Why Soccer Matters

by Pelé

  None of us could believe it.

  We would be playing Uruguay.

  17

  Agreat many things have happened in my life that I don’t quite understand. You could call them coincidences, but I don’t think that does them justice. No, I believe that, during some moments in our lives, God had his plan. Brazil playing Uruguay in a semifinal, twenty years after the heartbreak at Maracanã, for the first time in a World Cup final since that fateful day in Rio—I don’t know how else this can be explained. Now, I don’t believe that God necessarily cared about who played who in soccer; I suspect he had more pressing affairs to deal with. But He does send each of us on a journey, so we can grow as individuals and greater appreciate His love. And it seemed only fitting that the young boy who bawled his eyes out that day in Baurú, and promised his dad he’d seek revenge, would now have the opportunity to play Uruguay on soccer’s grandest stage. Only God could explain why this happened. One day, I hope to ask Him for a detailed explanation!

  Each of us on the team had a very personal connection to that game. Virtually all of us had listened to the action on the radio as kids, and grieved with our families afterward. Zagallo, of course, had even been on the field. Even the younger players—some of whom were barely toddlers on that infamous day—understood the importance of it. And the Brazilian media . . . well, they weren’t about to let us forget what this game meant either. Newspapers back home carried the story of a nine-year-old Pelé over and over, turning up the excitement even more.

  “Even if we lose the World Cup, we have to beat Uruguay!” I remember one of my teammates saying. “They’ve been stuck in our throats for twenty years!” another said.

  I wish I could say that we all kept our cool. I wish I could say that we ignored the hype, and took the field against Uruguay with the same utter control that characterized our other games in 1970. But that would be a lie. The truth is, we were a total mess. The pressure was unbelievable. And when we took the field, it briefly looked like history might repeat itself in the most horrible way possible.

  We came out stumbling, turning the ball over and making errant passes. The Uruguayans had assumed an ultradefensive posture, with ten players back on defense and only one attacker out front. Nevertheless, twenty minutes into the game, Uruguay managed to start the scoring, and took a 1–0 lead. The nervous tittering around radios and TVs back in Brazil started once again—would history repeat itself?

  Once again, though, we relied on the strength of one another. The minutes passed, and we calmly passed the ball back and forth. Our composure returned. Some passing space began to open up. We started leaning forward, rather than back on our heels. And just before halftime, Clodoaldo took a great pass from Tostão and tied the game.

  After halftime, we came out and were fully ourselves—the group that would go down in soccer history as “The Beautiful Team.” We executed our passes, took audacious shots, and anticipated moves way before they happened. In one move that many people remember, I received a fine pass from Tostão and, while streaking down the field, faked out the goalkeeper with a “dummy” move. I had an open, if very difficult, shot on goal. Unfortunately, it went just wide left. It’s funny actually—the goals I didn’t score in 1970 might be more famous than the ones I did! But my teammates picked me up, and put on quite a show. The final score was 3–1.

  As we walked off the field together, I felt like a nine-year-old boy again. I had this huge smile, and so did everybody else on the Brazilian team. We all felt as if an injustice from our youths had been put right, twenty years after crying ourselves to sleep as mere boys. It was a tremendous sense of accomplishment, in ways that almost didn’t seem rational—like we had vanquished a dragon that had haunted us forever. To make the circle complete, and celebrate in earnest, we’d just need to win one more game.

  18

  By the final game, we had all been through so much together that it felt like nothing could stop us: not even the feared azurri of Italy.

  The Italians had a soccer tradition just as rich as ours. Both countries had won two World Cups apiece. In other ways, the Italians were our polar opposite: They played an unapologetically defense-oriented brand of soccer, and had conceded only four goals in the entire World Cup to that point—a span of five games. Some observers found this brand of soccer a bit tough to watch: One English writer called the Italians “forces of darkness” against our “light.” But I appreciated their team’s toughness, their technical skill and their fans’ passion for the game. It was going to be a dream final.

