candomble priests.
Chapter Ten
THE UNCONFOUNDABLE GOAL
'To see only the ball is to see nothing at all.'
Nelson Rodrigues
The proprietor picks up the phone and introduces himself.
'Mauro Shampoo,' he says, firmly. 'Football player, hairdresser and man. I'm the only one in Brazil.'
He adds: 'Would you like to make an appointment?'
Mauro Shampoo is dressed in his football kit. He finishes the call, puts the phone and scissors to one side and starts to kick a ball in the air. He wants to show me that even though he has hung up his boots he has not lost his touch. He manages to juggle the ball in the tiny space between his customers without it
falling down.
In his permed prime Mauro Shampoo was captain of Ibis, a club in the first division of the Pernambuco state championship. In the late 1970s, Ibis went for three years without winning a game. The team became known as the Worst in the World. 'It was a great privilege to have that reputation,' he says. 'We even had a fan club in Portugal. When we started to win they sent us angry telegrams.'
While he was a footballer Mauro kept his day job as a hairdresser, hence the nickname Shampoo. It also inspired him to call his wife Pente Fino, or Toothcomb, and his children Cream Rinse, Secador and Shampoozinho, or Dryer and Little Shampoo. Retired from the game, he runs his own salon in Recife. He is a cult figure among local footballers, who regularly drop in for a cut and dry.
Silly nicknames are not exclusive to Brazil's worst players. Dozens of the best have been known by preposterous noms-de-plume. The habit started early. In the national team's first match, in 1914, there was a forward called Formiga, or Ant. Brazil's attack in the 1930 World Cup was led by Preguinho, or Little Nail. The following decades saw the new faces Bigode, Nariz and Boquinha (Moustache, Nose and Little Mouth) all play for their country. Most inappropriately, the tough-looking captain of Brazil's 1994 World Cup-winning squad was called Dunga. It is the name of Dopey in translations of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
Brazilians are obsessive nicknamers. It reflects their informal, oral culture. There is a town where so many people have nicknames that the phone directory lists them that way. Cláudio, in Minas Gerais, has 22,000 inhabitants. 'We rarely know people by their real names here,' explains the book's editor. 'If we didn't have a nickname directory, people would hardly use the phone.'
Nicknames may be used by the members of any profession, no matter how high-level. The ex-governor of Piaui state is formally called Mao Santa, Holy Hand, and the president of the Rio Football Federation is Caixa D'Agua, Water Tank. Luis Inacio da Silva, the left-wing presidential candidate in the last three general elections, changed his name by deed poll to include his nickname 'Lula' so as to make it clear on ballot papers who he was.
I raised my eyebrows one lunchtime in April 2001, when the TV sports bulletin announced that Caniggia and Maradona had both scored goals in domestic games. I had thought that Caniggia was playing in Scotland and Maradona had retired years ago. Yet Caniggia had put one away for Rio Branco in the Paraná state championship and Maradona for Ferroviaria in Ceara. Both players are Brazilian duplicates, named after the Argentinians for physical similarities; Caniggia because he used to have long hair and Maradona because he is stocky and short.
Footballers are often nicknamed after other footballers. It makes sense. A boy with outstanding sporting skills is more likely to be called Zico than, say, Zarathustra. In 1990, Argentina knocked Brazil out of the World Cup. (It was a Caniggia goal from a Maradona pass.) The defeated team included Luis Antonio Correa da Costa, whose professional name is Müller. He was named after the German striker Gerd Müller. Gerd went to two World Cups, in 1970 and 1974. Not bad, but his namesake went one better – he went in 1986, 1990 and 1994.
The age gap between the Müllers meant that they never faced each other. In Brazil footballers have played against the people who inspired their names. Roma was so called because he reminded friends of Romario, who is thirteen years his senior. In late 2000, they eventually played in the same match, Roma for Flamengo and Romario for Vasco. Newspapers commented that the younger one played more like Romario than the veteran did.
Sometimes names describe the way the footballer plays, such as Manteiga, Butter, whose passes were slick. Pe-de-Valsa, Waltzing-Foot, danced for Fluminense and Nasa, who played for Vasco, heads the ball like a rocket. Nicknames also paint a social portrait. In 1919, when the Brazilian national team was made up uniquely of whites and mulattos, they played a Uruguayan team that included a black player, Gradin. He was the first black international to play in Rio. Soon afterwards many black Brazilians were given the nickname Gradim (the 'm' is the Portuguese transliteration). By 1932 a Gradim appeared in the Brazilian national side.
Coming from a European culture very sensitive about racism, I was very struck when I first arrived in Brazil about how common and acceptable it is to refer to someone by their skin-colour. Many footballers' names, were they British, would mobilise the Commission for Racial Equality. There was once a famous player called Escurinho, or Darky. Telefone was so called since telephones used always to be black. Neither Petroleo, Petrol, nor Meia Noite, Midnight, left any doubt as to their complexions.
