Futebol

by Alex Bellos

  'I think we could put on matches between the Brazilian national team and other national teams. Why not? We could have an Olympic village here. Why not? There needs to be dialogue between the state and Brasilia.' Judging from his weary tone of voice, however, I feel this a dream in which even he has little faith.

  We part company. Independente fans are all around us and he is in demand. 'Maybe I'll see you tonight at Site 500,' he says. 'Sundays there are excellent.'

  Joaquim drives me back to my hotel. He switches on the radio. Amapá FM is playing 'I Don't Wanna Dance' by Eddy Grant. I comment that the music reminds me of my youth. Joaquim takes this as a sign to turn the music up to full volume. We can barely hear each other speak.

  Amapá stands out in Brazilian football not just for its folkloric stadium. The state has a disproportionately large number of professional clubs – twelve, one for every 37,000 people. At that ratio, the United Kingdom would have more than 1,500 clubs, enough for seventy-five divisions. 'I've always said we have too many teams,' shouts Joaquim as I hear Yazoo sing 'Situation'. 'It's all down to personal vanity. People prefer to have their own team rather than support someone else's.' The teams are all either broke or almost broke. Most players receive the minumum wage – about £50 a month.

  We talk about corruption in the local federation. He owes his position as vice-president to the withdrawal of the previous president, who was accused of being part of a national drugs-trafficking ring. The ex-president fled and was temporarily imprisoned. 'His house has more security than the governor's mansion,' says Joaquim.

  The previous afternoon we had driven along the Macapa promenade, which, since the Amazon is several miles wide at that point, has the feel of a seaside town. About a hundred metres into the river I noticed two goal posts and a crossbar poking a few centimetres above the surface, as if a football pitch was almost completely submerged.

  'That's where they play futelama, footmud, when the tide is low,' Joaquim said.

  Before I leave Amapá I have a chance to play footmud. Two goal posts about 100m apart have been fixed in the riverbed, forming a decent-sized pitch. During low tide, the water disappears and young men congregate for a kickabout.

  On the morning I arrive a treetrunk has been washed up between the posts. Four lads carry it to the side and use it as a subs' bench. I walk to the pitch in my swimming trunks. The riverbed surface – compact mud covered with a thin film of water – is as slippery as oil. I stumble around with a nervous lack of balance. Before I have even touched the ball, I am covered in mud. My favourite move is the sliding tackle – it is possible to skid, foot first, for several metres, splashing everyone nearby with muck. The game is played until the tide returns. You do not stop until the water is up to your knees.

  Valdez Almeida is footmud's big fish. Last year he organised the sport's first tournament. Two 'stadiums' were set up in the river – the Surubim (which is a type of fish) and the Catamara (catamaran), so called because they sound like São Paulo's Morumbi and the Maracanã. Twenty-one teams took part, all named after marine animals. First prize was a water buffalo; the runners-up won a pig.

  Leadership comes naturally to Valdez. He lives in Santa Ines, a poor riverside neighbourhood of small box homes and earth streets, where he is president of the residents association. He is impressively active for such a lethargic place. As well as his community duties, he works during the week fixing electricity pylons and he runs marathons.

  We are sitting on the riverfront after the footmud is over. Aged twenty-six, Valdez looks like a soldier. His light hair is cropped. He has small eyes and a sportsman's taut features. He exudes an authoritative calmness. He has left-wing, socially concerned views, which have taken him to conferences round Brazil as a young community leader. When neighbours pass him they come over, shake his hand and say: 'Hello, president.'

  When he was younger Valdez was a professional footballer in Macapa. Because of his strong character, he was always team captain. He played many times at Big Zero. Given the choice, he always prefered to start the first half in the northern hemisphere.

  'I found that generally we would win and I would score a goal if we started in the north.'

  For Valdez the centre line separates not only two halves of a football pitch, but is the symbolic divide of North and South America. He felt more comfortable playing in the north because of what the northern continent represents. 'I have an affinity for North America. It is, how shall I say, further ahead.'

