New York Cosmos
Julio Mazzei, the Cosmos and the Untold Story of the Man Behind the Glasses (Part Three): Life after Soccer
Dénouement: Decline and Fall
With Pelé’s departure on October 1, 1977, the North American Soccer League (NASL) and Warner Communications were able to negotiate a contract with ABC television to broadcast regular network showings of league games, with a concentration on the Cosmos. Hand in hand with this arrangement, there were the requisite tailgate parties, barbecue outings, photo opportunities, the works. Giants Stadium was filled to capacity for nearly every game, a favorable omen.
But there were rules to be obeyed, and tried-and-true formulas to respect. One of them was self-evident: you can’t have one great team scoring all the goals, with every other team in the league a bunch of nobodies. Without reliable opposition you lose your competitive edge, that ability to test yourself, to prove yourself worthy against a determined foe. In this, the Cosmos suffered a fate worse than sudden death.
In 1978, the NASL expanded to twenty-four teams. Conversely, while the Cosmos themselves were getting better at their own game, the quality of play went down everywhere else. There were teams formed in Texas and Hawaii, even in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, places the NASL had no business being in. As for the Cosmos, they were constantly on the road, with translators, stretch limos, hotel bookings, etc., all on the company dole. In fact, there was an over-abundance of hoopla; numerous league records were also being set for goals, wins, and attendance, but to what end? To victory in 1978, that’s what! And ABC Sports and their award-winning announcer Jim McKay covered it.
By 1979, Chinaglia was supposed to be calling the shots. He put together the team, the so-called “shadow government” (or the man behind the curtain, in David Hirshey’s words), with Coach Firmani and a fellow named Peppe Pinton coming along for the ride. A photograph is fleetingly flashed on the screen showing a beaming Steve Ross, with Chinaglia in half-shadow in the center (his face turned partially to the side), Professor at far right in wide-framed glasses, and João Havelange, President of FIFA from 1974 to 1998 (1:19:45 to 1:19:46) in suit and tie. Ah, to have been a fly on that wall!
True, the Cosmos were ratcheting up the victories, and Giorgio was busy scoring goals — a win-win situation for all, one would assume. That is, until the team ran into the Vancouver White Caps and the infamous shootout phase. Five seconds left, Nelsi Morais beat the goalie to the punch. Nelsi scores! But time had run out for the Cosmos, and for the league. Poor scheduling (a matchup at high noon on a hot and humid Saturday in July) led to even poorer TV ratings. After one year ABC canceled their contract. That spelled doom not only for the team but for the entire league. Back-biting, finger-pointing, and infighting resulted. Everybody blamed the man in charge, Chinaglia, for the debacle. A convenient enough scapegoat, according to his detractors, but the truth was far more complicated.
In 1982, the Cosmos won their fifth title, then under Mazzei’s stewardship. The team photo (at 1:24:10 to 1:24:17) shows the natty Professor, smiling amid the turbulence as was his nature, seated strategically between Chinaglia and Beckenbauer (keeping the “giants” at bay, so to speak), just as the NASL was collapsing around them, the result of a bloated budget and the lack of a profitable television deal.
To add to their misfortunes, Atari, Warner Communication’s prize video-game baby, had crashed and burned, a one-day, billion-dollar loss, leaving in its wake a “tsunami of red ink” that Ross could not ignore. One of the last full team shots in the documentary (panning from left to right at 1:25:01 to 1:25:06) features everyone from Jay Emmett, Steve Ross, and the Cosmos players to the animated Ertegun brothers. But where was the Professor? After so many images of the bespectacled trainer, mentor, and coach, Mazzei had become even more pronounced by his absence. With that, Warner started to trim the fat.
Also in 1982, Colombia had withdrawn as the host nation for the 1986 World Cup competition. Perhaps this would be the shot in the arm that soccer needed to ensure its continued existence. An enthusiastic Ross campaigned hard to get the tournament staged for the first time ever in North America, a sign of soccer’s growing importance in our hemisphere. It was here that Professor Mazzei was called back into action. We see another photo of Steve Ross, similar to the one above of Ross, Chinaglia, and Havelange, this time with an ever-so-slight portion of Professor’s face (at 1:26:08 to 1:26:11), from his left eye up to his head, being exposed — emblematic, one would think, of his diminished position behind the scenes. Despite the politicking and glad-handing invested in the effort, the bid went to Mexico (they had previously hosted the contest in 1970). No explanation was given for the turndown.