Pretinha, which means Little Black Girl, played for the women's national team during the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. Her name manages to offend European sensibilities not only of race but also of gender. And what to make of her teammate Marileia dos Santos? Ms dos Santos registered herself in the competition under the name Michael Jackson. She was named after the pop star because of a musical gait. When she was put on as a substitute in the third-place playoff, she did not moonwalk on to the pitch. Even so, when her name was announced, the crowd erupted in laughter.
Referring to someone by their nationality – or by the nationality that their physical features suggests – is not offensive. You could draw a map of Brazilian immigration just by tracing the names of footballers' international nicknames. Polaca, Mexicano, Paraguaio, Tcheco, Japinha, Chinesinho, Alemao, Somalia and Congo (Polack, Mexican, Paraguayan, Czech, Little Japanese, Little Chinese, German, Somalia and Congo) were all players. Near the Uruguayan border many are called Castelhano, Castilian, just because they speak Spanish.
As well as providing a lesson in world geography, names also sketch a map of Brazil. Many players gain the nickname of the town or state they are from. Brazil is a huge country and internal migration is great. Often a player's home town is the most obvious thing that distinguishes him from his colleagues. In recent years the accepted way of differentiating two players with the same name is to add the home state. When Juninho was transferred back to Brazil after playing at Middlesbrough he became known as Juninho Paulista – Juninho from São Paulo-because his team contained another Juninho, who became Juninho Pernambucano – Juninho from Pernambuco. The more informal moniker is always preferred, rather than – heaven forbid! – using the Juninhos' surnames.
Brazilians are a very body-conscious people. To call someone vaidoso, or vain, is often a compliment, since they are fulfilling their social obligation to be beautiful. Unfortunately for Airton Beleza, Airton Goodlooking, he won his title for being the opposite. Marciano, Martian, was not named ironically. Neither was Medonho, Frightful. Tony Adams is lucky he is not Brazilian. Otherwise there could have been two footballers called Cara de Jegue, Donkey Face.
Footballers have been nicknamed almost everything. Even numbers. There was a player called 84, one called 109 and another called Duzentos, Two Hundred. Animals are well catered for – Piolho, Lice, Abelha, Bee, and Jacare, Alligator. (Jacare is less remarkable for his name – the result of a hereditary protuberant chin – than for his status as tennis player Gustavo Kuerten's favourite footballer. When Kuerten won the 1997 French Open he praised Jacare in interviews. On the back of the recommendation, the footballer was sold from the small club in Kuerten's home town to a big club. He ended up in Portugal, although he returned shortly afterwards. Kuerten is a tennis player, not a talent scout.)
Nicknames increase the theatrical aspect of Brazilian football. They contribute to its romance. Pelé would have played the same had he been known by his real name, Edson Arantes. Yet the word 'Pelé' contains some of his magic. Its simplicity and childishness reflects the purity of his genius. How could Pelé be real if he did not have a real name? Pelé is less a nickname than it is a badge of his greatness, the name of the myth, not of the man.
'Pelé' has no other meaning in Portuguese, which increases the sense that it is an invented international brand name, like Kodak or Compaq. The etymological origin of 'Pelé' is much discussed but still unclear. Edson was known as Dico at home. When he joined Santos he was
called Gasolina, Gasoline. Then he became 'Pelé'. Nicknames, like wines, can improve through time.
The use of nicknames also conveys the idea of extended childhood – of men who have not grown up. Some Brazilians believe this is internalised, creating a low sense of self-esteem.
The writer Luis Fernando Verissimo goes further. He believes that nicknames are a historical relic from the times of slavery. 'The footballer's nickname was less a "stage name" than a name from the slave quarters, a way for him to know his place and his limits,' he writes. Instead of showing equality and inclusiveness, he argues, nicknames reinforce a culture of submission.
Imagine you were faced with a team consisisting of Picole, Ventilador, Solteiro, Fumanchu, Ferrugem, Gordo, Astronauta, Portuario, Gago, Geada and Santo Cristo {Lollipop, Ventilator Fan, Single Man, Fu Manchu, Rust, Fatso, Astronaut, Docker, Stutterer, Frost and Holy Christ)-all of which are or were names of professional players. You probably wouldn't take them seriously. Exactly, thought the radio commentator Edson Leite.
After the 1962 World Cup many players were near retirement. Brazil overhauled its squad. The new team started to lose. Whose fault was it? Edson Leite blamed the nicknames. They were at best childish and at worst embarrassing. Of course a team that sounded like it had been found in a kindergarten playground would be awed in the presence of, for example, Argentina, which had grand, almost pompous-sounding players called Marzolini, Rattin and Onega.
For a brief while Edson Leite ran a campaign to call Pelé, Edson Arantes, and Garrincha, Manuel Francisco. It gained a fair momentum, but eventually failed. There was one major flaw. Nicknames may be puerile but they are often a lot less silly-sounding than players' real names.