  Valdez's admiration for the north is geographically logical if, considering his political beliefs, unexpected. Macapa is almost as close to Miami as it is to Montevideo. Brazil north of the equator contains some of the country's least populated, most backward and poorest land – which by the caprice of its latitude is part of the developed hemisphere.

  His respect for the United States has left its mark on his family. It led him to call his son Wallace and his daughter Jhennifer. (Jennifer and its many alternative spellings are the most traditional of the 'American' names poor Brazilians give their daughters, probably because of the success of the TV series Hart to Hart). Valdez's spelling mistake was deliberate. In Portuguese, the J of Jennifer is pronounced softly, like the 's' in Erasure. Valdez wanted an authentic English-sounding J like, say, the 'D' in Duran Duran. 'There are so many Jennifers round here that I wanted mine to stand out. So I added an "h". "Jh"-ennifer. "Jh",' he emphasises.

  By the time I leave Amapá I have learnt that Big Zero is more than just a stadium. It is a fabulous Brazilian folly and a microcosm of the tension between the northern and southern hemispheres.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TORTOISE IN A TOP HAT

  'The problem with Brazilian villains is their lack of consistency. We do not have long-standing villains, stable villains, villains in whose lack of character we can rely . . . And that's the social importance of Eurico Miranda, the most promising new villain to appear in our lifetimes in a long time. A villain conscious of his function . . . disposed not to let us down and to endure. At last, a consistent villain.'

  Luis Fernando Verissimo, O Globo

  Eurico Miranda is alone in the Vasco da Gama president's office. He is sitting slobbishly in a comfy swivel chair, with his feet up on the window ledge. Below him he looks out on to the pitch at Vasco's São Januário stadium, where a match is about to begin. It's a warm Wednesday night in October. About 10,000 home fans are cheering as the team is announced on the loudspeaker. Inside the president's office, however, the atmosphere is eerily devoid of excitement. The crowd's roar can hardly be heard above the purr of the air-conditioning. The room – spacious and marble-floored – is chilly, brightly lit and quiet. Eurico, peering through a gap in the tinted-glass windows, keeps watch with a haughty detatchment. Isolated in his turret, he reminds me of a debauched and lonely king.

  Since 1967, when he first joined Vasco's board, Eurico has evolved into the most powerful club director in Brazil. He is the most exaggerated example of a particularly pompous and belligerent breed. Eurico, aged fifty-six, looks like a character from Dickens. When I enter the room he is wearing thick leather braces with his suit trousers. He is considerably overweight, with a barrel stomach overshadowing his skinny legs. Eurico's mouth, which has a sharply defined top lip, is the strongest feature of his face. He cannot smile without looking smug. His grey hair is slicked back and, toadlike, his neck is wider than his head.

  For Eurico, the end justifies the means. And the end is always Vasco. In a 1999 match, Vasco were tying 1-1 when the referee sent off three Vasco players. Eurico came down from his presidential perch, invaded the pitch and forced the match to be suspended. Among the other tricks in his ample repertoire is an occasional refusal to let visiting teams warm up. Eurico is loathed by most football fans, but idolised at Vasco because he puts his love for the club above the rules. Vasco fans, called 'Vascainos', do not care that he is rude, confrontational and authoritarian. 'Ethics?' says Eurico. 'That's for philosophers.'

  Sho
rtly before the match begins, I hear the door open and the sound of voices fills the room. We are joined by half a dozen men in their twenties. They come in hurriedly, talking loudly, and rush to the window. Two are Eurico's sons-Mário, aged twenty-six, who is head of sports at Vasco, and Euriquinho, or Little Eurico, aged twenty-three. Mário is serving a two-year ban from FIFA after a fracas at the World Club Championships. Eurico demanded that Mário be let into the Vasco changing rooms even though he did not have the correct credential. In the ensuing scuffle a FIFA press officer fell down a set of stairs.