In 1984, the Cosmos was dissolved.
A group shot (from 1:28:16 to 1:28:20) includes, from left to right, Clive Toye, Jay Emmett, Steve Ross, and Gordon Bradley, surrounding the constantly smiling Pelé, who occupies the central position. He is holding the NASL soccer ball in the palm of his hand — the “King” displaying his scepter, the world in his arms. Just below the ball, squatting in front and cut off from below eye level, is the distinctive visage of Professor Julio Mazzei.
Only his upper forehead remains visible — photographically speaking (and as far as the Cosmos were concerned), only half as significant a contributor to the organization as he used to be. But all that work wasn’t for naught.
“The legacy of the Cosmos would be that they lay the seeds for every player that plays in this country today.” Thus spoke former Cosmos goalie Shep Messing. “Can you imagine a team like the Cosmos today?” quizzed Chinaglia appreciatively. “With the talent they had on the field? It would be worth a billion dollars!”
Indeed they would.
Steven Jay Ross passed away in 1992. He would never witness the arrival of the World Cup to the United States, which came in the summer of 1994. The film’s hopeful sign off, however, affirmed that “After the success of the 1994 World Cup, a new league, the Major League Soccer (MLS) was formed in 1996.” As an added bonus, it flashed this tidbit of information:
“The US National Team has qualified for every World Cup since 1990.”
Pelé, the lone superstar at the start, and the world’s greatest soccer player before and after his time with the team, declined to be interviewed for the documentary (his salary demands alone would have exceeded the film’s budget). His testimony wasn’t required, for without a doubt his one shot at popularizing the sport in the U.S. can be deemed a qualified success.
It was indeed a “once in a lifetime” achievement, an extraordinary story of a team and a league that rose from the ashes of its own destruction to become a major force in American sports. That achievement involved a number of individuals, among them the ever-present Professor Julio Mazzei.
Despite his reduced capacity, Mazzei’s influence continued to be felt as the team’s trainer and board member, as well as a spokesperson not just for the Cosmos but for the sport itself. He and Pelé would circumnavigate the globe by putting on countless soccer clinics and training workshops in over 70 countries. Mazzei even participated in a film, Pelé: The Master and His Method, specifically geared to young people with an interest in the skills and techniques required of the game.
I learned later from Professor’s daughter, Marjorie Mazzei Raggo, the reason for her father’s absence as an interview subject: by the time the documentary was being shot and edited, her father had come down with Alzheimer’s disease. “He no longer recognizes me or even speaks, much less talks about futebol. Can you believe it?” Unfortunately, we can. Unable to speak for himself. Professor is there in spirit.
After a lifetime spent in pursuit of soccer excellence, Julio Mazzei passed away on May 10, 2009, in the seaside resort city of Santos where he and Pelé first crossed paths.
One of the last scenes in the documentary (at 1:31:23 to 1:31:31) brings back one of the earliest: that of Pelé being hugged by his Cosmos teammates, Steve Hunt and Nelsi Morais, with an exuberant Professor Mazzei alongside as chief celebrant and supporter — the very symbol of joy and passion for the game, of an enthusiasm borne of sheer love for the sport; a childlike purity and naiveté that can only be captured by film and by those who knew him personally.
Although his name is nowhere to be found in the opening or closing credits, Mazzei’s handiwork is evident from start to finish. If his and Pele’s stories, as well as those of soccer itself, are the proverbial immigrant stories of crushing defeat turned into lasting victory; of fame and fortune and having “made it” in America (in Portuguese, de fazer America), then their time here was well spent.
With arms raised in triumph, all hats are off to the man behind the glasses. Not only was he friends with the great Pelé, he was everyone’s friend in soccer. ☼
Copyright © 2017 by Josmar F. Lopes
Julio Mazzei, the Cosmos and the Untold Story of the Man Behind the Glasses (Part Two): Top of the Sports World
The Search for Order in the Soccer Universe
According to Clive Toye (in the 2006 documentary Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos), only one man could break through the antipathy toward the game of soccer in the U.S. And that man was Pelé, the hero of Brazil’s third World Cup victory. But how could they entice him?
