There’s No Need to Fear, Timão is Here!
“Don’t worry,” my father assured the rowdy bunch of soccer aficionados that had gathered outside the Cinco Esquinas (Five Corners) Bar & Grill, near the central part of the city known as Parí, “Corinthians will do it.”
“What? You can’t be serious?” exclaimed Azevedinho, one of dad’s old cronies. “Annibal, tell me you’re joking?”
“That stupid team hasn’t won a damned thing in years,” roared another, “and you’re saying they’ll be champions? Quick, someone, call an ambulance!”
“I’m telling you, Corinthians will win,” dad repeated, with even more gusto than before. “I’ll cut off my neck if they don’t go all the way,” he declared, as he defiantly left the bar, followed by the raucous crowd of doubting Thomases.
Dad was on his way to Morumbi Stadium, an imposing Coliseum-like structure situated in the choicest section of São Paulo, accompanied by my mother, her younger sister, and his brother-in-law. They were to be the guests of my father’s oldest nephew, Fredemari, who was shortly to become the chief administrator of Sport Club Corinthians Paulista, and were to celebrate his timely promotion in fairly big fashion: by going to the concluding match in the Paulista Championship between the underdog black-and-white-striped Timão (the name Corinthians followers gave their club) and the Ponte Preta squad.
Arriving early at the stadium, they sat down behind a glass-enclosed partition in a specially reserved corporate booth, cushioned from the delicate blows of paper cups, flying debris, and stray confetti strewn about everywhere by the thousands of delirious soccer fans assembled for this exciting occasion. They were flanked as well by the governor of the State of São Paulo along with other notables, politicians, and dignitaries.
The date was October 1977. Corinthians had last won the elusive Paulista title back in 1955, the year after my birth. Since then, the club had weathered 22 dismal seasons of ever-worsening drought conditions without ever having won a single campeonato. It was more than time for the team to make up the lost years and break this nearly quarter-century curse inflicted upon them — and dad did not want to miss out.
“Thanks be to God,” my father pronounced upon his return to New York, after having taken the month off to visit family and friends, “Corinthians did it.” At this point, he furtively crossed himself, which I correctly took for reverence.
“They did?” I quickly noted, giving my parents a big welcome home hug. “Did what?”
“They won the Paulista Championship,” he croaked, in barely audible tones.
“What happened to your voice?” I inquired. Mom then intervened, and explained that my father had yelled himself hoarse at the stadium after Corinthians had finally regained their championship club crown.
“Oh, I see,” was my absent-minded reply. Undisturbed by my lack of interest in this latest news flash, dad asked how I had spent the last four weeks that they had been away.
“Well, I went out last Sunday to Giants Stadium with Uncle Daniel,” I answered, “and we both saw Pelé’s final match with the Cosmos and his old team, Santos.”
“How was the game?” dad whispered, his words taking on the sound quality of a badly tuned radio broadcast.
“Boring. Low scoring, no thrills, no nothing. And the weather was awful, too. Cold, damp, and drizzly.”
“What did you expect from soccer in October?” he snorted. “Ridiculous!”
“Yeah, but there were seventy-seven thousand people in the stands. And Pelé gave a moving farewell speech. How was it at the stadium in São Paulo?” I asked innocently.
As if in blind obedience to some invisible, preconceived cue, dad pulled out his copy of the most recent edition of the Brazilian magazine Manchete. “See for yourself,” he asserted proudly.
There, on its front and back covers, was a splendid panoramic display of Morumbi Stadium, filled to the rafters with one hundred and fifty thousand screaming fans. Huge plumes of gray smoke issued from every conceivable vantage point, along with hundreds of fire cracker explosions, dozens of colorful balloons, miles of waving banners, and bushels of ticker-tape streamers, all vividly capturing the festive Carnival atmosphere provoked by Timão’s amazing victory performance — with my parents smack-dab in the middle of it all.
“Wow,” I mused to myself, wishing like crazy that I had been there with them, “it must’ve been quite a show.”
