Futebol

by Alex Bellos

  CPIs have no powers of prosecution. They simply make recommendations for investigation that are then passed over to the public prosecutor's office. Aldo delivers his report. The prosecutor's office says it will follow up the allegations against Ricardo Teixeira. Yet Aldo's failure to have his report rubber-stamped by the CPI results in a legal order stating that the information in it is not allowed to be followed up by the attorneys. Ricardo Teixeira has slipped through the net. Eight months of investigation, a stackload of accusations and . . . nada.

  But all is not well for the regime at the CBF. Slowly, the country's institutions are turning against it. TV Globo – the main terrestrial football broadcaster – compiles a report claiming the evidence against Teixeira points strongly to money laundering and fraud. Carlos Melles, the Sports Minister, says publically that he wants Teixeira to resign. And the second CPI, in the Senate, is in full swing. The Senate CPI always had more teeth than Aldo's did, mainly because the 'football faction' has less influence in the upper house than in the lower. Teixeira is obviously worried. He is overheard at a meeting of federation presidents saying: 'If the Senate's [CPI] report . . . is approved, we're fucked.'

  (For several months I tried to get an interview with Ricardo Teixeira. I met with his advisor, Mário Rosa, a former journalist who is Brazil's only 'crisis-management' consultant. Mário wanted to fix an interview, saying that Teixeira's problem is one of poor communication skills, rather than of corruption. I even got to shake Teixeira's hand – Mário introduced us at a CBF press conference. But Teixeira did not look me in the eye. From that moment Mário never returned my calls.)

  When Ricardo Teixeira is summonsed by the Senate CPI, he refuses to go. He announces that he is suffering from heart problems and is exempted on medical grounds. He hands over the CBF presidency temporarily to Alfredo Nunes, his deputy. Nunes is a colourful character. He is the mayor of a small town in Piaui, a state with a lower human development index than Papua New Guinea. Nunes is hardly a breath of fresh air. He is accused of fraud in the Piaui Electoral Court. He allegedly bought votes by distributing Brazil football shirts and CBF keyrings.

  Yet I sense that the political climate seems to have changed. The cartolas look weaker than they have ever been before. They are now on the defensive. For me, the turning point comes during the interrogation of Edmundo Santos Silva, president of Flamengo, at the Senate CPI. He is suspected of fraud. At the end of his hearing Edmundo bursts into tears. 'I have dignity, and have to look in the face of my children,' he blubbers. 'I'm being treated like a common criminal.' That Edmundo humiliates himself there is no doubt. But he is also crying for others. The cartolas have always acted with impunity. No one thought that they would ever be called to account.

  Eurico Miranda is in trouble too. At the beginning of the year he was all-powerful, openly courting politicians and judges. But allegations are mounting against him. TV Globo – retaliating against Eurico's gesture of putting the logo of rival TV station SBT on Vasco's shirts – ups the ante. It claims the cartola has a secret £300,000 house in Florida, yet another indication of crime against the financial system. The police report into the São Januário disaster is also incriminating. The stadium is judged to have a maximum capacity of 27,306. On the day of the 'human avalanche' the official public figure was 32,537. Eurico is typically uncooperative, so police raid São Januário to impound documents – as if Vasco's antique stadium is the headquarters of a criminal gang. The club has other problems. It is behind in paying its players' wages. Romario alone is owed about £4 million.

  I call the Federal Prosecutor's Office to ask how many actions are pending against Eurico. Within the hour I am faxed back thirty-seven pages of allegations, all signed by the Attorney General. Of course, all the actions are in limbo because, as a federal deputy, Eurico is immune from prosecution.

  In 2001 the Senate was snarled with other embezzlement and corruption scandals. Yet there were signs that politicians were trying to clean up their acts. The two men at the centre of the allegations – the outgoing and the incoming Senate presidents – were forced to resign. Brazil's 'coronels', it seems, are not as immune as they used to be.

