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Lukas Podolski loves Brazil. He learnt some Portuguese for the World Cup. He posted Instagram pics just for Brazilian fans. He writes on twitter using Brazilian hashtags such as #tamojunto and #énois.
Ever since Germany won the World Cup, he has made a point of stressing how much Brazil means to him.
At least that’s what the online Lukas Podolski wants us to think. The real Lukas Podolski is different.
A few weeks after the World Cup I was in a restaurant near Cologne, the city where Podolski made his name as a footballer and where he obviously still spends a lot of time when he isn’t at Arsenal.
There were about 20 people at our table, most of them Brazilians and Germans.
Lukas Podolski walked in. The Germans were cool. The Brazilians were excited. A murmur went round the table as people noticed him. Some of them waved and when he didn’t respond, one of the Brazilians gave a friendly shout, “Uhu! Podolski!” It was clear the fans at our table were Brazilian and thrilled to see up close someone who had spoke so highly of them.
Podolski glanced over, put his finger to his lips, and made the “Ssshhhhh” sign.
After he told us to shut up, everyone left him in peace. A few people were outraged at his arrogance, some just shrugged their shoulders. One German girl patiently waited until he had finished his meal and paid his bill and then asked him for a photo. He refused.
Podolski was with a woman and a child, who I presume were his wife and son. They, like everyone else, deserve a private life. Even famous footballers have the right to a quite Sunday lunch with their family.
But I have two problems with Podolski’s attitude. First, it’s stupid. Why make enemies with rudeness and arrogance? Simply tell people he will take a picture with them or sign an autograph once he has had a quiet meal.
But more egregiously, Podolski knew the people there were Brazilians. The same people he said, “were nice and sweet” to him wherever he went in Brazil. The same people he spent much of the year wooing and flattering before, during and after the World Cup. (Even today, he is still at it.)
Podolski’s attitude was a kick in the teeth to those people and proof he has one carefully constructed image for online and another for real fans.
In other words, do not be fooled. The Brazil-loving, happy-go-lucky Lukas Podolski you see online is a fake. The real Lukas Podolski doesn’t really like real Brazilians.
Brazil’s Superior Court of Superior Court of Sporting Justice kicked Gremio out the Brazilian Cup on Wednesday after some of their fans racially abused Aranha (pictured below), the goalkeeper with rival club Santos.
It was the heaviest penalty ever imposed on a Brazilian football team for racist acts and it was about time. (See more in my Reuters story here.)
It’s interesting to hear the reaction from fans, many of whom believe the club should not be punished for the crass acts of a few racist idiots. The general feeling seems to be that the ban is either unfair or unnecessary.
Gremio fans are not racist. The club has banned the offending fans so it shouldn’t be punished again. The club shouldn’t be punished for something it can’t control. Why is the club punished when fans call players monkeys but not when fans call players gay/fat/ugly? The Court only kicked Gremio out the competition because they were 2-0 down from the first leg and wouldn’t have qualified anyway.
These are some of the things I’ve been told over the last 24 hours.
But they miss the point.
The simple truth is that if you want to end racism you have to take serious action and you must make fans realise their actions have consequences. Until now, all the punishments have been too weak. Fines, bans, etc. They haven’t worked.
Not only does kicking Gremio out the tournament embarrass the club, it has two key side effects. One is that other teams can see the Court is serious about attacking the problem. Racist fans will think twice about spouting abuse.
Just as importantly, it can empower “good” fans. The next time someone shouts “Monkey” at a football match there’s every chance that other fans will shout them down, well aware that if they’re caught their team will lose points or be disqualified.
The important thing now is that the Court imposes similarly heavy penalties – including disqualification if necessary – on teams whose fans are found guilty or racism.
The Court should be applauded for its action. Consistency now is what matters.
More than a day later and the overpowering sense is still one of disbelief.
Marcelo and Maicon looked lost on the flanks, David Luiz’s inability to concentrate was so bad it was almost laughable, Dante was a boy against men, and midfielder Fernandinho, the worst of the lot, put in one of the most inept displays I’ve ever seen from a Brazil player (and I saw Rafael Scheidt).