“You wouldn’t have believed it,” said dad, all misty-eyed and venerable for once, “but your mother and I witnessed it. Imagine nothing for 20 years and then, all of a sudden, a miracle. And I told everyone that because I was there, cheering for Corinthians, that they simply had to win, but no one believed me.”
My father’s voice was almost gone now, as he went to the kitchen to get a glass of water to soothe his aching throat.
“I bet they believe you now, huh dad?” I smiled knowingly, while gawking at the magazine photograph.
“Pois é,” was his strained final say on the matter. “Yes, indeed.”
My father had been what was once most commonly referred to as a corinthiano roxo or, for lack of a better translation, a “purple-faced Corinthians fanatic.” He truly ascribed to the lyrics of that old stadium standard (author unknown):
Doutor, eu não me engano,
Meu coração é corinthiano.
Doctor, I’m not mistaken,
But my heart beats Corinthian.
Indeed, all serious Timão addicts were widely renowned for their collectively shared suffering, usually experienced at home or in the stadium, and in clamorous accompaniment to the troubles of their luckless team.
Dad was no different. He had first felt his own unrequited pangs for the club during the daunting Depression years of the 1930s, as a less than academically inspired youngster brought up in the cement surroundings of São Paulo.
He frequented the club’s Parque São Jorge sports complex, located in the burgeoning middle-class neighborhood of Tatuapé, where it occupies enormously expansive property space to this day. He loved to hang around the main lounge, attempting to play snooker with the local pool sharks and trying to participate in the conversations of the more senior club members, all of whom had scrupulously analyzed the swings of the pendulum in the team’s ever-vacillating fortunes with the solemn exactitude of astrophysics.
With the aid of friends, but more specifically through the connections of his Corinthians-employed nephew Frede, dad became a lifetime member of the club, as had most of his relatives, with the notable exception of brother-in-law Arlindo, who was of Italian descent and, therefore, more of an “in the blood” Palmeiras rooter.
I suppose there were stray sheep to be found in just about every family’s flock, including ours, but our Uncle Arlindo was an especially lost cause. He would go into paroxysms of distress every time a foul was declared against his favorite green-shirted players. He would then proceed to berate the offenders, as well as rain down a hailstorm of abuse onto the head of the profligate referee responsible for the call, until finally being ejected bodily from the playing field. And those were his good days!
Uncle Arlindo reshaped team fanaticism into a pure art form.
All Glory and Honor Is Yours, Corinthians
Much as he had done with opera, film, and classical music, my father was the major soccer mover in my life, and in the life of our Brazilian immigrant family. His all-out love for the sport, especially where it concerned Corinthians (and every four years, the Brazilian national team), was what most clearly permeated our home environment during those precious times when the constant demands of work and school were assiduously set aside for the simple pleasures of soccer.
Dad’s unsinkable enthusiasm for the game can be traced back to his early life experiences. The many outrageous soccer stories he was wont to recall from time to time, in addition to other similarly embellished tales, were told with a marked infectiousness and lively brio that are as difficult to recapture in writing as they were in the retelling. Nevertheless, they formed the crux of my own personal opinions about this highly entertaining subject almost from the moment I could speak.
My father used to tell me about the various friendships he had formed over the years, especially the one with Oswaldo Nunes, who I met in 1979. He was another of those overzealous soccer fans one hears so much about — and rightly so, for Oswaldo’s famous uncle, the great Manoel “Neco” Nunes, was one of the original Corinthians Club idols from the early decades of the twentieth century.
Considered by knowledgeable Brazilian soccer buffs as a legendary sports figure along the lines of a Babe Ruth or a Knute Rochne, Neco Nunes had been a pioneer player in his day, and was a worthy participant, too, in the national team’s legacy. His life-sized bronze bust, still to be seen outside the lobby of the main administration building (where I had first gazed upon it during my initial visits there), is a testament to Neco’s superb soccer credentials and historic contributions to the club and to the sport.
Another of my father’s friends, Nelsinho, who I also made the personal acquaintance of, was an ex-member of the 1955 Corinthians championship team. He worked as an athletic trainer at the club, and remained a recognized mainstay there for years once his playing days were over.