  In order to improve Congress's image, federal deputies announce an historic vote to end parliamentary immunity. The rule that stops politicians from being prosecuted from common crimes is perhaps the single biggest reason for the lack of faith that Brazilians have in their democracy. The vote, in November, passes overwhelmingly. More than 400 vote in favour. Only nine are against. Including – quelle surprise! – Eurico Miranda.

  In December 2001, the chain of events that started with Ronaldo's fit in the Chateau de Grande Romaine in July 1998 enters its endgame. The Senate CPI's 1,129-page report is written. Summing up its conclusions, Senator Alvaro Dias describes the CBF as 'a den of crime, revealing disoganisa-tion, anarchy, incompetence and dishonesty'. The report owes a great deal to Aldo Rebelo's Nike CPI and includes almost all of Aldo's important discoveries. It recommends that criminal investigations are launched against seventeen men – including Ricardo Teixeira, Flamengo president Edmundo Santos Silva, the São Paulo federation boss Eduardo José Farah, Wanderley Luxemburgo (the report said that his many incomes 'reinforced' the idea that he received bungs) and Ronaldo's agent Reinaldo Pitta. The strongest evidence is against Eurico. He is accused of electoral crime, fraud, tax-evasion, theft and money-laundering – all arising from claims that he looted Vasco's coffers for his personal gain.

  In 2001 the cartolas lived their annus horribilis. A year ago they were unassailable and impune. The parliamentary hearings have been their requiem. Now they are humiliated and beaten. Almost. All that is left is for the report to be approved by senators at the CPI's final session. The stakes are high, since without approval the prosecution service will – as in Aldo's case – be unable to follow up the investigations.

  Victory is very much up for grabs. A week before the vote Lance! lists the thirteen senators on the CPI and their likely decisions. Six are in favour of the report, four are against and three are undecided. In the battle for the wavering senators' votes both sides play dirty. To mobilise public opinion Senator Geraldo Althoff, who authored the report, appears on the main evening television news bulletin to say that there is clear evidence that Eurico Miranda is a criminal. Information from the CPI report is leaked to the bestselling weekly news magazine, Veja, which prints a cover story on Ricardo Teixeira's alleged corruption.

  The CBF fights back. Incapable of winning public opinion, it instead concentrates on persuading the CPI's senators personally. But this does not work. Geraldo Althoff tells the police that he was contacted by a man claiming to be from the CBF who offered him money to dilute the report. Alvaro Dias says in the Congressional chamber that the CBF is offering to fund senators' re-election campaigns in exchange for votes. The CBF reacts by buying advertising space in newspapers to deny the allegations – but the cartolas increasingly appear out-manoeuvered.

  Two senators who had crossed my path researching this book are coincidentally involved. Senator Sebastiao Rocha, the left-wing gynaecologist who I had met in an Amazonian nightclub, is reported to be in favour of approval. Then rumours circulate that CBF sympathisers have prepared a dossier against him and are using it to blackmail him to vote against. (A traditional method of political persuasion.)

  Another senator in the spotlight is Bernardo Cabral, a confidant of Eurico Miranda. Less than a year before I had seen Cabral stand up at Eurico's inauguration as Vasco president and lovingly describe him as a 'jabuti', an indestruct-able Amazonian tortoise. I cannot imagine Cabral betraying Eurico and voting for the report, which recommends criminal proceedings against him. But I also cannot imagine him voting against it in the changing political climate. Is Cabral's loyalty to be to his friend or to his electorate? To avoid expressing an opinion, the senator resigns from the CPI.

  When Cabral withdraws I become convinced that the CPI's momentum is unstoppable. If the cartolas' allies will not defend t
hem who will?

  Voting day arrives. The CPI report is approved 12-0. It is a crushing defeat for the CBF; and possibly the most important scoreline for Brazilian football all year.

  Juca Kfouri is euphoric, describing the report's approval as evidence of a 'new Brazil, a new politics and a new football . . . victories of citizenship like this are rare.'

  The CPI's triumphal end closes an ugly chapter in Brazilian football. Maybe such pains were necessary for it ever to improve again. Since there is no point clearing out one corrupt regime only for another to step in its place, the CPI includes proposals for a Law of Social Responsibility in Football. In this legislation lies the hope for a better future of the Brazilian game.