Toye and Phil Woosnam, the North American Soccer League’s commissioner and investor in the team, claimed to have approached Pelé as far back as 1970 with an informal proposal to play in America. Their boss, Steve Ross, eventually saw the soccer icon as a marketing brand, a natural fit for their expanding organization; that television would be a huge moneymaker for the star and for the parent company, Warner Communications. We cut to a shot of Pelé in sunglasses, seated at a bench, with Professor Mazzei alongside wearing a white cap, a brown jacket, matching brown slacks, and aviator shades (26:47 to 26:53).
Jay Emmett, another investor in the franchise and later a Warner Communications executive, dispatched Cosmos lawyer Norman Samnick to São Paulo, Brazil, to see if he could sign the superstar to a contract. The problem with that move was that Pelé had been designated a national treasure by the Brazilian government, who refused to let him leave the country for any foreign offers. This was circumvented, somewhat, when Pelé decided to retire from the game by calling it a career in his home country.
Sensing a possible opening in their favor, the men proposed a US$2 million deal, but Pelé wanted more; to be exact, US$5 million for two years of play. Curiously, the reasons for his asking over and above the initial offering price are never explored. But there was a very good motive for his holding out for a higher amount: contrary to his prowess on the playing field, Pelé was not the most astute individual when it came to business acumen or money matters.
In Brazil, he had cosigned for a loan that had gone sour. The bank that was owed the money pressed him for payment, which numbered in the millions of dollars. Desperate to get out of the mess he had found himself in, Pelé turned to his closest advisers (thirty-two in number, according to a wisecracking Jay Emmett), one of whom was Professor Mazzei. The Professor, along with Pelé’s wife Rosemeire, his brother Zoca, and a financier named Xisto, met over the course of several months to discuss the alternatives. After much needling and cajoling, and through their joint efforts, they convinced Pelé that his best (and only) option would be to work out a mutually advantageous pact with the “gringos” in return for a three-year commitment to the team and a longer one to the Warner Communications group.
In a black-and-white photograph from the period, Professor Mazzei can be spotted, wearing a checkered jacket and looking over the contracts with former Cosmos executive Rafael de la Sierra (28:55 to 28:57). The shot shows de la Sierra in the middle right, with Mazzei, his right hand raised in a pontiff-like blessing over the documents, at center left, and Toye seated at far left; a table cluttered with paper, accompanied by ashtrays filled to overflowing, can also be observed. (The prevailing mood was one of having pulled an excess of all-nighters!)
From the looks and stances of the various participants, it was obvious that money had been the main stumbling block. As far as high-flying salaries went, baseball’s home-run king, Hank Aaron, had made US$200,000 that year — and he was the highest paid player in sports. Many years have passed since these events took place, yet there are still differences of opinion about how much Pelé was paid for his services: a five-part contract, at one million per year; a ten-year public relations contract; a million-dollar record deal; and one million for three years of actual play. In the final analysis, the figure was somewhere between $2.7 and $7 million, at 1974 rates — any way you slice it, this was an unimaginable sum at the time that, unfortunately, went mostly toward paying back the loan Pelé had unwittingly cosigned for.
Once again, we are shown a photo of a dazed Professor Mazzei (at 29:28 and 29:30) with a mass of cigarette butts on the table; and faded footage of Mazzei (at 30:31 to 30:33) looking over and/or behind Pelé’s shoulder, with Jay Emmett directly behind him. Pelé embraces his new boss, Steve Ross, and then pats Emmett on the back to officially “seal the deal.” Significantly, Pink Floyd’s song “Money” plays on the soundtrack, which sets the proper tone.
We learn, too, that Henry Kissinger was also involved in bringing Pelé to the U.S. (Brazil did not want to let him go, so they continued to play hard to get). Through some behind-the-scenes politicking and arm-twisting, Kissinger, who was still highly influential as U.S. Secretary of State, along with others in the Brazilian government, were able to make the miracle happen “for the good of the relationship of Brazil and the United States.”
The contract was officially announced at the 21 Club in Manhattan, in what Daily News columnist David Hirshey claimed was held “in a room aptly named the Hunt Room, as if Pelé [were] the prize catch.” Pelé was two hours late (the quip was that he was on “Pelé time,” not New York time). When he finally did arrive, guess who was standing behind him? Professor Mazzei, his trainer and mentor at Santos Soccer Club, dressed in a blue business suit, white shirt, and natty striped tie (33:39 to 33:42). He is seen directing traffic at or near the podium, as Pelé waves to the press corps and shakes hands all around. Veteran sportswriter and severe soccer critic Dick Young can be heard heckling the participants from the back of the room. Nevertheless, Pelé’s charm and charisma energized those present, especially the reporters who likewise became instant fans. This positive show of support resulted in record attendance at the Cosmos games, though Young remained a powerful skeptic.