In fact, it was largely due to the generosity of people like my cousin Fredemari and the other club officials that kept many former players out of the streets and on the company payroll when nothing else was available to them. One sensed the profound gratitude these proud men felt for Corinthians, and the total allegiance they swore to the club, due to this extra degree of compassion shown them by the powers above. And not many people knew about this magnanimity, save for a select few.
“But for the grace of God and Corinthians go I,” dad once told me, as another of his impoverished pals passed by to greet him.
The Long and Winding Soccer Road
While my father had lived in São Paulo, he was able to associate freely with others of the original club champions who were still in permanent residence there, including the ever-popular Baltazar, another best buddy from the Golden Age of fifties futebol. But all that changed once we moved to the soccer-less streets of 1960s New York.
Because of our fundamentally Brazilian sports background, however, it can be stated, with complete conviction, that my family and I were fortunate eyewitnesses to the incredible growth and spread of soccer in the United States. On the flip side, I can also testify to the agonizingly slow and painful deterioration of the same sport in my native land at the hands of incompetent coaches, unscrupulous club owners, and overly avaricious players.
My own childhood memories of the game were filled with scenes of long, hot summers on weed-covered playing fields, learning to play soccer with my dad and younger brother, always competing for attention and space with the other popular outdoor activities of sandlot baseball, schoolyard stick ball, and cement-court basketball.
I can recall one Sunday afternoon in the mid-sixties, when dad took us to see our first exhibition match at Downing Stadium on Randall’s Island, where we thrilled to the once-in-a-lifetime pairing of Santos’ star scorer, O Rei (“The King”) Pelé, with Europe’s two-time Athlete of the Year, Eusébio, the Lion of Angola, who despite his ferocious-sounding epithet was actually born in Mozambique.
I can remember viewing the 1970 World Cup matches from Mexico on the giant closed-circuit screens at Madison Square Garden, and dancing in the aisles there with my family and our compatriots (as a huge Corinthians banner was unfurled) when the imperturbable Brazilian squad trounced Italy’s Forza Azzurri (“The Blue Force”) by a score of 4-1, to retire the coveted Jules Rimet trophy with an historic third world title.
I closely followed the late-seventies phase of Pelé’s American career with the New York Cosmos, and even went to many of their home games at the Meadowlands Stadium in New Jersey, to watch world-class players of the caliber of ex-Lazio striker Giorgio Chinaglia, the German “Kaiser” Franz Beckenbauer, the Portuguese Seninho, the Brazilian Carlos Alberto, the Dutchman Johan Neeskens, and the Croatian Vladislav Bogicevic, attempt to transform the fledgling North American Soccer League into one of international standing and competitiveness.
I looked back fondly on a nervy conversation my father had in the early eighties with Professor Júlio Mazzei, the late soccer coach, teacher, and mentor to Pelé, as dad asked him over lunch why more Brazilians weren’t hired by the Cosmos as starters; to which, the ever-loquacious Professor Mazzei responded that the owners of the team had demanded more players from the Continent because of the higher proportion of European immigrants living in the U.S. In other words, it was strictly a marketing ploy, but he felt sympathy for my father’s frustration in wanting to see more of his fellow countrymen play here, and, quite naturally, commiserated with him over it.
I empathized with the league’s later monetary misfortunes, as it inevitably folded in 1984 due to serious lack of funding and interest, as well as television ratings. Many (but not all) of the overpaid international stars who had come here were on their last soccer legs anyway, and went on to finish up their field careers as spent war veterans with very little left to thrill testy North American audiences.
Moreover, I managed to observe the slow and steady buildup of the sport throughout the remainder of the eighties and nineties, up to its present participative level.
And during the time of my residency in São Paulo, I withstood the steady onslaught of constantly televised games; the endlessly confusing soccer tournaments; the incomprehensible club playing schedules; the scandalous Wanderley Luxemburgo corruption investigations and the shocking revelations they ultimately disclosed of money-laundering and feather-bedding activities; and, worst of all, the pathetic and self-serving press conference given by coach Mário Zagallo, after Brazil’s embarrassing loss to the French at the 1998 World Cup finals in Paris.
