Wednesday, May 26, 2004
The Brazilian
"Aren't you supposed to fingerprint me and stuff...?"
Exercising an odd twitch, the young, casually dressed immigrations officer jams his finger in his ear and begins wiggling it around as if to clear some clogged neural path-"Oh yes! I forgot about that part."
Burping up little, nervous giggles he walks over to a dusty table and pulls a chunky digital camera from the drawer. He waves and I come around the glass to have my picture taken for the records. An early model PC hums and gurgles info in the corner; dutifully she performs the very important job of powering the screen-saver with a flowing Brazilian flag and with a ricocheting soccer ball endlessly searching for its goal. After a few pokes and squeezes the young man shamelessly hands me the camera to turn on for him. I hit power and find that the memory is full so I erase a few mug shots of plump, sunburnt, nervous Americans and hand it back.
"Pussy!"
"Huh?!"
"You say ‘pussy’ in America for pictures, no?"
"No man, for these type of pictures we don’t say anything..."
"Hmmm, OK…PUSSY!"
"Pussyyyyyyy…"
I am given a sincere hug and my papers back. The young man is still laughing at the ridiculousness of the mandatory security procedure as I cross the complex and enter the customs building to declare my bike. Mike, whose Canadian citizenship exempted him from the rank and file security farce, is already busy practicing his numbers in Portuguese with a paunchy customs official. The man seems to enjoy critiquing Mike’s horrible Canadian-Spanglish accent so I get in on the action as well.
Speaking in Spanish I ask for Portuguese translations -“How do you say- gasoline…food…hotel…money…beer…help…yes/no…?”
With these few powerful words added to my cadre of mutated linguistics I felt confident that we would have no trouble in this fine country.
Brazil is big. So big in fact that it called for its own map. You see, I used one, two-sided map to navigate from Mexico to Argentina without any trouble but it was shredded and covered with everything from blood to bird shit so I tossed it and dug out a road map of Brazil I had been carrying since I left home. Like the trusted Central and South America map I expired, my new one conveniently unfolded so as to stretch from shoulder to shoulder, head to lap.
Pushing our plates and Cokes aside we spread her out on the restaurant table and plotted our course to Parity where we were to meet Jim in 3 days for a final night of hell-raising before he shipped home.
Dragging a greasy fingernail across the fresh map-
"OK, so we started here…been riding hard since clearing the border at 9am…and we are now…HERE."
"Damn…300 kilometers sure doesn’t look like much on this map, maybe we should switch back to the old one…"
"I don’t think we are going to be able to rendezvous with Jim by Friday man. Brazil is bloody huge."
So, with very little thought or discussion about the manner of which we were to travel across this vast land, we decided to cut loose the plan to meet Jim before he returned to the states. Like that, the last of the timetable benchmarks was gone and for the first time since I started this trip 5 months before, I was not in a hurry to get anywhere. In fact, the next thing I had to do was buy a ticket home. Everything was different now. I could feel it; my travels were coming to and end. I am scared and happy but not eager to call it quits just yet.
"Let’s find a beach and get drunk for a few days."
"Excellent idea my friend...lets get busy."
As if the large, sporty motorcycles in the parking lot weren’t enough, the appearance of a map caused every man’s face at the luncheonette counter to go flush with excitement. There was MAN stuff going on, and they wanted in. I knew that if we asked for anything, including the bill for lunch we would be hammered with questions, suggestions, alternate route plans, phone numbers, political commentary, the weather and free couches to crash on. Fearing an afternoon of polite smiles and tragic English-Spanish-Portuguese quibbling we folded up the map, paid for or meal, fired up the beasts and re-entered the perpetual rally race that is Brazilian highway riding.
After 3 weeks of Argentinean meat orgies Mike and I felt compelled to start ‘the program’. A very scientific mix of healthy eats and low impact exercise that would get us primed for the white beaches of southern Brazil.
"No beer, no carbs, no fatty shit in addition to push-ups, sit-up and running."
"No problem."