  The matchup meant something for history as well. It had been decided years before that, if a country ever won three World Cup titles, they would be able to keep the Jules Rimet trophy permanently. This was an honor, and kind of a neat story as well. Because Italy won the 1938 World Cup, Italy had the trophy in its possession when World War II broke out. The Italian vice president of FIFA, Dr. Ottorino Barassi, hid the trophy in a shoe box under his bed to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Then, in 1966, the trophy was stolen from a display case in England. A nationwide hunt ended only a week later when a dog named Pickles sniffed under some bushes in London, and found the trophy wrapped in newspapers. As you might imagine, given all the drama over the years, it really meant something that either Brazil or Italy was going to be able to take this storied trophy home and retire it for good.

  The day of the match, a driving rainstorm hit Mexico City, stopping only just before the game started. Some people said this might lead to a sloppier, and thus more defense-friendly game, favoring Italy. But luckily the rain did nothing to negate our (by now) not-so-secret weapon: the Mexican crowd. The vast majority of the 107,000 screaming fans at the Azteca Stadium showed up to cheer for us once again, driven not only by their Latin American pride but by a fair dose of resentment: The Italians had eliminated Mexico from the Cup, 4–1.

  Once the game got under way, all those external things just disappeared. Our focus was on the field, and one another. Once again, to our utter delight, we played as if perfectly synchronized. After a brilliant move created by Tostão and Rivelino, I jumped—“like a salmon,” one newspaper wrote—to reach a high pass by the far post. I was closely guarded by an Italian defender, but all those silly, repetitive drills of Dondinho’s paid off in a World Cup game one final time. I hung in the air and nodded my head at just the right moment, putting the ball just past the outstretched hands of the Italian goalie Enrico Albertosi to open the scoring.

  Brazil 1, Italy 0.

  Italy quickly tied the game, making it 1–1 at halftime. When we went into the locker room, though, we were all business. Nobody really said much—there was no rousing speech. We just trusted in one another, and knew things would break our way if we kept working hard and playing as a team.

  Indeed, the second half of the 1970 final was one of the most majestic things I’ve ever been a part of. All these years later, it makes my skin tingle to think about what happened: the fusion of athletic ability, good coaching and teamwork. For the first twenty minutes of the half, we were pounding, advancing, but couldn’t quite break through. Then, finally, a perfect team play: Gérson rolled a pass to Everaldo, who passed to Jairzinho—our feared goal-scoring savant. The Italians converged frantically upon Jairzinho, but he unselfishly found Gérson, who had broken hard toward the goal. Gérson unleashed an unstoppable rocket into the net.

  Brazil 2, Italy 1.

  Just five minutes later, in the seventy-first minute, Gérson got the action started once again by penetrating the Italian defense. He saw me near the front of the goal and lifted a long, high pass over to me. I leapt into the air like I had in the first half, which scared the Italian goalkeeper. But instead of heading the ball in, I knocked it over to Jairzinho on the other side of the goal. He put the ball in easily—making him the first player ever to score a goal in every game of a World Cup, a record that still stands.

  Brazil 3, Italy 1.<
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  Finally, in the eighty-sixth minute, one of the favorite moments of my career. I ended up with the ball in front of the goal once again. Maybe I could have scored on my own, but instead, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carlos Alberto coming up on my right. Carlos Alberto was my teammate and good friend at Santos, and primarily a defender. He didn’t have many chances to score under most circumstances—especially not in a World Cup! But in this case, on this blessed day, Carlos Alberto had an open path to the net. So I flicked a pass over to him, which he duly converted for the final score.

  Brazil 4, Italy 1.

  For me personally, those goals in the second half made me feel like a cycle had closed. In my first World Cup, in 1958, I was the guy racing ahead toward the net. Now I was in the role Didi had once played—setting up plays for my teammates. I felt enormous pride; this was the player I had always wanted to become.