Surely, I surmised, with a deep sense of saudade (“longing”) for the glory days of soccer, the final reckoning for futebol was close at hand. But then, in Japan, in the year 2002, the Brazilians won their fifth world championship, and all previous soccer transgressions were dutifully absolved.
Keeping Faith with Football
Earnest soccer fans will argue, of course, that the driving force behind their adored teams was fueled not by greed but by passion; that the outstanding mental and physical attributes of the greatest players were complemented not by the bulging balances of their bank accounts but by the overpowering love, affection, and respect they showed for their sport.
My father would spin in his grave if he ever caught whiff of the stench of scandal that had wrapped itself around his favorite pastime. On the other hand, he might also have taught us to continue to believe in the spirit of the team; that despite the recent setbacks, the hard times, and the terrible moments of loss, there would soon come the grand celebrations, the good times, and the glorious triumphs to be, if we would only keep faith with the game.
And dad was the living embodiment of that principle: his own faith was of the type that would never move mountains, but instead willed his teams to win.
As young children, and later as adolescents, my brother and I looked to our parents for help and guidance with all aspects of our lives, believing them to possess outsized hearts to go with their heads and hands; always telling us what to do and when to do it, much as anyone’s parents might. We also viewed them as godlike creatures — indestructible, infallible, and all-wise in the ways of the world.
So how could we, as rational human beings, possibly ever have believed that dad could really bring his favorite clubs back from the brink of sudden death, to deliver them to the promised winner’s stand, and turn team despair into total victory?
It seemed inconceivable for us to accept that our father had made some sort of devious pact with a minor soccer demon; rather, it appeared more likely he might have made all of this come to pass through the sheer force of his personality — not to mention several well-placed slaps to the knee.
But regardless of whether it was logical or not, we eventually became true believers in spite of our doubts. We needed to believe, for dad had convinced us to believe — because he was himself convinced of his gift, firmly and categorically.
As if in imitation of some ancient Eucharistic rite, he gave full credence to the notion that his own manifest presence in our living room, or at a soccer stadium, could somehow turn the proverbial tide against an implacable foe and confer credibility upon Corinthians, earn esteem for Brazil, or nurture respect in the Cosmos — and, by dint of it all, acquire safe passage into football heaven, for whosoever was the lucky recipient of his brash beneficence. Isn’t that what all purple-faced fanatics aspire to?
Mind you, it didn’t always work out that way; but, like grace itself, it was there for the asking. And, if perchance, the teams really did need dad’s earthly intercession… so be it.
It’s been almost 20 years since my father passed away, yet I can’t help thinking that he would have gotten a tremendous kick out of Brazil’s latter-day World Cup wins, which, sadly, he never got to see. He would also have been among the first to join in and sing, right along with us, the popular anthem for Timão, “Salve o Corinthians.”
Perhaps the song could, in the end, serve some higher purpose: as a universal rallying cry for soccer clubs everywhere. The lyrics curiously read like a long-lost biblical passage — only insert the name of “Corinthians” for any team or organization, substitute the country of “Brazil” for any nation or continent, and one would still have a rousing enough theme-song that could reverberate in a thousand soccer stadiums, with the true sentiments that die-hard fans have always felt for their beloved sport.
Dad would have wanted it so:
Salve o Corinthians,
O campeão dos campeões,
Eternamente dentro dos nossos corações,
Salve o Corinthians,
De tradições e glórias mil,
Tu és orgulho dos desportistas do Brasil.
(Lyrics by Benedito Lauro D’Ávila)
Hail to you, Corinthians,
The champion of champions,
You are and forever shall be in our hearts,
Hail to you, Corinthians,
With a thousand glories and traditions behind you,
You are the pride of every sports-lover in Brazil.
(Translation by the Author)
Copyright © 2012 by Josmar F. Lopes