Why Soccer Matters

by Pelé

  Their chant was flattering, and a sign of things to come. Because I’d “retired” and changed my mind once already, in 1966, everybody was certain that I would be a big flake once again. I guess I had only myself to blame! In fact, there would be all kinds of efforts to sway me in time to play in the 1974 World Cup, which was to be held in West Germany. Fans asked me about it everywhere I went. For years, I couldn’t do a media interview or go out in public without the question coming up. One lawyer even submitted an affidavit to a Brazilian federal court, saying that because I was “under the jurisdiction” of the National Sports Confederation, I could be legally forced to play for Brazil! That one didn’t hold up in court, thankfully. The new Brazilian head of FIFA, João Havelange, kept after me until just a few months before the 1974 Cup, when he sent me a letter, which he made public, urging me to “revise” my decision in time for the tournament.

  “I am hoping,” Havelange wrote, “for the word of encouragement which will make hope spring like flourishing greenery across the verdant fields made fertile by the fervor that the Brazilian people have devoted to the sport in which you have become an idol.”

  Wow! That was a hard one to say no to. Zagallo, my friend and coach from 1970, also asked me to reconsider, saying I was just the missing piece Brazil needed in the attack. Turning up the pressure even more, the new head of the military government, President Ernesto Geisel, declared publicly that he wanted me back on the national team. When I still wouldn’t budge, President Geisel’s own daughter paid me a visit in Santos. “It would mean a lot for Brazil, and my father, if you played in 1974,” she said. “It would be good for the country.”

  I was really very flattered by such requests, but my answer remained firm: No, thank you. I had my reasons for retiring—both personal and political ones, as I’ve said. I had the great fortune of playing in four World Cups, and the last one was the best. All told, I had scored seventy-seven goals for the Brazilian team throughout my career, a national record that still stands. I really was finished. It was a true honor to represent Brazil, and I would continue to do so with great pride for the rest of my life. But not as a player for the national team.

  Once I departed the national team, I still had two years left on my contract with Santos. The team’s glory days of the 1960s had passed—many of my old friends, such as Pepe and Gylmar Santos, had retired. We seemed to have a different coach each day. The club even made the terrible mistake of firing my closest friend and adviser, Professor Mazzei. One newspaper described us in 1972 as a “once-great team that used to play attractive soccer.” That was a bit harsh, perhaps, but the author had a point. In 1973, we even lost to a third-division English club, Plymouth Argyle, by a 3–2 score. Meanwhile, Santos seemed determined to squeeze out every last dime it could before I left. In the eighteen months prior to my departure, we toured South America, the Caribbean, North America, Europe, Asia and Australia. I think Timbuktu may have been the only place we didn’t play. Never in my life had I traveled so much—it was exactly the opposite of what I hoped for following Edinho’s birth. I’d played more than a thousand games for Santos by that point, and the constant travel only confirmed my resolve—it was time to go.

  Nevertheless, the good-bye tour for Santos was just as emotional as the one for the national team, if not more so. For me, one of the most touching moments was my last game against Corinthians. I had always seemed to find an extra gear when playing the “Timão,” the “big team,” as it’s called, and I scored forty-nine goals in forty-nine games against them during my career—a pretty high ratio. Usually, when we played them, I was one hundred percent focused on scoring goals and celebrating another win. But that day, when I arrived at the stadium in São Paulo for my finale against them, I was overwhelmed to see Corinthians fans waving banners with my name and cheering me, as if I were one of them. The club even set a new record for ticket sales at that game. It reminded me of how, while our biggest opponents loved their teams, they loved the game of soccer above all. That love was something that united fans and players, no matter what team or country they played for.

  The final game for Santos was against a team from São Paulo state called Ponte Preta. I was actually hurting quite a lot—stress probably played a role, to be honest—and I did all kinds of rehab to be ready to take the field one last time. I could barely walk. Once the game began, though, I felt better. I didn’t know exactly how I would say farewell to the crowd until about twenty minutes into the game, when I was standing in midfield, and one of my Santos teammates lofted a pass over to me.