After the contract was signed (and with Pelé’s wife by his side), Mazzei turned to the expectant crowd. Translating for the “King” while inadvertently echoing Frank Sinatra’s rendition of Kander and Ebb’s “New York, New York,” the Professor issued the following proclamation to a warm round of applause: “You can spread out the news to all the world that the soccer arrived finally in USA” (34:50 to 34:58).
Intermission: Rise & Shine
Meanwhile, at Randall’s Island, Pelé is seen patting two small boys on the head, while the ever-watchful, ever-present Professor Mazzei, in jacket and tie (36:30 to 36:34), looks on in the near distance. A bit earlier, Mazzei, dressed in an orange-colored, long-sleeved jersey (35:29 to 35:35), is caught observing the superstar going through his training routine. Next, Pelé enters the stadium for his first match as a Cosmos player. And who do we see trailing behind him, in dark glasses, wide-open collar, and plaid jacket? You guessed it: good ole Professor Mazzei (36:39 to 36:40). Thus began the North American leg of Pelé’s career at the age of thirty-four.
The first game took place at Downing Stadium, on June 15, 1975, against the Dallas Tornado. The score was tied at 2-2. Pelé had done well for himself, with an assist and a header in the process. When it was over, Pelé went down to the showers. The locker room was packed to the rafters with wall-to-wall reporters. Out of the blue, he called Rafael de la Sierra to come over and shouted, over the din of competing voices, that this would be the first and last game he would play for the team. “Look at my feet,” he cried. “I have a fungus that I contracted here!”
De la Sierra was stunned by the accusation, but it turned out the alleged “fungus” was nothing more than green spray-paint used to brighten up and prettify the substandard field. Crouching down at Pelé’s hallowed feet, which were covered in filthy, mud-drenched socks, was the unmistakable form of Professor Mazzei (38:51 to 38:55), in the same green baseball cap and Cosmos sweatpants he sported at the beginning of the documentary. When Pelé realized the ridiculousness of his claim, he broke out into an amused grin. We can sense a collective sigh of relief.
“I come to play in America,” Pelé later announced before the camera, “because I believe in soccer in America. Kids here love the sport, the American people’s sport naturally. I come to play here because I know, in a few years we’ll have a good team in America.”
How right he was — and how prophetic as well. His presence continued to shatter attendance records, the voiceover makes known, although that first season ended with the Cosmos missing the playoffs. Soon after, Pelé was invited to the White House, where he put on a brief demonstration for then-President Gerald Ford, with Professor Mazzei (42:38 to 42:49) interpreting as the need arose.
Things got better as the Cosmos moved to Yankee Stadium. As a matter of fact, many people have taken credit for bringing Pelé to the U.S. and to the Cosmos. However, it remains a mystery that the one man who became his most trusted companion — his trainer, his mentor, and his English language translator as well as his frequent travel partner — goes unmentioned.
From then on, things picked up for professional soccer in America. At Franz Beckenbauer’s signing, there was the ubiquitous Professor Mazzei, standing at extreme left and flanking Ahmet Ertegun, Werner Roth (captain of the Cosmos), Pelé, Mr. Ross, the Kaiser, and Chinaglia. But Pelé, it can be stated, was without a doubt the player who started the literal ball rolling, the one who could lay claim to the mantle of having given soccer the propriety it lacked in North America. As a result, the likes of Gordon Banks, Rodney Marsh, Geoff Hurst, and George Best were all attracted to the States.
Steve Ross wanted a winner above all else. This is why he recruited the Italian striker Giorgio Chinaglia, who is variously described as a “backstabbing individual,” a person “who scored a lot of goals,” but who was generally disliked; “a very disagreeable fellow at times,” but one who “was extremely passionate about soccer” (according to Ross’ son, Mark). He was also the “man to put the ball in the back of the net,” exactly what Ross required. And maybe what the Cosmos needed at that point. Ego and temperament were what drove Chinaglia to become the league’s highest scorer; whereas aptitude and ability made Pelé the leader in assists.
