Maracana

For the benefit of the uninitiated (e.g. those that know as much as I did a week ago), Maracana is a bloody big football (futebol here) stadium in Rio de Janeiro, allegedly one of the most famous in the world. Last night we attended a match there and it is, indeed, something else.

Via Google I had found a chap named Sergio who runs tours to matches. Via e-mail we confirmed that we would meet and go to the Flamengo (Sergio´s team) vs Caracas (a Venezuelan club) game, part of the Libertadores Cup, the South American club championship. Sergio arranged to meet us in Lapa, a funky suburb down the hill from our accommodation in Santa Teresa. We strolled down the windy Santa Teresa streets and had a warm up drink in Antonio´s Bar while waiting for Sergio, who was late due to traffic. Soon he arrived accompanied by another tourist, JP, a Canadian on a short holiday after travelling for work. We drove to the stadium with every other car in Rio and Sergio used his local knowledge to find fairly convenient parking without too much queuing. Despite running late he assured us we had time for a beer but we had to walk a couple of blocks to get it, as licensed premises within two blocks of the stadium had been banned from selling grog before matches.

We didn´t go to a bar so much as a bloke´s house; our host was named Luiz. While others waited outside (Luiz was selling beer illegally and worried that the authorities might come by) we were afforded the luxury of entering the house and sitting on the couches. Sergio explained that Luiz was a Flamengo fan who opened his house like this before each Flamengo match. The house was very simple, bare walls decorated only with a small picture of the last supper, a close up of a statue of Jesus, and two Flamengo-themed hangings, providing a glimpse of just how highly the club figured in Luiz´s spiritual life. The furnishings were also very simple: when Sergio took a picture of Mel and I on the couch, JP said it looked like the photo that would be released to announce our kidnapping by Al Qaeda. A couple of fantastically cold beers passed easily and we drilled Sergio with Rio and futebol related questions. JP was pretty clueless about soccer and an elaborate demonstration of the offside rule using empty beer cans was required.

We left so as to arrive at the game about half an hour before kick off. Luiz farewelled us at the door in such a manner as to make clear that he would not be attending the game or even leaving his house on foot for some time. We filed up the ramp with the black and red clad supporters, pausing only to have our photograph taken with the Flamengo mascot, a vulture. Every man wore a team jersey except Sergio, important for keeping track of him. There was a definite hum of excitement in the air and we finally burst into the stadium proper with about 20 minutes to go.

The noise was incredible. The stadium was about a third full, nearly all down our end. Because Caracas are Venezuelan their fans were either absent (and would have been hiding anyway), and a sea of black and red greeted the eye. Several groups played very loud drums without a moment´s rest. At least 20 enormous flags of various (black and red) designs waved vigorously, and close inspections of each waver revealed a careful technique of wide sweeps and sequential jiggles. A youth sat watching his older colleague wave their flag, and when he was handed it his engagement with his task was total. A very large group to our right sang songs constantly, including one to the tune of Frankie Valli´s "Can´t Take My Eyes Off You". Sergio explained that the large group to our left didn´t like the group to our right, and sure enough each group would often start a chant or song immediately after the other, attempting to drown them out. This was the first glimpse of Flamengo´s internal politics.

While we took in the atmosphere Sergio set the scene. Flamengo had been beaten for the Rio state championship the Sunday prior, 2-1 by hated rival Botafogo. In that match Flamengo hadn´t played very well but still had their chances, including a penalty missed by Adriano late in the game. Adriano is a champion national player whom has returned to Brazil from a big European club apparently because of becoming "depressed". Sergio explained this before he had asked what my profession was and he twirled his finger around his ear while saying "depressed". He had accepted a pay cut and contract with Flamengo but lacked discipline, enjoying the nightlife a little too much and perhaps not applying himself to training as he should. Fans were beginning to get frustrated with him and other players thought to be under-performing. Caracas, Sergio went on, were the worst team in the group and Flamengo needed to beat them by two goals to smooth their own path through to the next round. He further denounced Venezuela as the worst futebol-playing country in South America and boldly predicted a 3-0 win for Flamengo. He said a 1-0 win would invite boos from the crowd.