We kept it up for about two weeks, but it proved too hard to do push-ups and sit-ups on dirty, cramped hotel floors. That portion of the program got cut. Additionally, seeing as all the luncheon joints only offered 'lanches', pre-made sandwiches and stuffed breads, the no carb portion of ‘the program’ was axed as well. Beer however remained taboo right up until we attended our first soccer game in Rio de Janeiro. This sacrifice proved to be worthwhile as we were forced to try new and exotic concoctions that most defiantly would not have been sampled, nevermind wholeheartedly integrated into our daily fuel intake. Fruits I have never seen would be hollowed out and filled with booze I have never seen and then garnished with a half cup of raw sugar cane. After two or three of these, inevitably sand and drool would be added to the mix. Pais tropicaue…
"Dude, I know it sucks, but will you rub sunscreen all over my back?"
"Good morning to you too…"
We were fast becoming beach bums. At first it was difficult not to be moving, punching a hole in the air at 90 mph past envious fathers with kids in tow or cinch lipped truckers limping over some drastic mountain pass. Indeed, it takes a little time and practice to feel comfortable, fulfilled…entertained doing absolutely nothing. It really is something to work towards, it was new to me, but I turned out to be a natural at laziness.
Two weeks dissolved like lingering foam on the warm sands of high tide. We would pack up the deck of cards, try to recall just how many we drank, pay our bill and help the waiter stack chairs as the sun slipped away. Just up the road a couple hundred clicks Rio rises from the sea and dances up the mountain passes that keep a watchful eye on its people. Like its host country, the city’s immense proportions require an overland arrival to be well coordinated and efficient.
"I say we just ride around the coast line until we start to see shabby looking hotels and pick one."
"As long as it has air-conditioning and a lock on the door I am game for whatever."
Quickly it became apparent that our methods of navigating the city would lead to a fiery death either by dehydration or vehicular catastrophe. Traffic was thick, but unlike North America bumper-to-bumper negotiations, the flow of cars did not slow up. Right on top of each other cars would wind through the streets going as fast as possible without actually making contact. Add the intermittent street vendor wheeling a homemade cotton-candy machine down the center lane or the rouge moped-masochist weaving between busses and taxis and you have the most challenging motorcycle environment in the world. After about 2 hours of clenched teeth and innumerable skidding stops and frantic acceleration maneuvers we decided to park on a side street and take turns walking around in full riding gear checking prices on dingy hotels.
"It’s two blocks up the street, twice as much as we usually pay, dirty and the room smells of infectious mold spores…"
"Does it have AC…a lock on the door?"
I met Junior in front of the majestic Copacabana Palace Hotel on the boardwalk right on time. Bruno, my sister’s Brazilian boyfriend from Dartmouth insisted that I call on his family while I was in his city. But, with Mrs. Caravlho tending to her father, Bruno’s long-time friend was sent out to meet me. Really, I expected the worst, a good buddy doing his duty by taking a visiting family friend out for a night on the town. Junior, like most people in Rio, was, in fact, eager to meet up and show-off his city. Instantly we became friends. After 20 minutes of conversation he made me promise that I would visit his birthing grounds deep in the jungles of the Amazon.
"Listen man, I think I should get paid by the Amazon Tourist Commission. I am like the biggest ambassador to the region. Listen man, I tell everyone about the land and people. I am very proud of where I come from."
Handing me his driver’s license he points to the “AM” under his birthday.
"You see, I am a son of the Amazon…Listen man, I got stories to tell you…but you have to see for yourself!"
Lest you have plans to visit Rio next year during April’s quarterfinals’ bonanza, my account of the event will have to do. I, however, agree with Junior- I really gotta see things in Brazil for yourself to grasp the energy of the moment.
Firstly, I should explain that Junior insisted I attend a soccer game with him before I go home so as to see the true spirit of the people. I agreed and the next day we were standing outside the Maracanã, the largest soccer stadium in the world waiting for the pre-game antics to heat-up. I was expecting some of his friends to join us, but he was alone. Apparently, his friends ARE Flumenencia and we ARE Vasco so we go it alone. Thing is, this was not just any old soccer match, but a meeting of the two most factious and popular teams in a city where nothing is done without a spark of riotous exuberance…especially soccer.
"Listen man, Vasco versus Flumenencia…it is going to be a fight to the death. No joking man, things are going to happen…Listen, you gotta see this, it is the heart of Brazilian people…this is everything to us."