Despite Chinaglia’s reputation as a playboy, he and Ross got along well together, former Cosmos goalie Shep Messing insisted. “Giorgio had won a soft side in the heart of Steve Ross.” Obviously, this led to friction between the two prima donnas of the team, Pelé and Chinaglia. Not that Pelé was the “diva” type, the kind to throw temper tantrums at the drop of a hat; it was that Giorgio craved being the rock star, the idol of millions — he certainly had the dark, smarmy looks and the requisite brooding mien. He also needed the adulation (both the boos and the cheers), the attention, and the hangers-on. This was not the case with Pelé, who had enough self-possession and assurance not to require those things. He had been in the spotlight for half his life, ever since his 1958 World Cup debut in Sweden, ergo he was used to being at the center of the soccer world.
They clashed in the locker room, where emotions ran high, exploding in a torrent of recriminations and four-letter words. Egos inevitably took over, especially Chinaglia’s. David Hirshey, sports columnist and author who wrote a biography of Pelé, talked about the women, “a blonde on each arm,” as he recalled the soccer star having at one point. In that, Pelé and Giorgio saw eye-to-eye.
This helped to explain how the Cosmos lost the 1976 Championship to their rivals, the Tampa Bay Rowdies, by a score of 3-1. Wine, women, and song were to blame — in this instance, two bottles of Chivas Regal, according to Tampa Bay’s star player, Rodney Marsh. The boss, Mr. Ross, was not at all pleased. To escape the inevitable fallout, the Cosmos were sent on a tour of Europe, where they became literal “goodwill ambassadors,” in the words of Rafael de la Sierra.
Rodney Marsh, often hailed as “the white Pelé,” then relates the story of how he corrected a reporter who had interviewed him by insisting that Pelé [was] the black Rodney Marsh. “This did not go over well,” he confessed. With that, there is a shot of the team leaving their plane as it lands in London. Professor Mazzei is there, looking dapper in a gray-blue sports shirt and trademark dark glasses (53:16 to 53:18).
In the decade between the 1960s and the mid-70s, soccer in America had been transformed into its own type of sport, tailored specifically to U.S. audiences: that meant halftime shows, tailgate parties, leggy cheerleaders, a colorful mascot, and the piece de résistance — no tied games.
“You needed a winner,” Rodney Marsh would say. So teams would go first into a mini-game, then O.T., and finally the dreaded penalty shootout — only, this wasn’t the standard shootout it would become today; it was a one-on-one rush at the goalie! Some of the players despised the idea, while others loved it; either way, it brought additional excitement to the game. The players stood thirty-five yards from the goal mouth, and were given only five seconds to get off a shot before time would be called. The crowds ate it up.
Take the Credit, but Spread the Blame
The Cosmos had been playing at Yankee Stadium until the final year, 1977, when they moved across the river to the newly built Meadowlands in New Jersey. They even added the Cosmos Cheerleaders (one of whom, a young woman named Marjorie, was Professor Mazzei’s daughter!). Also, a guy in a Bugs Bunny outfit, on loan from Jungle Habitat in New Jersey, would become their unofficial mascot in the stands and on the field. They were Americanizing the sport, at the same time that Steve Ross was continuing his efforts toward “internationalizing” the team (a contradiction in terms).
“It was like Noah’s Ark,” described Rose Ganguzza, Pelé’s manager from 1975-77. That year, there were fourteen new players from seven countries, among which was the twice-named European Player of the Year, the “Kaiser” Franz Beckenbauer. As mentioned earlier, at the signing, to the far left of the Ertegun brothers, Pelé, Ross, Beckenbauer, and Chinaglia, was Professor Mazzei, standing ramrod straight with his hands at his side and glancing down at his cuticles (57:18 to 57:20).
Chinaglia went berserk at the news of the signing, openly questioning why they, the Cosmos, needed another star player when they already had him! One reason was that the Cosmos were losing more games than winning them; another was that they were only drawing twenty or so thousand fans to their home games, in a stadium with a capacity for three times that much. So they were losing money with every game. And, as we learned, Ross did not like to lose anything — especially money.