  Rather than chest the ball down to the ground, as I would have normally done, I caught the ball with my hands—the ultimate no-no in soccer. The crowd gasped. The other players stared at me, dumbfounded.

  That was my way of saying—That’s it, folks. It’s over.

  I jogged over to the center of the field, the ball still in my hands, tears rolling down my face. Then I knelt down and spread out my arms, like a big hug. I wanted to thank all the people there, all the supporters, all Brazilians and, of course, God. I was a few weeks shy of my thirty-fourth birthday—and convinced that I would never play professional soccer again.

  As the New York Times wrote the next day: “Pelé, the magic Brazilian forward generally considered to be the world’s best soccer player, has begun the slow change that will make him Edson Arantes do Nascimento, the rich young Brazilian businessman, pleasant hunting and fishing companion, and devoted husband and father of two children.”

  Well . . . that was the idea.

  3

  For the first few weeks after I retired from Santos, people talked about me as if I had died. Friends, former teammates, journalists and others came over to our house in Santos and said not to worry, they’d still come and see me every now and then. Everybody asked me if I was OK. Of course I was OK, I told them! But people kept asking the question so often that I started to wonder: Was I really OK?

  Rose and I, eager to start leading a “normal” life, tried going to restaurants in and around Santos. This was pretty audacious—with rare exceptions, we hadn’t done this for a decade, for fear of getting mobbed by well-wishers. Even in retirement, going out on the town took some persistence. The first time we went someplace new, we would in fact be swarmed with people. They came over to our table and wanted to chat about my three goals against France in 1958, about Garrincha, about whether my right foot or left foot was stronger . . . and so on. I was perfectly happy to sit there and relive these moments with them all night. But it wasn’t why we went out, and Rose would understandably get a bit cross. Still, we kept at it, and if we went to a restaurant a second time, people would usually just limit themselves to asking for autographs. And the third time, maybe they’d just wave from a distance.

  I tried to split my time between my family and attending to my businesses. One afternoon, my business partner Edvar came to pick me up for a trip to São Paulo. As I was leaving the house, my daughter, Kely Cristina, ran up to me and said: “So, Dad, you’re going out again?”

  I stood there, silent, not quite knowing how to respond.

  Edvar finally spoke up. “Well, yes, that’s true. But you know, Kely, since he’s stopped playing, he’s going to have a lot more time to spend with you.”

  Kely put her hands on her hips. “Um, I’ll just wait and see about that!”

  She was only seven. But she knew her dad. Maybe even better than I did.

  4

  I made every effort to line up a good post-soccer life. That included doing something that would have absolutely horrified the nine-year-old Edson: going back to school. Ever since my childhood, my family, friends and mentors had been talking to me about my lack of a formal education. They all agreed it would come back to haunt me one day—regardless of whether I was the world’s most famous athlete or not. Waldemar de Brito, my youth coach from Baurú, was especially adamant. “Dico,” he’d say, “you were born to play soc
cer, there’s no doubt. But your career is going to end when you’re at the very best moment of your life. And then you’ll need school!”

  I was also aware of the fact that kids all over the world looked up to me. I embraced the responsibility that came with being a role model. What kind of message did it send, then, that Pelé had never finished high school? Everyone knew this about me, everywhere around the world, and I felt embarrassed, like I had let everyone down. Around that time, a magazine in Switzerland generated some buzz when it published a caricature of me on the cover, and the caption: “We parents must soon ask ourselves whether there is any sense in letting our sons study.”

  As I neared age thirty, and I started thinking more about what my life would look like after soccer, I realized that time was running out for me to address this problem. It felt like something basic in my life was missing. In my travels over the years, I had met all kinds of inspiring people: popes and professors, politicians and doctors. I tried so hard to keep up with them, but sometimes it was difficult to know what they were saying. I didn’t think I was lacking in intelligence or good instincts; but I did lack a formal education, and I knew that would only damage me more as time went by. So, I decided that I would get a physical education degree from a university in Santos. This wouldn’t be that big of a stretch—after all, it was the same field I’d been working in for the last fifteen years! But of course getting a university degree meant that I’d first have to learn all the things I missed in high school.