Junior would always refer to himself AS Vasco, not a fan of Vasco. It would be like me saying I am a Red Sox or my buddies are Yankees…very odd. At first I thought it was merely a quirk in the literal translation from Portuguese, but soon I found that all fans referred to themselves as members of the team or creed, as it were. Perhaps it was the years of pickup soccer in the schoolyard that could explain this. As it turns out, it goes back much farther than that.
"Listen man, families have been destroyed over soccer. If you go to a girl’s house for dinner the first thing the father will ask you before sitting is what team you are. You better answer right or you are not a welcome person in that house, you will not get a second invite and that girl is in trouble for bringing an enemy to the family table."
I see the makings of a modern day, Brazilian Romeo and Juliet!
Shoulder to shoulder Junior and I strolled down the long bridge walkway leading from the aboveground subway platform to the demilitarized zone in front of the Vasco main entrance. At the top of the bridge we paused for a moment to take in the bigger picture of the crowd before we joined them in authorized, oblivious soccer fanaticism.
"Holy shit! Are we gonna be safe?!"
I turn to find Junior hopping in place like a Masai warrior, head bobbing. We gallop down to join our Vasco brethren.
"You see, each team has their own entrance, this side is ours today. You have to keep them apart; people would get killed if they were all mixed up together. You see, this is more than being Vasco or Flu, there is a social distinction between teams as well."
As we walked the circumference of the arena I began to see how the crowds celebrated and manifest themselves differently. Vasco fans were a rag-tag bunch, one might say 'thug-like'; more accurately, they are poor. Fans wore dirty soccer jerseys dating back years that bore the name of old sponsors…Seimen, Ace Laundry Detergent, Hyundai, etc. The newest jerseys did not bear the name of a sponsor as no company wanted to be affiliated with the team due to their fans hooligan tendencies and mobbed up president. Vasco is the working mans team in a country where hard work is, well... hard. They share their drink, hug, cry and fight like family. They believe in Vasco, in each other. There is a collective understanding, a willingness to do anything for the team they love.
Crossing the police barricades that separated the two sides without any difficulty (neither of us wore team jerseys) you could tell immediately that the Flumenencia fans (Young Flu as they are called) were of a different set. Fair skin, light hair, clean, fresh jerseys…all children carried soccer souvenirs and begged their fathers for another coco-gelato or bag or sweets. On the sidewalks, bare-chested and shoeless street kids sold Flu pens and plastic pennants...they would take their spoils and return to the Vasco stronghold when the game begins. I felt Vasco building inside of me, not a fan so much as an ideological compat…a much stronger bond. I hated the Young Flu already and we were only four tall bottles of beer deep and the game had not even started. Note to self: pace
An hour before the opening whistle we slug the remainder of our warming beers and walk up the ramp to the entrance. Junior undergoes a brief pat-down, which I am spared and we move on to find our seats in the open-seating section. The stands are filling up fast. Young Flu on one side and Vasco on the other with a ‘special section’ of non-affiliates separating the two. The heavy drums set the tone. Pounding methodically the age-old team chants grow louder and more frenzied.
"I hope you don’t mind standing man, Vasco says if you want to sit stay home and watch the game from your couch."
About 20 yards down the slope of the second story stands I watch as a group of 20 young men enter carrying a long, black roll of fabric that resembled a 50 by 50 foot carpet chanting 'we are the 7th family, when you hear us coming…get out of our way…etc'. In a burst of fireworks two men bolt up the crowded aisle ways pulling strings that unfurl the roll. Within just a few seconds the entire Vasco crowd is shrouded under a gigantic black and red Vasco flag. The sun is gone, I look to Junior for explanation, but he is lost in the moment, I gladly follow. We jumped up and down hitting the black fabric for a few seconds before it retreated back into a huge bundle of black at the feet of the proud 7th family. Only when Young Flu unfurled their gigantic flag over their crowd on the other side of the stadium did I understand the magnitude of the flags. Unfortunately for our foe, one of the runners on the way up the aisle lost his string and the flag revealed itself half-cocked. We all went crazy.