In response to the crisis, Ross brought the heavy artillery out to the stadium, i.e., all the singers and actors under contract to Warner Communications. They were enlisted for their drawing power: Bette Midler, Barbra Streisand, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Muhammad Ali, Quincy Jones, Henry Kissinger — you name ‘em, they had ‘em. Andy Warhol, David Bowie, Steven Spielberg, the list was endless. In Clive Toye’s words, “The bloody locker room was littered with people. It was becoming a joke.” Once, Mick Jagger was mistaken by Gordon Bradley for a drug addict, he looked so abysmally bad. Mick and Kissinger visited regularly, as did many other celebrities, which took attention away from the game and those playing it.
After a while, Toye resigned his post and Bradley was summarily fired. It seemed that Bradley had wanted to bounce Chinaglia from the team, but upon Bradley’s firing, Giorgio recommended that Eddie Firmani be hired to take his place. Firmani had led Tampa Bay to victory in 1976. Toye insisted that Giorgio “had a malign influence over Ross,” and therefore over the Cosmos. Giorgio was the “suck-up”: whenever he’d score a goal, he would run up to the boss’ box and wave and gesticulate in Steve’s direction, paying homage to the kingmaker, as it were. This was a smart move on Giorgio’s part since he too had been dropped by Coach Bradley. He needed to get back into Ross’ good graces, and this was one sure way to do it. In the end, the striker would win out over his adversaries.
Even with Chinaglia’s goal-scoring facility, the team lost five of their subsequent matches. So the search was on for new blood: Carlos Alberto, the captain of Brazil’s 1970 World Cup team, was brought in from São Paulo. Carlos Alberto revealed that the day he arrived in New York, July 13, 1977, was the day of the big blackout. Crime, looting, arson, robberies … The Son of Sam serial killer was still on the loose, and the impending bankruptcy of New York City was in the air, along with gun shots, fire alarms, police sirens, and billows of black smoke— the place was in turmoil. I lived through those rough times, with the blackout doing the most damage to the city’s reputation. These were exceedingly difficult days to overcome. Having a winning, championship team to rally behind helped to pull the city from the brink.
Meanwhile, the Cosmos players were living it up at Studio 54 (equivalent to Nero fiddling while Rome burned), with stretch limos escorting them to and fro after each game, and to a huge section reserved for the team. The rock-star milieu had finally come to U.S. soccer in that they held a party there every Monday night.
There is a snapshot of Pelé at a table, with his then-wife Rosemeire to his left; to Pelé’s right is Nelsi Morais, one of the first Brazilians to be signed by the Cosmos, and his wife; to Rosemeire’s left is the ubiquitous Professor Mazzei, and at the extreme right side is Mazzei’s wife, Maria Helena (1:04:32 to 1:04:35). They are raising their glasses in a toast to fun and frolic — the Brazilian contingency at play.
On August 14, 1977, a sold out audience of 77,691 screaming fans at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands saw the Cosmos seize the playoff bench from the Fort Lauderdale Strikers. The team went on to win the 1977 Soccer Bowl against Portland, thanks to a squeaked-through goal by Steve Hunt and a tremendous header by Chinaglia. And they did it for Pelé; they wanted him to end his career on top as a winner. Act II came to a climax. It was the arc of triumph, the pinnacle of field performance for the New York Cosmos.
It would all come crashing down in the years to come.
(End of Part Two – To be continued….)
Copyright © 2017 by Josmar F. Lopes
Who’s That Guy?
Less than a minute into the 2006 documentary Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos and simultaneous with the opening credits, the figure of an unidentified individual enters the frame.
He approaches from the extreme right-hand side of the screen. Wearing sweatpants, a green-and-white baseball cap, matching green-and-white jacket, and aviator-style glasses, the gentleman joins Cosmos winger Steve Hunt and midfielder Nelsi Morais in congratulating their team’s superstar, the incomparable Pelé. We see him mouth the word “GOAL!” as he moves in for an impromptu group hug of the above-named players.
In the blink of an eye he’s gone, to be replaced by other “golden-age” highlights of the era including familiar voiceovers and more than a few talking heads.
As the film progresses, this anonymous entity continues to put in an appearance at key moments in the story. And not just side-by-side with Pelé, but with the members of the extended Cosmos “family,” most notably Italian striker Giorgio Chinaglia, German midfielder Franz Beckenbauer, fellow Brazilian Carlos Alberto, Warner Communications chief Steve Ross, and a host of influential others.