  When the final whistle blew, the crowd stormed the field. They lifted me, Gérson, Jairzinho and Carlos Alberto up on their shoulders and did a lap around the Azteca Stadium. Somehow, a Mexican sombrero found its way onto my head—I kept it, and still have that prized souvenir sitting in my house in Brazil. As far as other clothing goes, my shirt disappeared in the bedlam, but that was about it—and I guess that made me lucky. It was Tostão’s turn to end up nearly naked—the crowd stripped him of his jersey, shorts, shoes and even his socks! We all laughed and laughed. Thirty minutes passed before the crowd started to settle down, and we slowly retreated to the locker room.

  Nearly everyone agreed: The game was a masterpiece. The Italian coach said afterward: “The Brazilians played as if they had wings.” Tarcisio Burgnich, the defender who was charged with shadowing me, said many years later: “I told myself before the game, ‘He’s made of skin and bones just like everyone else.’ But I was wrong.” Britain’s Sunday Times, the same newspaper that described me as a “sad millionaire” after the 1966 Cup, led its next edition with the headline: HOW DO YOU SPELL PELÉ? G-O-D.

  All the vindication felt very sweet. But my favorite moment came in the locker room right after the game. I was sitting there, drinking some water with my teammates, when I felt a mild little tap on my shoulder. I thought it was just another journalist at first, and I didn’t look back.

  But then Brito said: “Hey, it’s Zagallo, man.”

  I turned around and stood up. There was our coach, standing there, crying tears of joy. For me, he was the one constant—the man who had been there with me for all three of Brazil’s championships, first as a teammate and then as my coach. We gave each other a big, long embrace, clapping each other on the back.

  “We had to be together to become champions three times,” I said, sobbing. “It could only have happened with you. Thank you.”

  19

  That really was the end for me on the national team. After playing a couple more “friendly” games as a farewell in 1971, I stepped away for good.

  Once again, politics was a factor in my decision. After we won the 1970 Cup, the military government relentlessly used our victory as a propaganda tool to disguise Brazil’s true problems. Meanwhile, the stories we heard about torture and kidnappings multiplied. While I cannot claim that politics was the only reason I retired from the Brazilian team, it certainly was a major element. I couldn’t stand the fact that our success was being used to cover up atrocities.

  Looking back, I regret that I didn’t speak up sooner about the abuses that were going on during the 1960s and 1970s. I think that, throughout my life, my desire to focus on soccer sometimes made me conservative—not in the political sense, but in my willingness to accept the status quo. I was always in a rush to get on the field and play, just as I had been as a kid. I sometimes believed that by choosing not to speak up about our problems, I could keep politics out of soccer, and just concentrate on the game itself. That, of course, was a fantasy.

  Many years later, in 2011, I ended up on a plane with Dilma Rousseff, the young leftist militant who, as I mentioned earlier, was being tortured by the military in 1970 as we prepared for the World Cup. Now, of course, Dilma was the democratically elected president of Brazil. She had appointed me as an ambassador for the 2014 World Cup in Brazil, and the conversation turned to our country, and the way it used to be.

  “Soccer promoted Brazil, but it also hid a lot of things and covered them up,” Dilma told me. “We wanted Brazil to be as good in real life as it was on the soccer field. That’s what my comrades and I were fighting for.

  “We weren’t famous like Pelé,” she continued. “So we had to get people’s attention through other means.

  “Now, here I am today as president. And I’m still trying to make Brazil as good as it can be.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “I mean, can you understand the series of events that put me here?”

  I laughed. “That’s something we have in common,” I said. “I wonder about those things all the time.”

  USA, 1994

  1

  I walked out onto the field, dressed in an all-white suit and a rainbow-colored tie, and felt one of the biggest rushes of my entire life.