Collectively, "DUMB SHITS…DUMB SHITS…"
Soccer unlike most American sports bonanzas is not a high scoring game, for that reason, every play, pass, slide tackle and official ruling gives reason for the crowd to explode. With Vasco up by 1 heading into the final 10 minutes of plat I slipped away from Junior to grab a couple more brews to sip on our way out of the arena. Stepping off my chair I writhe through the wall of bodies swaying to the methodical beating of the war drums. Junior sees me slipping away and begins to dig in his pocket for money. I wave my hand declining his offer…"I got em’!"
I swivel around on my heels and start to wriggle my arms between a group of sweaty bare-chested fans. With an awkward little smile I mumble some gibberish that I hope people recognize means 'let me through'. Then I feel it. The crowd collectively starts to go tense and gasp as a Vasco player breaks away from the pack and bursts towards the Flu goal…Perched at the top of a crowded stairwell with half my body hanging over some drunk guys shoulder I hear it-
"GOOOOOAAAAAL! GOAL! GOAL GOALLLLLL!"
In an instant I am lifted off my feet. I relax my body as it soars up into the air and begins to pull at every joint. I am coming apart. Disoriented I hold my breath and prepare to bang my head against something. I rise even higher then fall hard, the force of 2000 pounds of pressure on every inch of my limp body convinces me it is almost over. I cannot take much more!
"Where is the sky? Find air…do not pass out!"
I feel the heat of the sun start to warm my back and I know I will make it. The water retreats and I am left lying on Ipanema Beach with my swim trunks hanging around my knees, baggy pockets oozing white sand down my scraped knees. I quickly yank up my suit as a large group of yelping boys dances by charging the next onslaught of the infamous late-afternoon surf. I sit at the edge of the water watching as there sleek bodies disappear in the waves without a splash only to be spit out seconds later. Smiling, joyfully coughing and snorting out the stinging water from their large nostrils they take their places up the beach and charge again, then again. Perhaps this time they will beat the wave and find themselves floating peacefully on the other side of the torrent in the open water. Floating above the shimmering waves as the sun steals off to another part of the Earth.
"Go get it guys…run like hell…"
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 11:47 AM
Exercising an odd twitch, the young, casually dressed immigrations officer jams his finger in his ear and begins wiggling it around as if to clear some clogged neural path-"Oh yes! I forgot about that part."
Burping up little, nervous giggles he walks over to a dusty table and pulls a chunky digital camera from the drawer. He waves and I come around the glass to have my picture taken for the records. An early model PC hums and gurgles info in the corner; dutifully she performs the very important job of powering the screen-saver with a flowing Brazilian flag and with a ricocheting soccer ball endlessly searching for its goal. After a few pokes and squeezes the young man shamelessly hands me the camera to turn on for him. I hit power and find that the memory is full so I erase a few mug shots of plump, sunburnt, nervous Americans and hand it back.
"Pussy!"
"Huh?!"
"You say ‘pussy’ in America for pictures, no?"
"No man, for these type of pictures we don’t say anything..."
"Hmmm, OK…PUSSY!"
"Pussyyyyyyy…"
I am given a sincere hug and my papers back. The young man is still laughing at the ridiculousness of the mandatory security procedure as I cross the complex and enter the customs building to declare my bike. Mike, whose Canadian citizenship exempted him from the rank and file security farce, is already busy practicing his numbers in Portuguese with a paunchy customs official. The man seems to enjoy critiquing Mike’s horrible Canadian-Spanglish accent so I get in on the action as well.
Speaking in Spanish I ask for Portuguese translations -“How do you say- gasoline…food…hotel…money…beer…help…yes/no…?”
With these few powerful words added to my cadre of mutated linguistics I felt confident that we would have no trouble in this fine country.
Brazil is big. So big in fact that it called for its own map. You see, I used one, two-sided map to navigate from Mexico to Argentina without any trouble but it was shredded and covered with everything from blood to bird shit so I tossed it and dug out a road map of Brazil I had been carrying since I left home. Like the trusted Central and South America map I expired, my new one conveniently unfolded so as to stretch from shoulder to shoulder, head to lap.