But I am not a coach and as a long-time resident of Brazil I see the psychological and social reasons for this catastrophic defeat more clearly than I see the football ones.
One of the explanations for this loss is that Brazil is a country where emotion always trumps reason and the already disastrous defeat seems worse than it is because Brazil’s manager, and as a consequence many of the fans, failed to show, or even to understand, that humility is a key factor not just in sport but in life.
Brazil were already under huge pressure to win this game but they turned up with their minds elsewhere, worrying about Neymar.
That is understandable for fans, who felt the loss of their best player. But it’s unacceptable for a team of multi-millionaire footballers who have all excelled in their own right.
All of the players and even the 60-something manager, entered the stadium wearing baseball caps with the hashtag #ForçaNeymar, or #StrengthNeymar.
Captain for the day David Luiz held up Neymar’s No. 10 shirt as the teams lined up for the national anthem. It was an admirable gesture but an infantile one just moments before the biggest game of his life.
While the Germans were concentrated on the task at hand, the Brazilians were fretting over their friend and of what might have been. Their minds were elsewhere. They lacked focus. (As Dante admits in this piece.)
Any hammering at home is disastrous but this one was especially bad because it was so completely and utterly unexpected. Brazil had never lost seven goals in 84 years of the World Cup.
And yet defeat happens. Only clowns espouse that truculent line so beloved of American coaches (and Felipão) that second place is the first loser. We all lose every day, at work, in love, in traffic, in the race to get to the front of the supermarket queue. We lose, therefore we are.
Many of Brazil’s fans, egged on by Felipão, who has for more than a year been repeating that “We will win the World Cup, there is no other option” never wanted to consider the idea of failure.
Brazilians are eternal optimists and they believe. More worryingly, they believe that if you believe then everything will work out. But that’s not true and faith is often misplaced or blind.
And yet there were good reasons to consider Brazil favourites. They are only team to win the World Cup five times, playing at home, in a continent where no European nation has ever won the trophy.
What Brazil lacked was humility and they paid a price for it. It is harder to humiliate the humble.
A little less arrogance from Felipão and the fans and pundits who still think that Brazil is the world’s dominant football power, who have refused to understand that this is not 1970 or even 1982, who don’t know that the game has moved on and Brazil still produces craques in spite of not because of their clubs and coaches, would have saved a lot of heartache. “We want to win, but there are other good teams in this competition,” would have been a more honest and more humble message than “We win this and we go to heaven or we lose it and we go to hell,” as CBF president Jose Maria Marin said.
Life is rarely about all or nothing, whatever Nike tells us.
(Unfortunately, the delusions continue, with Felipão saying Brazil will bounce back, rather than acknowledging root and branch changes need to be made. Predictably, the people who run the CBF have yet to appear in public.)
The dust will settle and Brazil will examine the reasons for this defeat. I sincerely hope a good look at emotion vs. reason and humility vs. arrogance will be part of the debate.
Confidence is necessary at the highest levels of sport and emotion is a fundamental quality and one of which Brazilians can be proud. But it had no place on the football pitch on Tuesday, and if it did, it should have been tempered with a large dose of modesty.
Brazil may still have lost to an excellent German side. But the loss need not have hurt quite so much.
The 1994 World Cup was strange for many reasons. It was the first without Scotland for 20 years. (Seems strange nowadays, but true back then.) And I was living in Haiti. (Which was strange. Period.)
Living in Haiti was always exciting but it was never easy. Normally we got about eight hours of electricity a day, from around midnight to 8am.
For the months leading up to the World Cup they rationed electricity even further. The Haitian military ruled the country and they knew you couldn’t mess with the World Cup. They wanted to make sure all the games would be on live. If they weren’t, they knew all hell could break loose.