  The October 2002 election was, in many ways, a chance for the public to vote on what they thought of the football CPIs. Aldo Rebelo was re-elected as were prominent anti-CBF members from the inquiries. The football lobby received a drubbing. As well as the defeat of Eurico, its most prominent member, politicians linked to clubs and federations failed to be elected to positions at legislative and gubernatorial levels.

  The Brazilian presidency was won by Luis Indcio Lula da Silva, of the left-wing Workers Party. It was the first time that Brazil's leader had not belonged to the military or social elite in the country's 502-year history. It created a climate of hope that the government would actively work to increase ethics in sport. Shortly before Lula took office the out-going president Fernando Henrique Cardoso signed a temporary bill requiring clubs and federations to be more transparent.

  Meanwhile, Pelé's business reputation fell further. He closed Pelé Sports & Marketing, his venture with Helio Viana, and the two men are suing each other. It was alleged that the company accepted $700,000 destined for a Unicef fundraising event and never returned the money when the event was cancelled.

  The CBF moved its presidency to new premises in Barra, away from the public eye.

  *While this signals the end of the public inquisition into Ronaldo's fit, the press are not convinced and continue to speculate. The most plausible explanation is printed more than a year later, in January 2002. A report in Lance! quotes a source close to Ronaldo saying that the striker had an injection in his knee of the common anaesthetic xylocaine ten minutes before the fit, which entered a vain accidentally. It adds that Ronaldo did not tell anyone at the time so as to protect the team medic. Both Ronaldo and Toledo deny the allegation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SOCRATIC DIALOGUE

  If Brazilian football at its best is the game's Platonic ideal, then it is particularly appropriate that the last time Brazil played that way was when the team was captained by a man named after Plato's favourite thinker.

  Socrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira captained the national team in the 1982 World Cup. With an aristocratic gait, wild black beard, head of unkempt hair and dark-eyed, pensive scowl, he really did look more like a philosopher than an athlete. His style of play also suggested a moral authority. He always kept his cool, hardly ever given to shows of 'Brazilian' exuberance, even when scoring goals. He was not about speed or strength (his feet, size nine, were tiny for his height, 6ft 3ins), but about vision, intelligent passes and tricks. His trademark was the back-heel. Pelé said that Socrates played better backwards than most footballers did forwards.

  Alongside him in 1982 were Zico and Falcao, a midfield line-up as strong as any that have worn Brazil's yellow shirts. The team was knocked out 3-2 by Italy, or, more precisely, Paolo Rossi, who scored all the Italians' goals. Yet despite its failure to win a title, the Class of '82 is remembered more fondly than any other since 1970 – much more, unquestionably, than the 1994 world champions, when victory was bittersweet since the team played defensively and won the final on penalties. In 1982, Brazil were Braziiiil; they looked like they played for pure enjoyment.

  I remember Socrates from the 1982 and 1986 World Cups, more vividly than any other Brazilian footballer. When I came to Brazil, I soon learnt that he was equally exceptional for his activities off the pitch. He became the footballer I most wanted to meet. Socrates started his football career when he was at medical school. After retiring, he returned to his studies, qualified and then opened a multi-disciplinary sports clinic in his home town, Riberao Preto. His nickname in Brazil is O Doutor, the Doctor.

  But most importantly, Socrates was a social activist. He managed to politicise football in a way no one in Brazil has ever done. Footballers are generally working class, uneducated and poor. The Doctor was a bright middle-class kid who implanted his left-wing idealism on his colleagues and ended up playing a role in his country's unfolding political destiny.

  Wanting to speak to an 'expert' about the state of Brazilian football, I reasoned that Socrates would be an excellent oracle. There is probably no one more qualified. He has been a sports medic and a professional coach, he has studied sports administration and he writes newspaper columns. Most importantly, his heroic feet (and heels) were one of the last registered users of the 'beautiful game'. Maybe he could reveal where it had gone.