Pushing our plates and Cokes aside we spread her out on the restaurant table and plotted our course to Parity where we were to meet Jim in 3 days for a final night of hell-raising before he shipped home.
Dragging a greasy fingernail across the fresh map-
"OK, so we started here…been riding hard since clearing the border at 9am…and we are now…HERE."
"Damn…300 kilometers sure doesn’t look like much on this map, maybe we should switch back to the old one…"
"I don’t think we are going to be able to rendezvous with Jim by Friday man. Brazil is bloody huge."
So, with very little thought or discussion about the manner of which we were to travel across this vast land, we decided to cut loose the plan to meet Jim before he returned to the states. Like that, the last of the timetable benchmarks was gone and for the first time since I started this trip 5 months before, I was not in a hurry to get anywhere. In fact, the next thing I had to do was buy a ticket home. Everything was different now. I could feel it; my travels were coming to and end. I am scared and happy but not eager to call it quits just yet.
"Let’s find a beach and get drunk for a few days."
"Excellent idea my friend...lets get busy."
As if the large, sporty motorcycles in the parking lot weren’t enough, the appearance of a map caused every man’s face at the luncheonette counter to go flush with excitement. There was MAN stuff going on, and they wanted in. I knew that if we asked for anything, including the bill for lunch we would be hammered with questions, suggestions, alternate route plans, phone numbers, political commentary, the weather and free couches to crash on. Fearing an afternoon of polite smiles and tragic English-Spanish-Portuguese quibbling we folded up the map, paid for or meal, fired up the beasts and re-entered the perpetual rally race that is Brazilian highway riding.
After 3 weeks of Argentinean meat orgies Mike and I felt compelled to start ‘the program’. A very scientific mix of healthy eats and low impact exercise that would get us primed for the white beaches of southern Brazil.
"No beer, no carbs, no fatty shit in addition to push-ups, sit-up and running."
"No problem."
We kept it up for about two weeks, but it proved too hard to do push-ups and sit-ups on dirty, cramped hotel floors. That portion of the program got cut. Additionally, seeing as all the luncheon joints only offered 'lanches', pre-made sandwiches and stuffed breads, the no carb portion of ‘the program’ was axed as well. Beer however remained taboo right up until we attended our first soccer game in Rio de Janeiro. This sacrifice proved to be worthwhile as we were forced to try new and exotic concoctions that most defiantly would not have been sampled, nevermind wholeheartedly integrated into our daily fuel intake. Fruits I have never seen would be hollowed out and filled with booze I have never seen and then garnished with a half cup of raw sugar cane. After two or three of these, inevitably sand and drool would be added to the mix. Pais tropicaue…
"Dude, I know it sucks, but will you rub sunscreen all over my back?"
"Good morning to you too…"
We were fast becoming beach bums. At first it was difficult not to be moving, punching a hole in the air at 90 mph past envious fathers with kids in tow or cinch lipped truckers limping over some drastic mountain pass. Indeed, it takes a little time and practice to feel comfortable, fulfilled…entertained doing absolutely nothing. It really is something to work towards, it was new to me, but I turned out to be a natural at laziness.
Two weeks dissolved like lingering foam on the warm sands of high tide. We would pack up the deck of cards, try to recall just how many we drank, pay our bill and help the waiter stack chairs as the sun slipped away. Just up the road a couple hundred clicks Rio rises from the sea and dances up the mountain passes that keep a watchful eye on its people. Like its host country, the city’s immense proportions require an overland arrival to be well coordinated and efficient.
"I say we just ride around the coast line until we start to see shabby looking hotels and pick one."
"As long as it has air-conditioning and a lock on the door I am game for whatever."
Quickly it became apparent that our methods of navigating the city would lead to a fiery death either by dehydration or vehicular catastrophe. Traffic was thick, but unlike North America bumper-to-bumper negotiations, the flow of cars did not slow up. Right on top of each other cars would wind through the streets going as fast as possible without actually making contact. Add the intermittent street vendor wheeling a homemade cotton-candy machine down the center lane or the rouge moped-masochist weaving between busses and taxis and you have the most challenging motorcycle environment in the world. After about 2 hours of clenched teeth and innumerable skidding stops and frantic acceleration maneuvers we decided to park on a side street and take turns walking around in full riding gear checking prices on dingy hotels.