  Eurico's sons approach their father, slap him on the shoulder and hug him. They then crouch around him. During the game, Eurico behaves like a foulmouthed fan. Each time Vasco's defence has the ball he shouts abuse. He swears continually. Frequently, he gets up and leaves the room for a minute or so. When he passes me he makes friendly conversation: 'I get very tense during games these days,' he says. At half-time he disappears. After the match his sons take me to the changing rooms, which are crowded with players, journalists and other staff. The mood is funereal, since the visiting team equalised 2-2 in the ninetieth minute. I spot Eurico again. He is sitting in a chair surrounded by several other of Vasco's directors, who are humouring him like courtiers. It is a menacing portrait of a man in love with displaying his own power. 'Just like the Godfather,' someone whispers in my ear.

  A month later, in November 2000, Vasco holds its three-yearly elections. Eurico is a candidate for president. Like almost all of Brazil's clubs, Vasco is a non-profitmaking organisation governed by its members who choose a ruling council. In practice, this amateuristic structure is hijacked by authoritarian leaders, like Eurico, who climb their way to the top based on personal relationships, patronage and exchanging favours. A club boss is nicknamed a 'cartola', which means 'top hat', a pejorative reference to their lofty origins.

  I visit São Januário on election day. When I arrive cars are double parked and inside hundreds of people are milling around. The stadium, built in 1927, is one of Rio's glorious historic buildings. A bronze bust of a bearded Vasco da Gama stands impressively at the entrance. Murals with blue Portuguese tiles portray ocean scenes of caravel fleets. Original metalwork features incorporate the Patee cross, the club symbol, which the navigator had painted on his sails. Inside, almost everyone has a sticker or a T-shirt with Eurico's name. I try to find some opposition supporters, but they are few and far between. I make my way to the indoor sports hall, where the wooden ballot boxes are cordoned off.

  Under Vasco's constitution, the election is between slates. The winning slate receives 120 members on the ruling council, and the second slate receives thirty. It is a way of ensuring that the opposition always has a say in club affairs. Vasco, Rio's first champions to field black players, is proud of its democratic heritage. At this election, however, United Nations monitors would be horrified. Halfway through the afternoon Eurico realises that his slate will win, so he starts a second one. When voting is over, a row of old men – the electoral committee – sit at a long wooden table to count the ballot papers. Gradually the results come through. Eurico's slates have come first and second. This means he has all 150 councillors. He has – against the spirit of the constitution – eliminated the opposition.

  When the results are read out, his supporters cheer. Eurico gives an impromptu press conference. Shouting aggressively, he says: 'This proves that the more I am criticised, the more Vasco supporters like me. The people who voted for me are motivated by paixão-passion.'

  He is smoking a cigar and surrounded by a scrum of well-wishers and tough-looking security men. They all chant the club's war cry: 'Vas-co, Vas-co, Vas-co.'

  The next time I meet Eurico is in his cabinet office in Brazil's Congress. Vasco's obstreperous strongman has been a federal deputy, the name given to the 513 members of the lower house of parliament, since 1994. In 1998, Eurico was reelected with 105,969 votes – one of the highest in the state of Rio de Janeiro.

  Eurico used the club to get elected. His campaign slogan was 'the Vascaino votes for a Vascaino'. His staff were from Vasco's supporters club and his posters had the caravel of Vasco's crest. The money for his campaign came mostly from football sources: the Brazilian Football Confederation gave him £15,000 and Ronaldo's two agents gave him £5,000 each. Eurico was accused of organising games with Vasco's junior teams in the interior of the state to raise votes and also of promising a town that he would ensure its football club had a place in the state second division. The town did not even have a football club.

  The cabinet offices of Congress's deputies are in a ten-storey block in the centre of Brasilia, the modernistic capital city inaugurated in 1960. I sit in Eurico's office for an hour before he turns up. When he arrives he does not have much time – he is not someone who ever has much time – and so he answers my questions rapidly.

  Ostensibly Eurico represents the Brazilian Progressive Party, or PPB. You would never know. 'I was elected with the proposal of defending Vasco's interests,' he says. 'I never made any other promises.'

  I ask what Vasco's parliamentary interests are. 'I am Vasco in the context of sport,' he replies. 'I'm here to defend football clubs. Our clubs are different from clubs in England. Here, someone's club is the only thing he has. The Brazilian has nothing else. I have to defend this.'