  So, while still playing for Santos, I spent my off days, and a lot of nights after games, studying as hard as I could. This was a massive challenge—to be honest, when I first started playing soccer in the 1950s, I barely knew how to sign my name for autographs. But Professor Mazzei was constantly looking over my shoulder, helping me with the lessons and encouraging me, like he always did.

  I overcame my nerves and passed the exam, and got my high school diploma. I was very proud, but there was no real time to celebrate—I spent another whole year preparing for the entrance exam for college, which included Brazilian history, math and a physical endurance test. Now, you would think the final subject would have been the easiest for me, but when the time came, I almost failed! Why? Well, the test included a twenty-five-yard swimming exercise. I’d spent all that time fishing in the Baurú River as a child, but had never actually learned to swim in it. I nearly drowned that day!

  After three years of hard work, I got my degree. In the end, I was so glad I did it. Not so much for the kids, for the fans, or for my mentors. I did it for me. It made me a better man.

  5

  Man, if only I’d mastered math a few years earlier.

  Shortly after my final game with Santos, we brought in some auditors to have a complete look at my portfolio. I had tried to be prudent over the years, investing large chunks of the money I made from playing soccer and endorsements, instead of blowing the cash on a lot of cars and houses. I had never forgotten that an athlete’s career could end at any time, and I didn’t want to have to worry about my finances once I retired. I had accumulated local businesses and properties, and had greatly diversified my investments, just as people insisted I should. Now that my playing career was finally over, I would finally have the time to dedicate myself fully to my businesses. So why not get a full panorama of what I owned, and what it was all worth?

  I can still remember the sweat on the accountant’s brow when he walked into my office. He looked like he was about to pass out. I immediately sensed something was wrong, and I tried to lighten the mood with good cheer.

  “So,” I said, smiling, “how many millions have we got?”

  The accountant turned even paler! I should have called him a doctor right then and there.

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  Actually, it wasn’t very complicated at all. I wasn’t worth millions. I owed millions. While I had accumulated a wide range of assets, I hadn’t paid much attention to what they were—I allowed other people to do that for me. There was one company that completely canceled out all the good things we had done. It was called Fiolax, a parts manufacturer. Unwisely, I had signed a note guaranteeing a bank loan for the company as well as its liabilities, even though I wasn’t a majority shareholder. When the company couldn’t pay the loan, the bank came after me. There was also a fine because the company had violated some import regulations. All told, the company owed several million dollars, and I was the one stuck with the bill.

  You might ask: Edson, how could you have been so stupid? Well, the better question would be: How could you have been so stupid twice? I’m sad to say it wasn’t even the first time this had happened to me. About a decade earlier, in the mid-1960s, I had also suddenly discovered I was deep in debt. On that occasion, I had signed over my power of attorney to a man I thought was my friend, and who had vowed to take care of my business affairs for me. One day, a few months before my wedding to Rose, he came to me and asked for money—which I thought was a little weird, since I had already given him plenty. That led to a series of questions and investigations, which ended in the discovery that I was penniless.

  The two episodes had a lot in common. In both cases, I had trusted people who I believed were my friends, but mainly wanted money and recognition for themselves. In both cases, my desire to focus on soccer—and soccer alone—led me to be careless and stupid with my money. In both cases, some people urged me to just declare bankruptcy and walk away from the bad loans. And in both cases, I decided that it was important to honor my debts in full. I did this partly because I wanted to set a good example, and partly because it was all so very embarrassing. No one would believe that Pelé, of all the people in the world, was really broke—they would assume I was perpetrating some dishonest scam.