I usually knew when the electricity was back by the sound of the fridge motor starting up, or the overhead fan whirling. My roommate and I had bought a car battery and that recharged enough to give us juice to keep our computers running and the odd bit of music if we were lucky. (Bonnie Raitt’s Luck Of The Draw was the album I most recall playing on my old boom box.)
The World Cup, when it started, was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Haitians love football and they usually support Brazil, Argentina and the Africa sides. (More than 90 % of Haitians are black.)
When Brazil won, thousands of people took to the streets to celebrate. The military government had banned any large gatherings but they turned a blind eye to this one. People shot their guns in the air to celebrate. The brave ones held their hands in the air, fingers splayed in the No. 5. That was ostensibly for Brazil’s 5th World Cup win. But it was also a show of support for Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the deposed president who was No. 5 on the ballot papers four years previously.
With a US invasion looming – American troops would arrive two months later – I wasn’t paying full attention to the football. After all, Scotland weren’t there so there was no one to cheer for and neither were England so there was no one to cheer against.
But I do remember one sunny Sunday sitting on the balcony of the famous Oloffson hotel (pictured above), the hotel made famous in Graham Greene’s novel The Comedians. I was having lunch with the Venezuelan ambassador and all of a sudden a big roar erupted from the favelas aroundabout. She was freaked (unexpected noise usually meant violence in Haiti) but I knew it was football.
This had just happened:
I went to see a few games of football in Haiti but the standard was pretty low, and I was used to watching Hibs. So when I think of Haitian football, I think of the 1974 World Cup and Emanuel Sanon.
It’s the celebrations that get me every time.
In May 1990 I gave up my job to travel around the world. But before I even started, I put on my kilt, strapped on my backpack, bought a Eurorail ticket and went to the World Cup.
I spent three weeks traveling about Italy, watching games, eating and drinking well, and meeting people from all over the world. I had an absolute ball.
When I got to Genoa for Scotland’s first game against Costa Rica the city was quieter than I imagined. But as I got closer to the city centre, the noise level gradually increased until I turned a corner into the main square and the singing hit me. Hundreds of Scots were in the fountain (and thousands more were in the bars round about it). I got right in there.
(See some great pics from Fraser Pettigrew here at his flickr account.)
The atmosphere was a bit more subdued after we lost 1-0 but we cheered up a few days later. Scotland played Sweden and fans from both countries got together in the main square before the game and marched to the ground, led by a few jokers playing pipes and drums. The atmosphere was unbelievable. Anyone who equates football with hooliganism would not have believed their eyes at the friendship between the two groups of fans. (And I’ve seen it many times since.)
We won 2-1 that day and although I had a late train to catch, I wanted to celebrate. (You don’t get many chances to celebrate Scotland winning in the World Cup.) I remember spending the night in the train station, a little bit drunk, but very happy). The boom box playing Rod Stewart’s Greatest Hits never let up all night.
I’ll never forget Scotland breaking our hearts again, losing a late goal on a cold and rainy night in Turin to go down 1-0 to Brazil and get knocked out. Once again, we were so close and yet so far.
I got about a bit between Scotland games. I was there in Naples when Rene Higuita lost the ball to Roger Milla and the Cameroonian pensioner danced with the corner flag. It was so hot the chap stick inside my sporran melted.
I spent an afternoon with The Scotsman hack Aidan Smith and we patiently explained to Napoli fans on a tram that Hibs put five past them when Dino Zoff was their goalie. I juggled oranges outside the Estadio Sao Paolo and made enough to buy pizza and wine.
I bumped into Brazil captain Branco as he went to lay a wreath at Superga, the hill where the Torino team perished in 1949 after their plane crashed into the hillside.
I saw Ireland beat Romania on penalties and played keepie uppie with Brazilians in the main square in Turin. I taught them a thing or two that day.
Most of all, I realised that if you don’t worry too much about the football, you can have a rare good time at the World Cup. It was a realisation that has served me well in the years since.
1986 was the first time I’d ever heard anyone talk about a group of death and naturally, it was Scotland who had the bad luck to be stuck in it. We got West Germany, Denmark and Uruguay; a two-time winner, the most exciting young team in Europe and the hardest of all the South Americans.
