How Brazil Sold Its Soul – Nike, Luis Ronaldo and a Deal With The Devil

Sarthak Dev

11th August 2017 | 6:14 PM

Explore the extraordinary story of Luis Ronaldo as Football Paradise blows wide open the depths of Brazil’s den of corruption.

A few hours after Carlos Alberto had unleashed a trademark howitzer into Enrico Albertosi’s net to finish off football’s greatest nod to art, music and poetry, Brazilian newspaper Jornal do Brasil ran a byline which placed their 1970 World Cup victory on the same pedestal as NASA catapulting Neil Armstrong to the moon. Some eyebrows might have been raised by that parallel, but this was just as incredible an achievement. In the day and age of Helenio Herrera and catenaccio, Mario Zagallo’s men produced a display of fluid, attacking football so staggering, it continues be the reference for everything Brazilian football has ever achieved and everything it hasn’t. For the nation, it was a feat of engineering that trumped Heitor da Silva Costa’s Christ the Redeemer. Following the crucifixion of Maracanazo, Joga Bonito (the beautiful game) was Brazil’s second coming.

“We jumped together, but when I landed, I could see Pelé was still floating in the air.”

– Tarcisio Burgnich, Italian defender from the 1970 final.

Handed the last Jules Rimet trophy, the country would have to wait twenty-four years to bask in the reflected glory of the newer edition. Briefly, for a few weeks in 1982, they would flirt with artistry again, but heaven and the left foot of Rivelino knows it wasn’t the same. Beautiful as it was while it lasted, like a romance with a parting lover, it was over too soon.

Roberto Baggio let one sail and Dunga lifted the golden statuette, but a World Cup won playing emotionless football, without channelling any capoeira (Afro-Brazilian form of martial arts combining dance, music and acrobatics), was just another trophy. Nevertheless, it was a success at long last, but only after paying a price too hefty. A deal with the devil, if you will – a pact of expediency that set Faust, Mephistopheles and Brazil’s narrative on course with a moralising end, usually one of damnation. The canary jersey of Seleção, synonymous for Joga Bonito not too long back, had crept down to rouba, mas faz – it’s okay to steal if you get things done. For a country so used to an aggressive and stylish approach from their football team, seeing this was akin to watching a new, slower sport. Their shining star at the tournament, Romario, marked himself out as one honourable exception. Fast, slippery and flamboyant, watching him play evoked joy and nostalgia in equal amounts. He believed in rouba, mas faz alright, but not at a staid display of the sport, instead at leaving defenders gasping for thin air a microsecond after they were secure in their possession of the ball.

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