"It’s two blocks up the street, twice as much as we usually pay, dirty and the room smells of infectious mold spores…"
"Does it have AC…a lock on the door?"
I met Junior in front of the majestic Copacabana Palace Hotel on the boardwalk right on time. Bruno, my sister’s Brazilian boyfriend from Dartmouth insisted that I call on his family while I was in his city. But, with Mrs. Caravlho tending to her father, Bruno’s long-time friend was sent out to meet me. Really, I expected the worst, a good buddy doing his duty by taking a visiting family friend out for a night on the town. Junior, like most people in Rio, was, in fact, eager to meet up and show-off his city. Instantly we became friends. After 20 minutes of conversation he made me promise that I would visit his birthing grounds deep in the jungles of the Amazon.
"Listen man, I think I should get paid by the Amazon Tourist Commission. I am like the biggest ambassador to the region. Listen man, I tell everyone about the land and people. I am very proud of where I come from."
Handing me his driver’s license he points to the “AM” under his birthday.
"You see, I am a son of the Amazon…Listen man, I got stories to tell you…but you have to see for yourself!"
Lest you have plans to visit Rio next year during April’s quarterfinals’ bonanza, my account of the event will have to do. I, however, agree with Junior- I really gotta see things in Brazil for yourself to grasp the energy of the moment.
Firstly, I should explain that Junior insisted I attend a soccer game with him before I go home so as to see the true spirit of the people. I agreed and the next day we were standing outside the Maracanã, the largest soccer stadium in the world waiting for the pre-game antics to heat-up. I was expecting some of his friends to join us, but he was alone. Apparently, his friends ARE Flumenencia and we ARE Vasco so we go it alone. Thing is, this was not just any old soccer match, but a meeting of the two most factious and popular teams in a city where nothing is done without a spark of riotous exuberance…especially soccer.
"Listen man, Vasco versus Flumenencia…it is going to be a fight to the death. No joking man, things are going to happen…Listen, you gotta see this, it is the heart of Brazilian people…this is everything to us."
Junior would always refer to himself AS Vasco, not a fan of Vasco. It would be like me saying I am a Red Sox or my buddies are Yankees…very odd. At first I thought it was merely a quirk in the literal translation from Portuguese, but soon I found that all fans referred to themselves as members of the team or creed, as it were. Perhaps it was the years of pickup soccer in the schoolyard that could explain this. As it turns out, it goes back much farther than that.
"Listen man, families have been destroyed over soccer. If you go to a girl’s house for dinner the first thing the father will ask you before sitting is what team you are. You better answer right or you are not a welcome person in that house, you will not get a second invite and that girl is in trouble for bringing an enemy to the family table."
I see the makings of a modern day, Brazilian Romeo and Juliet!
Shoulder to shoulder Junior and I strolled down the long bridge walkway leading from the aboveground subway platform to the demilitarized zone in front of the Vasco main entrance. At the top of the bridge we paused for a moment to take in the bigger picture of the crowd before we joined them in authorized, oblivious soccer fanaticism.
"Holy shit! Are we gonna be safe?!"
I turn to find Junior hopping in place like a Masai warrior, head bobbing. We gallop down to join our Vasco brethren.
"You see, each team has their own entrance, this side is ours today. You have to keep them apart; people would get killed if they were all mixed up together. You see, this is more than being Vasco or Flu, there is a social distinction between teams as well."
As we walked the circumference of the arena I began to see how the crowds celebrated and manifest themselves differently. Vasco fans were a rag-tag bunch, one might say 'thug-like'; more accurately, they are poor. Fans wore dirty soccer jerseys dating back years that bore the name of old sponsors…Seimen, Ace Laundry Detergent, Hyundai, etc. The newest jerseys did not bear the name of a sponsor as no company wanted to be affiliated with the team due to their fans hooligan tendencies and mobbed up president. Vasco is the working mans team in a country where hard work is, well... hard. They share their drink, hug, cry and fight like family. They believe in Vasco, in each other. There is a collective understanding, a willingness to do anything for the team they love.