I was 19 when the Mexico World Cup came around and I remember spending large parts of the tournament in pubs. The opening match on a Saturday night was, I think, Bulgaria-Italy, and I watched it with a group of pals in an Edinburgh hostelry. It was lovely and sunny outside.
Pubs back then used to offer free pints of beer when Scotland scored a goal or when England conceded one. The breweries weren’t daft. They knew they wouldn’t be handing out huge amounts of alcohol. (Scotland scored one goal in three games and England conceded one.)
We were unfortunate to lose the first game to Denmark and then we were well beaten by Germany in the second. We had to beat Uruguay in the third match to qualify as one of the best third-placed sides.
But even though Uruguay had a man sent off in 55 seconds, still the fastest ever sending off in a World Cup, I believe, we couldn’t score. It was tragic. Tragically predictable.
The 1986 World Cup was to have much more significance for me in the years to come. Just four years later I found myself living in Mexico City and it was a great thrill to visit many of the grounds where Scotland (and others) had played.
The Estadio Azteca remains one of the most exciting places on the planet to watch a big football match. Unlike in some other big grounds such as the Maracana, you’re close to the action and no matter where you sit you get a great view. The noise of the crowd at pitch level was deafening.
And then a good while after that, sometime in early in the new millennium, I managed to interview Charlie Batista, the Uruguayan who was sent off after 55 seconds. We had a coffee in Buenos Aires and like two old mates meeting up after decades apart we reminisced happily about that fateful day.
“I was sent off and walked back to the dressing room,” he told me with a big smile. “When the kit man saw me he went mad. What the hell are you doing here, he screamed. The game’s about to start. Get out there! I’ve been sent off, I told. That’s impossible, he shouted, get back out. It took me 5 minutes to convince him the game had started and I’d already been sent off.”
It was funny then. And it’s funny now. But back in 1986 it was just one more chapter in Scotland’s footballing failure.
Ah, 1982. A special year for football fans. The year of Socrates, Zico, Falcao and Cerezo. And Paolo Rossi. A year hindsight has informed us was the year that football died.
Well, to be honest, I missed most of the 1982 World Cup. Or at least I can’t remember most of it. It was a glorious summer, if memory serves. One of the few memories I have is only seeing the last few minutes of Brazil-Argentina or Brazil-Italy because I was out playing golf.
Ah, and of course of those brief moments of excitement when David Narey put Scotland ahead against Brazil. Even he could hardly believe it.
Still, the 1982 World Cup served me well. Since I moved to Brazil I’ve met some of the players (that’s a young me and Zico below) and written about the tournament quite a bit. It still sticks in people’s minds because of the demise of that great Brazil side.
The best story from the 1982 World Cup is doubtlessly apocryphal but it still deserves telling. Scotland go one-nil up against Brazil and as the Scottish players run to congratulate David Narey on his goal one of them screams at him, “What did you go and do that for? You’ll only make them angry!” As so it came to pass. The goal stung Brazil into action and they scored four without reply against a pretty decent Scotland side. It was football as it was meant to be played.
Second best story from that World Cup has more of a whiiff of truth about it. Scots and Brazilians met on the beach somewhere in Spain and a football match soon started. Brazil were favourites, of course. But the Scots won. 1-0. “We scored a goal and then just kept booting the ball in the sea,” said one Jock.
Four years later and the World Cup finals were in South America. We had qualified again and England had not.
When I think back to the 1978 World Cup in Argentina I don’t remember the specifics but the spectacle. Partly because it was on so late. I had to sneak out of bed to watch games that started at 11pm. It wasn’t perfect for a young boy.
And yet it was all so exotic. Globalisation hadn’t been invented and the way they did things on the other side of the world was so different.
There seemed to be a buzz around every stadium and I don’t just mean an excitement but a real actual buzz, a murmur of expectation like everyone was humming and talking at the same time. And the way they greeted the home side every time they took the pitch, with think clouds of ticker tape madness raining down from the stands. It was superb.