  Some ninety-four thousand fans were screaming and cheering and waving flags, eager for the 1994 World Cup final to begin. The field was crowded with soldiers, cheerleaders, and delegations and giant flags from all twenty-four countries that had participated in the tournament. On one side, the Brazilian team was warming up, getting ready to play for their first world championship since 1970—a twenty-four-year drought, an eternity by our standards. On the other side, the Italians. It was to be a rematch of that storied Mexico City final that I’d played in, yet another battle royale between perhaps the two greatest powers of global soccer.

  But my excitement had little to do with the teams. No, the true miracle was where this World Cup final was taking place: the Rose Bowl, in southern California.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “it is our pleasure to introduce a three-time World Cup winner, who has meant more to the game than any other player. He will be joined today by the world’s most popular performer. Here’s Whitney Houston, and the great Peléeeeee!”

  I joined hands with Whitney, and we ran out onto the field, laughing and smiling at each other. Once we reached the halfway point, she handed me a soccer ball she was carrying in her arms. I punted it as hard as I could into the stands. The crowd went crazy.

  As Whitney took the stage to sing, I stood there, euphoric, still not quite able to believe what I was seeing. Here was the world’s greatest sport, staging its biggest show in the world’s richest country. Just twenty years earlier, nobody would have thought it was possible. Soccer becoming popular in the United States? You would have been more likely to believe that Martians had taken over the earth.

  How did this all come to pass? Well, through the hard work of a lot of people. Among them: Mick Jagger, Henry Kissinger, Rod Stewart, a couple of brothers from Armenia, and an American entertainment mogul named Steve Ross, who had a unique, single-minded, borderline crazy vision.

  And me, of course.

  Yup, it’s a pretty wild story!

  2

  By early 1971, with the chants from the Mexican fans still ringing in my ears, I was ready to start walking away from soccer—this time, for good. I was only thirty-one, but Dondinho and Professor Mazzei had long warned me about the dangers of playing too long. They said it could take a toll on my body, cost me precious time with my family, and distract me from the opportunities that would take up most of my adult years. In other words, it was time to get on with the rest of my life.

  In truth, my body felt fine. But, after nearly fifteen years of professional soccer, I was mentally tired—especially because of all the travel. Our son Edinho had been born just six weeks after the 1970 World Cup concluded, and I began to feel an even stronger pull toward home. I knew exactly what it was like to be a young boy in Brazil—I worried that if
I wasn’t around often enough, he’d lose his way. Meanwhile, Rose was feeling alone and also pent up due to the demands of sports and fame—around that time, she told an interviewer that being in Santos while I was on the road was “like living in a cage.”

  Thus began the long—and I mean loooooooong—good-bye. I said farewell first to the Brazilian national team, as I had planned. The team wanted to hold a few ceremonial matches for me first in both Rio and São Paulo. I agreed, although I had some reservations about drawing things out. With rare exceptions, I hardly ever became nervous before normal competitive games, even World Cup finals. I was so calm, in fact, that I’d often try to take advantage of other players’ nerves to try some kind of trick—like the shot from midfield against Czechoslovakia in 1970. But for farewell or homage matches, I was always a bundle of nerves. I can’t really explain why. Maybe it was because all the attention in those farewell games was focused solely on me, and the games themselves weren’t competitive enough to fully focus my mind on the soccer. Whatever the reason, I felt like a kid waiting for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Even stranger: While my memory is generally quite good, I was so uptight during those games that I never remembered a single thing afterward.

  In any case, newspaper clippings from the time do, in fact, confirm that the games did happen—including the final “farewell,” against Yugoslavia, before one hundred eighty thousand screaming fans at (where else?) the Maracanã in Rio. The game was broadcast all over the world—papers reported that bullfights were even canceled in Seville, Spain, so that people could watch on TV. Inside the stadium, people lit firecrackers and waved white handkerchiefs. When the game ended, I removed my Brazil number ten shirt for the last time and did a lap around the stadium, trailed by a group of junior players who we thought represented the promising next generation for Brazil. The crowd shouted “Fica! Fica!” Stay, stay!