Brazil does love its football. It is the one great unifier in a country with deep social, political and cultural divides. During the 2014 World Cup every goal by the national team was greeted by city-wide cheers and fireworks around the country, while the humiliating 7-1 defeat to Germany in the semi-final is still a ‘Nam-like wound on the national psyche, referred to these days only elliptically or through nervous jokes.
At social gatherings, one of the first things I’m asked (after the standard gringo-in-Brazil routine) is which team I support. I don’t know how Brazilian guys who don’t like football cope in these situations, not least because I’ve never met any. I say I support Manchester United internationally and Corinthians domestically due to an immediate intervention by my father-in-law upon arrival. It could easily have been city rivals Palmeiras if Gaby’s uncle or cousin had got to me first, or if Corinthians hadn’t won the league convincingly in my first full season here (I am nothing if not a glory-hunter).
I keep an eye on Corinthians’ results and have been to a few home games, but it’s a fairly new and tenuous connection; Gaby, for her part, has no patience for the professional game at all and insists all the results are agreed beforehand, presumably to advance the interests of some shady global betting syndicate. I prefer to play myself - the second way football brings the country together – for two hectic, sweaty hours most Thursday nights.
Our arena is a dilapidated school gymnasium in Casa Verde that’s seen better days. Since the school has shown no interest in its upkeep, we’ve had to kit it out with new nets, repair the roof to protect against flooding and even put up scaffolding to perform a highly risky rescue job on the overhead lighting so we can keep on using it. The upside is a cheap rate and exclusive use, which I’m told is a rarity round these parts. Our administrator and talisman, Toninho, lives next door to the pitch and keeps things ticking over by collecting monthly dues, ironing bibs and locking up when it’s all over. Apparently he and Ridaut have been playing together since Gaby was in primary school, picking up a motley crew of futsalistas along the way, and he continues to act as ringleader once we get to the pub afterwards (more on that later).
In the run-up to the game our Whatsapp group chat sparks into life and Toninho begins the somewhat demeaning process of rallying players to confirm their attendance. It’s always touch-and-go whether we’ll get the 10 names required for a functional session because of holidays, work commitments, rain, cold, excessive heat or general ennui putting people off - half the guys in the group simply ignore the call and either turn up on the night or don’t. Things reached an extreme late last year when, with just one working ankle, I had to stand in (literally) in goal so we could have a 4-a-side kickabout, which wrapped up early because everyone was understandably knackered. We’ve had a good turnout in the past few weeks though, Carnaval notwithstanding, and I’ve finally persuaded a few friends from outside the usual football clique to join in.
We arrive at 8:30, make small talk, do our stretches and warm-up, and are sorted into two or three teams which alternate throughout the evening. This is a touchy subject since some of the players are extremely, almost comically competitive and resent being put in the same team as the, shall we say, lesser players such as myself. Futsal and five-a-side is a huge deal on the social calendar, often the only excuse harried men have for leaving the house and their partners for a few hours to hang out with the boys (and even then, I have seen relationships fall apart because of it). Accordingly, everyone in my peer group has been playing for years and is annoyingly good at it by comparison, although my initial fear that everyone would be streets ahead just by virtue of being Brazilian proved to be unfounded.
What I lack in talent I try to make up for by running around a lot, and not being old, overweight or hungover. Although I rarely score (usually one opportunistic toe-poke per game, no more, no less) I like to think that by running around up front I create enough of a distraction for the more talented players to work their magic. I tend to have more luck towards the end of the night when most people are tired and with one eye on the pub. Since they’re a nice bunch, players offer post-match encouragement and tactical analysis; sometimes they’ll tell me “jogou bem” (“you played well”), more often they’ll say “jogou muito” (“you played a lot”). While I’m sure the latter is meant to be complementary too, I’m aiming to improve the quantity/quality ratio over time…
The rules of play are simple enough – 10 minutes per game, the game ends when the ball goes out after the stopwatch beeps, winner stays on. No pass-backs to the goalkeeper, throw-ins are kick-ins and if the ball hits the corrugated-iron roof or the basketball nets overhead, it reverts to the other team. There are no referees so we’ve adopted an honour system where, if someone feels they’ve been fouled and says so, then it’s a foul and a free-kick, no questions asked. In practice this leads to a lot of heated discussion but that’s fine – I get the feeling some of the regulars show up just so they can have a good shout out of earshot of their loved ones. All is forgotten at full time, or at least by the time we reach the pub.
The small playing surface and team rotation ensures there are very few lulls, although when there are only enough players for two teams and one huge, two-hour game, it’s usually broken up into ten-minute chunks so we can get our breath back. There are no fixed positions either – goalkeepers can go marauding forwards if they wish, as long as they don’t use their hands outside of their area – and any discussion of tactics is usually reserved for damage limitation during particularly heavy defeats. It’s basically an attacking free-for-all where your best bet is to pick someone and try to mark him out of the game, before sprinting free on the counter-attack.
After a hearty appetizer of bread with vinaigrette and olive oil, we usually order a steaming platter of ribs or fried mandioca, accompanied by an endless supply of huge Brahma bottles which are gathered at the end of the table for the purpose of calculating the bill later on. Sometimes we’ll branch out and try some Wagyu beef which Gaucho has managed to get his hands on, but otherwise it’s a pretty unbeatable formula after two hours of running around like headless chickens.
I get the impression the football is merely a flimsy pretext to go to the pub most weeks. Conversation generally revolves around football, work, politics and beer - you know it’s the other person’s turn to talk because your head is filling up with fluid. At midnight we are given a saideira (one last Brahma, for the road and on the house) and turfed out on to the street so they can close up for the night, then it’s home to bed.
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