After the World Cup ended we used to tear up bits of paper on the bus home from school and then throw them out the windows and scream AR-GEN-TINA! AR-GEN-TINA!
Before we even got there, the spectacle had started, at home, with a triumphant send off. Ally McLeod’s men were presented to a big crowd at Hampden and then rode round the stadium in an open-topped bus. I was only 11 but I distinctly remember thinking: Is this normal? Isn’t this kind of celebration meant to take place after the tournament, not before it?
McLeod, of course, had convinced us we could win the competition. People laugh at that now but he wasn’t delusional, he was just badly prepared. We beat Holland, remember.
But we seemed to have no idea that Peru were a decent team and after going 1-0 up and then missing a penalty (thanks Don Masson) the house came crashing down. We lost 3-1 and looked shell shocked. A 1-1 draw to no-hopers Iran a few days later almost confirmed our departure.
There was still hope, however. If we could beat Holland by three goals we’d go through. And this being Scotland, after losing to the wee teams, we beat the big team, defeating the eventual finalists 3-2 in a game that included a goal that was to go down in Scottish folklore (see below).
It was brilliant stuff but it wasn’t enough. Once again it was glorious failure. Much more than that I can’t remember. Perhaps it’s for the best.
The World Cup is just a week away. I approach the tournament with mixed feelings, excited at the prospect of covering such an important event (not to mention the football) but broken-hearted at the shabby way Brazil has planned and prepared. So much more could have been done. So many promises have been broken.
But 99 % of the world doesn’t care if Brazil hasn’t built the metro lines it said it would, or if if the airports are still under construction, or if the new bus lanes turned out to be a fiction peddled by politicians.
They care about football. They want to see their team and their heroes. They want goals, noise, colour, fans doing crazy things. They want to hear commentators screaming “Gooooooooool!” like only South Americans can.
My first World Cup memory came in 1974. I was seven years old and Scotland had qualified for the first time since the 1950s. The opening game was against Zaire and I remember the match was played on a Friday night (the ‘facts’ in all these memories could be totally wrong, but they’re how I clearly remember them).
Throughout my childhood I was a regular at the Boy’s Brigade and only occasionally went to the Cubs (the BBs had a football team and the Cubs didn’t), but for some reason I was at the Cubs that Friday night. It was a beautiful sunny evening, and this being June in northern Europe it was still light at 7pm or 8 pm.
The Akela sent us home early so we could see the game. I’ll never forget her face when she packed us off from the school playground. Or our excitement.
I was too young to really know what the World Cup was all about. It was much smaller then (only 16 teams qualified) and there was none of the commercial madness that surrounds it now.
But I remember how excited I was running home to see Scotland play in the World Cup that glorious Friday night.
I can’t remember much about the game. I’m sure I watched it with my dad in our sitting room. We won 2-0. It was only Zaire, but we won 2-0. Brazil were up next and the possibilities were endless.
It was downhill from there.
Here’s a tiny little window into Brazil thanks to our friends at Itau.
Like Goldman Sachs and Bloomberg, Brazil’s largest private bank did a statistical analysis of who will win the World Cup. Unlike Goldman Sachs and Bloomberg, they refused to reveal the results of their statistical analysis, which is hilarious given that they sent it to every journalist in the country.
Why the reticence?
Is it a lack of transparency and accountability? Very possibly. The bank is notorious for treating clients poorly (as I blogged about here), going as far as making it impossible to call branches to talk to account managers or staff.
Lack of confidence in their results? Unlikely. Their partial predictions (why reveal half your results?) were hardly controversial. They boldly predicted the semi-finals will feature Spain, Germany, Brazil and Argentina.
A desire not to offend? Most likely. In bars and in foreign policy and in everything in between, Brazilians are averse to giving strong opinions with strangers lest they hurt someone’s feeling.
My prediction? Like Goldman and Bloomberg, I go for Brazil. But it’s a funny old game. Anything can happen. Roll on June 12.