  Nowadays, the story of professional athletes who squander their fortune seems as old as the Bible itself. Back then, though, it was pretty much unthinkable. If I was one of the first global sports superstars to make millions from endorsements, I was also one of the first to lose everything he had. There was no instruction manual or guidebook on how to deal with this, no wise elders whom I could turn to for support. No one was sympathetic—in fact, some people seemed to take a strange pleasure in the misfortune that had befallen me, an emotion that I have personally never understood. My situation was unique, and I would have to deal it with myself.

  The first time it happened, I went to the board of Santos Football Club and asked them for money to pay off my short-term debts. They agreed, as long as I agreed to sign a new contract that was favorable to the club. I had no choice but to accept. Over the course of several years, I was able to pay off the money I owed. With the help of several endorsement deals, I started building up my equity again, step by step. Until, of course, the walls crashed down around me a second time.

  So—how could I earn the money back now? Well, clearly, I wasn’t great at business. That much was clear! Thankfully, though, there was something left in this world I was still pretty good at.

  6

  The first time I heard of the New York Cosmos was at a post-championship party in 1970 in Mexico City, when I met two brothers from Armenia. The Erteguns told me a little bit about their desire to start a soccer team in New York City. “We’re in the world’s greatest city, and we’re going to create the world’s best soccer team,” one of them said. It was an interesting concept, but I must admit that I promptly forgot about the whole thing. It seemed like one of those crazy ideas you hear at a party, when everyone has had just a little too much to drink.

  The Cosmos weren’t officially created until the following year, 1971—and for a while, the club seemed destined to fail. The team played in the North American Soccer League, which was the second attempt to organize professional soccer in the United States. The Cosmos had a staff of just five people, and a top wage for players of seventy-five dollars per game. On a very good day, they were drawing five thousand people to their ga
mes, which were played on a ragged soccer field on Randalls Island, a tiny sliver of land between Manhattan and Queens in New York City. The players had day jobs in construction, restaurants or as taxi drivers. Really, it was a semiprofessional league, one that was living on a hand-to-mouth basis, its future totally uncertain.

  Soccer in the United States had always been a tough sell. Americans seemed to think soccer was “foreign” or “elitist.” I never understood this stigma, which didn’t seem to exist anywhere else in the world. As I’ve said, soccer is the most egalitarian of games, one that anybody can start playing right away. Regardless of how much money you have, how big you are, how fast you can run, or how many friends you can find, you can always be playing soccer in just two seconds. In contrast, some of the most popular American sports—football, baseball and golf, to name a few—require lots of expensive equipment, and often a specially designed playing field. And soccer was supposedly elitist?

  Looking back, I think the biggest problem for American soccer was a more sensible one: The quality wasn’t very good. Americans always want the best, and they usually got it when they watched baseball, basketball, boxing, ice hockey or football. They could turn on their TV or go to a stadium and see Joe Namath, Hank Aaron, Muhammad Ali or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. But when they went to a professional soccer game, they usually got some Italian, Colombian or Polish guy whom they’d never heard of before, and who wasn’t even in the world’s top echelon of players. Watching a mediocre product wasn’t much fun. Of course, there was a chicken-and-the-egg element to this: Few Americans liked soccer, so few Americans played it all that well, so few Americans liked it, and so on.

  The problems faced by the professional soccer leagues reflected this vicious cycle. Bill MacPhail, the head of CBS Sports during that era, reflected on why the first professional soccer league failed, even with the money that came from its television broadcast deal: “The stadiums were empty, which made it tough for us to generate much excitement,” MacPhail said. “The players had foreign names, their faces were unfamiliar, their backgrounds undistinguished.” Because the action was so uninspiring, some fans couldn’t be bothered to learn the finer points of what makes soccer worthwhile, just as someone exposed only to garage bands wouldn’t appreciate Bach or Beethoven. As the U.S. magazine Sports Illustrated wrote in 1972: “A typical American crowd might ignore a skillful pass or dribble, then cheer a 30- or 40-yard kick that misses the goal, just as a European might cheer a long foul in baseball.”