  For a moment he sounds altruistic. The reality is more complicated.

  While Extraordinary Minister of Sport, between 1995 and 1998, Pelé introduced a bill that aimed to increase transparency in football. Brazilian clubs are governed by the same rules as they were when they were founded in the amateur era. Directors are unpaid and club finances easily hidden from public scrutiny. Eurico, for example, earns nothing for his work at Vasco. Yet like many other cartolas, Eurico has assets that appear incompatible with his official earnings. Eurico lives in a luxury penthouse in a well-to-do area of Rio. He also owns a mansion in Brazil's equivalent of the French Riviera that has a £150,000 yacht at the jetty. Numerous incidents increase suspicion that football bosses are self-serving and negligent with club money, such as the time in 1997 Eurico returned from a Vasco game at the Maracanã with about £30,000 of the gate receipts in his pocket. He told police he was ambushed outside his house. The money was never recovered.

  Cartolas would not cause so much general disgust if their clubs were also rich. But most clubs are broke. It is almost the norm for players' wages to be paid months in arrears. In 2001 it was revealed that Romario, Vasco's star player, was paying some of his team-mates' wages himself.

  During the passage of Pelé's bill through Congress, Eurico was its most vocal opponent. He combined the obstinacy of a fan with an obsessive knowledge of legal detail. His debating style is loutish – as if he is hurling abuse on the terraces. When someone said something he did not agree with he would either laugh loudly or shout, out of turn, 'You know nada – nothing.'

  Despite the great popular appeal of Pelé's reforms, Eurico's lobby managed to neutralise them. When the bill was approved, in 2000, the so-called 'Pelé Law' only had 11 per cent of the original text left. Pelé said he wanted his name taken off it.

  Apart from blocking football legislation, Eurico takes very little interest in politics. He is one of the least active federal deputies. In his first term he proposed two bills, one about footballers' contracts and the other about selling cars. In his second he has proposed nothing. Eurico is assiduous, however, in turning out for congressional votes, in which he always follows his party line. However, he never hides that Vasco is his priority. He asks for meetings not to be held on match days, and has left midway throught important sessions so he can fly back to São Januário.

  I ask Eurico if he likes being a politician. It must be very tiring, I suggest, together with his Vasco work. He pauses to think. 'No, I don't really like it. But I need to be here. Things would be a lot worse. We would already have the Pelé Law.'

  His place in Congress brings with it another advantage. Elected Brazilian politicians a
re immune from prosecution. Eurico faces several legal actions which have been suspended because of his parliamentary status. The law was introduced more than a century ago to stop politicians being framed for murders, although it is now used by many as a defence against all sorts of prosecutions. It is not unknown, in fact, for political careers to be based purely on the desire to avoid imprisonment. (In 2001, prosecutions against at least twenty of Eurico's colleagues have been thwarted because of statutory immunity.)

  I would not call Eurico charming, yet he is entertaining. Unlike many politicians, especially in Brazil, who are weaselly and endlessly evasive, Eurico at least answers every question with a sharp-tongued repartee. He is coarse and forthright. Even though it is difficult to believe his answers are anything but rhetorical posturing, he has the authenticity of an obsessive, truculent fan. We talk about the fact that journalists constantly criticise him for his authoritarian ways. When I mention Juca Kfouri, who is the most outspoken, he snaps: 'Kfouri is an imbecile. Who is he to say anything? Journalists should only give information. And who is he anyway? He is a zero. Put it this way: who does this person represent? He represents no one.' Eurico never misses an opportunity to pull rank. 'I represent the Vasco nation – more than twenty million people. You are worth who you represent.'

  We leave his office together. In the lift, I suggest to him that it was unethical to introduce a second slate halfway through the Vasco election.

  'I agree,' he replies with a big grin. 'In fact, I'd go further. I was taking the piss. It was to show my strength.'

  Eurico is not the only footballing parliamentarian. The presidents of three other national first division teams – Sport, Santa Cruz and Cruzeiro – have also sat in the lower house in recent years. There are Congressmen who are presidents of smaller teams and Congressmen with positions in state football federations.