  Socrates is famously independent. He says what he likes when he likes. He never had an agent as a player and still doesn't. If you want to speak to him you phone his mobile, which he attends to personally. I call him. We arrange to go for lunch in a bar in São Paulo.

  When I arrive the bar is almost empty. Socrates is sitting alone, wearing a pair of reflective shades and with a cigarette in one hand. A sparkling tulip of beer is on the table in front of him. The impression is less of a once-great sportsman than it is of an ageing rocker or an ex-con. His hair is black and neatly cut short. His beard, although trimmed, is still resolutely scruffy and a hotchpotch of greys.

  I introduce myself. Socrates has a deep smoker's voice and the rural 'ooh-arr' accent of upstate São Paulo. He welcomes me, the way Brazilians do, like I am a long-lost friend. Once he starts talking he doesn't stop.

  So, Doctor, I ask him, what is your diagnosis?

  At the beginning of the twentieth century most Brazilians lived in the countryside. Industrialisation caused millions of poor rural workers to migrate to urban centres. Cities grew increasingly crowded, like São Paulo, now a mega-conurbation of eighteen million inhabitants. From our outdoor table you get a good sense of São Paulo's heat, pollution and concrete claustrophobia. The decade in which Brazil's rural population was outnumbered for the first time by the population of its cities and towns was the 1960s-the same decade that football was at its peak.

  Futebol has changed, begins Socrates, because Brazil has changed. 'We've become an urban country,' he says. 'Before, there were no limits for playing – you could play on the streets or wherever. Now it's difficult to find space. This means that whatever type of relationship you have these days with sport involves some kind of standardisation.'

  I agree with what he says. The cliche about Brazil, that its happy football comes from childhood games played with unrestrained abandon, is false. The barefooted tykes kicking footballs on Rio's beaches are not doing so at liberty – they are members of 'escolinhas', Beach Soccer training clubs, which operate along the seafront. In São Paulo, children do not learn to play on patches of common land – because there is no common land any more. They learn in society football or futsal escolinhas. The freedom that let Brazilians reinvent the game decades ago is long gone.

  But the new formality has developed informally. Escolinhas tend to be run by enthusiasts, rather than experienced coaches or sports teachers. 'The people who run escolinhas are usually very poorly qualified for the job. They create models which are limited to their capacities,' argues Socrates. 'The pupil can never know more than the teacher, so if the teacher knows very little, the pupil will know even less. Of course, creativity is obviously a part of our culture. We don't lack it – but we are limiting the possibility for creativity. Our game is very bureaucratic now, and this is related to players' development.'

  Socrates believes the solution is education – of teachers. Children ne
ed to be allowed to create and have fun with the ball, rather than learning tactical systems from the age of two. The Brazilian Football Confederation has no nationally coordinated, long-term plan for its junior levels. 'These days if you want to be a football coach you can. There are no requirements. I think there has to be. To teach kids properly you need courses on pedagogy, fitness training, that sort of thing.'

  The bar owner, a woman in her late thirties, comes over and Socrates introduces us. She calls him Magrao, which means Big Skinny Bloke, an affectionate nickname for tall thin people. Socrates is not that thin any more. Neither is he fat, yet. But Socrates drinks and smokes like a bon viveur, and he is gaining the physique to accompany it. His face has filled out and his stomach is going the same way. After his third beer, I stop counting.

  Socrates says another structural problem is that Brazilian football has whitened. Blacks, he argues, have more natural aptitude.

  But aren't you white? I say immediately.

  'In reality, there's some black in me,' he teases. Socrates laughs with his teeth closed. He is good-natured and sensitive all the way through the interview. He makes fun of himself without ever losing his seriousness.

  Until the 1970s, he says, middle-class children did not often become professional footballers. The wages were too low and the social scene marginal. Then serious money started to come into the game and the middle-class whites who ran the clubs started to have an interest in putting their family and friends in the teams. 'Gradually a barrier formed against the poorer parts of the population and the quality of our football started to decline.