Crossing the police barricades that separated the two sides without any difficulty (neither of us wore team jerseys) you could tell immediately that the Flumenencia fans (Young Flu as they are called) were of a different set. Fair skin, light hair, clean, fresh jerseys…all children carried soccer souvenirs and begged their fathers for another coco-gelato or bag or sweets. On the sidewalks, bare-chested and shoeless street kids sold Flu pens and plastic pennants...they would take their spoils and return to the Vasco stronghold when the game begins. I felt Vasco building inside of me, not a fan so much as an ideological compat…a much stronger bond. I hated the Young Flu already and we were only four tall bottles of beer deep and the game had not even started. Note to self: pace
An hour before the opening whistle we slug the remainder of our warming beers and walk up the ramp to the entrance. Junior undergoes a brief pat-down, which I am spared and we move on to find our seats in the open-seating section. The stands are filling up fast. Young Flu on one side and Vasco on the other with a ‘special section’ of non-affiliates separating the two. The heavy drums set the tone. Pounding methodically the age-old team chants grow louder and more frenzied.
"I hope you don’t mind standing man, Vasco says if you want to sit stay home and watch the game from your couch."
About 20 yards down the slope of the second story stands I watch as a group of 20 young men enter carrying a long, black roll of fabric that resembled a 50 by 50 foot carpet chanting 'we are the 7th family, when you hear us coming…get out of our way…etc'. In a burst of fireworks two men bolt up the crowded aisle ways pulling strings that unfurl the roll. Within just a few seconds the entire Vasco crowd is shrouded under a gigantic black and red Vasco flag. The sun is gone, I look to Junior for explanation, but he is lost in the moment, I gladly follow. We jumped up and down hitting the black fabric for a few seconds before it retreated back into a huge bundle of black at the feet of the proud 7th family. Only when Young Flu unfurled their gigantic flag over their crowd on the other side of the stadium did I understand the magnitude of the flags. Unfortunately for our foe, one of the runners on the way up the aisle lost his string and the flag revealed itself half-cocked. We all went crazy.
Collectively, "DUMB SHITS…DUMB SHITS…"
Soccer unlike most American sports bonanzas is not a high scoring game, for that reason, every play, pass, slide tackle and official ruling gives reason for the crowd to explode. With Vasco up by 1 heading into the final 10 minutes of plat I slipped away from Junior to grab a couple more brews to sip on our way out of the arena. Stepping off my chair I writhe through the wall of bodies swaying to the methodical beating of the war drums. Junior sees me slipping away and begins to dig in his pocket for money. I wave my hand declining his offer…"I got em’!"
I swivel around on my heels and start to wriggle my arms between a group of sweaty bare-chested fans. With an awkward little smile I mumble some gibberish that I hope people recognize means 'let me through'. Then I feel it. The crowd collectively starts to go tense and gasp as a Vasco player breaks away from the pack and bursts towards the Flu goal…Perched at the top of a crowded stairwell with half my body hanging over some drunk guys shoulder I hear it-
"GOOOOOAAAAAL! GOAL! GOAL GOALLLLLL!"
In an instant I am lifted off my feet. I relax my body as it soars up into the air and begins to pull at every joint. I am coming apart. Disoriented I hold my breath and prepare to bang my head against something. I rise even higher then fall hard, the force of 2000 pounds of pressure on every inch of my limp body convinces me it is almost over. I cannot take much more!
"Where is the sky? Find air…do not pass out!"
I feel the heat of the sun start to warm my back and I know I will make it. The water retreats and I am left lying on Ipanema Beach with my swim trunks hanging around my knees, baggy pockets oozing white sand down my scraped knees. I quickly yank up my suit as a large group of yelping boys dances by charging the next onslaught of the infamous late-afternoon surf. I sit at the edge of the water watching as there sleek bodies disappear in the waves without a splash only to be spit out seconds later. Smiling, joyfully coughing and snorting out the stinging water from their large nostrils they take their places up the beach and charge again, then again. Perhaps this time they will beat the wave and find themselves floating peacefully on the other side of the torrent in the open water. Floating above the shimmering waves as the sun steals off to another part of the Earth.
"Go get it guys…run like hell…"
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 11:47 AM