He can even be spotted in numerous photographs, snapshots, video clips, and film footage covering the eight-year period from 1974 to 1982. In all, he is shown a grand total of fifteen times during the course of the feature.
However, the most surprising thing about this person is that he is never labeled or acknowledged in any of the scenes or photos he appears in, not even when serving as Pelé’s interpreter at the legendary 21 Club in Manhattan.
No doubt there is a valid reason why this fellow is pictured so prominently (albeit fleetingly) throughout the documentary. One should add that the bespectacled gentleman in question remains the unsung “hero” of the Cosmos organization, one of several participants who helped legitimize the game of soccer in the U.S. — and who, along with a player named Edson Arantes do Nascimento, aka Pelé, made the sport what it is today.
That fellow is Julio Mazzei. And this is his untold story.
It’s been claimed that Mazzei and Pelé were bonded to each other in a uniquely symbiotic relationship. The Professor, as he was called by those who knew him (by virtue of advanced degrees in physical education, coaching, and sports and recreation), would often make light of his closeness to, and association with, the world’s greatest soccer player: “People assumed we were joined at the hip,” was how he jokingly phrased it.
But the joke was on them, for in ways both inevitable and prophetic it was their mutual participation in the sport that brought these two personable talents together.
Born on August 27, 1930 in the town of Guaiçara, in the interior of the state of São Paulo, Brazil, Mazzei came from a large family of Italian extraction. He grew up surrounded by sports, principally the one favored by his ethnic background (calcio in Italian, or futebol as Brazilians like to refer to it). While he was still small, the family moved to the municipality of Araçatuba, and later to Araraquara. It was in both these cities that Mazzei’s life-long passion for group sports and physical activity were cultivated and expanded.
In the early 1950s, Mazzei temporarily left Brazil to study at the Institut National des Sports in Paris. A year later, he and his bride, Maria Helena, traveled to Michigan State University in East Lansing, where Mazzei continued his postgraduate studies in sports education. Learning and speaking English was another of Professor’s principal achievements. In the interim, Dona Helena occupied herself with natural childbirth classes, which she took full advantage of later on in order to assist expectant soccer wives during their labor.
Professor became affiliated with Palmeiras Soccer Club in São Paulo around the year 1962, where his love of coaching and training was first put to the test. In 1965, after expressing dissatisfaction with the Palmeiras organization, Mazzei moved with his young family to the beachfront community of Santos in the capacity of the club’s conditioning coach and assistant trainer. This was also the team where the sixteen-year-old Pelé had gotten his start. In addition to which Mazzei was the assistant coach to the Brazilian national team from 1964 to 1965.
In the years before Professor and Pelé were invited to come to New York, Mazzei had developed the physical conditioning methods (known variously as Interval-Training and Circuit-Training) that would make him a known quantity in his native country. He would go on to guide that “goal-scoring machine” called Santos and, eventually, the New York Cosmos into the championship clubs they eventually became.
Upon leaving Brazil, Mazzei joined the Cosmos organization in 1975 as a fitness instructor and assistant coach, and in 1979 he became the auxiliary coach. He went on to serve on the board of directors from 1980 to 1982, when he was appointed the team’s head coach through November 1983. When he left the team, Mazzei had the highest percentage of wins of any of the North American Soccer League’s coaches.
None of this background is indicated or even hinted at in Once in a Lifetime. To those unfamiliar with Mazzei’s extraordinary contributions to the game, he’s a faintly elusive individual in soccer history, a somewhat shadowy behind-the-scenes figure who occupies the fringes of yesterday’s sports pages. This is a misconception the film inadvertently perpetuates and which this piece will endeavor to correct.
In my mind, the real issue is why a man of Professor’s unquestioned qualifications and repute went unmentioned in the 97-minute retelling of the decade-long rise and precipitous fall of the Cosmos soccer team and the accompanying North American Soccer League.
For that, we must delve into the documentary itself.
No Fat Ladies Allowed, Only Fat Men
The opening montage of Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos shows a variety of individuals talking about the team, and about the “best and worst of what soccer in America was” back in the mid- to late sixties. Narrated by actor Matt Dillon, directed by Paul Crowder and John Dower, and written by Mark Monroe, with the story credited to Mr. Monroe and Mr. Dower, the documentary is basically a tell-all record of the brief time when soccer first captured the attention of American sports fans.
We learn that soccer was imported to the U.S. by immigrants who came through the gates of Ellis Island. Much like the millions of other ethnicities that over a century ago came to this country, soccer was the property of “hyphenated” Americans: Italian-Americans, Polish-Americans, German-Americans, Greek-Americans, and Slavic-Americans (even us Brazilian-Americans). No matter where they came from or what language they spoke, the thing these new arrivals had in common was their love for the game.
By way of comparison, the documentary mentions the copious starts-and-stops in American sports, for example, when seen on television and as demonstrated by those frequent breaks for commercial messages. These are contrasted with soccer’s continuous ebb and flow with no natural breaks — except, of course, for halftime activities and timeouts for unexpected injuries.
Shifting gears, we transition to tenor Giuseppe Di Stefano singing the aria, “Nessun dorma” (“No one sleeps”), from Puccini’s last opera Turandot. “What is opera doing in a documentary about an American soccer team?” you might ask. As near as we can figure, it may have been an unsubtle signal about how the Cosmos players, including their top-drawer goal-scorers, would spend their “off hours” partying into the night. But that was still to come!
Soccer is likened here to a two-act play, whereby the game is concentrated into two action packed halves of 45-minutes duration each, with a 15-minute interval in between. Be that as it may, initially there was no passion for soccer in America during the first half of the twentieth century because, as strange as it may seem (especially with all those new arrivals) there was no soccer at all — certainly not in 1960. We’re told the U.S. was a barren landscape for the sport, which I can personally vouch for.
Enter Mr. Steve Ross, a charismatic, highly successful businessman who went on to develop the media aspects of the game from scratch. Ross did this before those titans of cable-TV land, Ted Turner and Rupert Murdoch, had begun to make their own mark in the broadcasting field.
There were others beside Ross who actively campaigned to transform the American brand of soccer into something else entirely — specifically, two brothers from Turkey, Ahmet and Nesuhi Ertegun, who founded the R&B label, Atlantic Records. They brought to the northern hemisphere a fanatical devotion to the sport as well as a knack for spotting latent talent.
Moving on to the 1966 World Cup final at Wembley Stadium between England and West Germany, England won the game in overtime. As an impressionable twelve-year-old boy, I distinctly remember watching the final with my father and younger brother on ABC-TV, the only network that transmitted the live event to our apartment. At the time, football was about to enter its prime, with the Super Bowl and some extremely successful teams flourishing and coming into their own. This made the competition for ratings and TV airtime fiercer than ever.
Four years later, a pivotal matchup occurred between two-time champions Brazil and Italy at the 1970 World Cup in Mexico City where Pelé made his final tournament appearance. Unlike the previous cup, this time there wasn’t a single TV station in the greater metropolitan area that bothered to show either the qualifying matches or the final. For that, our family had to take the IRT subway line to Madison Square Garden to see the games on giant closed-circuit screens.
In the meantime, Ross brought the Atlantic Records division into the Warners fold and with it the Ertegun brothers’ worship of the game. With Brazil’s third World Cup victory fresh in their minds, these two farsighted entrepreneurs saw the potential for starting a homegrown soccer team literally from scratch. In fact, they were unabashed in singing the sport’s praises to a somewhat skeptical but willing-to-try-anything Mr. Ross.
As a result of their efforts, Clive Toye was hired as general manager of the nameless team. Almost immediately Toye began to recruit players. But what the franchise needed above all else was a catchy name and a star attraction. Once the “Cosmos” moniker was agreed upon, British head coach Gordon Bradley was welcomed aboard in 1971. Back then, the newly christened team was comprised of such unknowns as Werner Roth, Shep Messing, Randy Horton, and a ragtag collection of semi-professionals. As the saying goes, big things come from small beginnings. And they couldn’t have come any smaller than this bunch.
From its conception the Cosmos had been playing their matches at Hofstra University in Long Island. To persuade the fans to come to their games, Ross made the shrewd decision to move the team closer to the city, to Downing Stadium on Randall’s Island. That was in 1974. Despite this bold maneuver, the Cosmos still needed a high-profile player to draw the crowds and make both the team and the league as financially lucrative as possible.
But who would be willing to join a no-name, startup soccer league in America — and for what price?
(To be continued…)
Copyright © 2016 by Josmar F. Lopes