Thus, the teams took the field. As in Ecuador, the away team was greeted with wolf whistles, although this time it was a piercing cacophony that would surely have crushed any slightly fragile soul on the receiving end. The home players were serenaded as they warmed up with personalised songs and chants that Sergio translated ("The number one goalkeeper in Brazil....Bruno!" etc.). Each greeted his song with a grateful wave. The game began with Caracas in possession but Flamengo´s pressure was immense and they very quickly took the ball away. The change in possession was greeted with a huge roar and fervid instructions from the fans to attack down the middle and NOW!!!!!! The players, admirably I thought, maintained their discipline and passed the ball around looking for good attacking opportunities. We began to understand the double-edged sword of such passion: while good play was wildly celebrated, each minute error and even any slightly conservative decision making was met with exasperated grunts and grasping of foreheads. The drummers drummed and the singer´s sang endlessly, and the opposition were booed and whistled relentlessly. It seemed to work: a Caracas player standing seemingly free of injury on the far wing suddenly went down on his haunches and then lay down on the ground. Play stopped and the stretcher buggy drove out, and if it was a "heart muscle" problem then any remaining flickers of ego would have been obliterated by the send off he was given.

Flamengo controlled possession but lacked directness in attack, passing it around looking for the perfect opportunity. In contrast, the underdog Caracans (I haven´t verified if this is an appropriate term, don´t drop it into conversation with your Venezuelan friends without further research) attacked with flair on the few occasions they had the ball in their half. The Flamengo crowd seemed to be feeling positive and the run of play suggested that the floodgates would open soon. Caracas won a corner which was deflected away but out off a Flamengo player, providing another corner. The kick bounced around the players in the box and fell to a visitor with a little time and he put it into the net. Something like silence fell on the stadium. Not a peaceful silence, but a silence laden with fury and threat, the kind of sound that I imagine is made by the eye of a cyclone. Or the not immediately identifiable sound you might hear walking down an oddly deserted city street as a wild, murderous rioting mob approaches the same intersection you do but down a perpendicular street, obstructed by the buildings. I wasn´t worried for our safety but for the well being of the supporters, whose wonderful energy had been suddenly aqueezed out of them. Sergio leaned across to me: "Very bad" he said.

They recovered (the fans). The singing and chanting recommenced, the drums went on, and Flamengo got the ball back. The score had kicked them into action and now they attacked with abandon. They won a sequence of corners and eventually a defender headed the ball past the exhausted keeper. Now, I will admit that when Kevin Muscat scored against Uruguay at the MCG in the first leg of the 2002 World Cup qualifiers I hugged a man (who will remain nameless), quite wantonly I thought. That was nothing. This goal triggered an outburst of aggressive man love all around us. We were physically buffeted by ricocheting pods of tangled screaming men, eventually exploding apart to sing another chant with elaborate arm movements. Flares were lit, the drums crescendoed, somehow the incredible noise got louder. Flamengo´s players were inspired and surged forward again. Only one or two minutes later they scored again, and we ducked for cover as the boys around us really went for it. Many would have woken up this morning with significant bruising but they didn´t notice it at the time. To a man they took off their jerseys and waved them above their heads, Kevin Sheedy style. A brief survey revealed that Sheeds was unknown here.

Halftime arrived and everyone had a rest. An appropriate scoreline had been achieved, imperfect but acceptable. We sat down for the first time. I think the drummers might even have gone to the toilet. There was no half time entertainment or dreadful music played over the loudspeakers, and no gormless just-below-TV-standard host ran any long kick contest. We just had the game to discuss and it was more than enough.

The second half began before the chanters and drummers properly hit stride, so was a little subdued. The play was no different, Flamengo dominating possession again and creating a few opportunities, the ultimate failure of each being greeted with a collective deep "ooo" and more thrusting of hands to temples. Then, again totally against the run of play, Caracas went forward and scored on a superb individual effort by one of their forwards, possibly called Gomez. The just-prior-to-the-nuclear-blast atmosphere fell again, and when the chanting restarted it was angry. The tone definitely changed from supportive to aggressively expectant, with a hint of the possible repercussions should the players fail. Predictably the Flamengo players again responded strongly and scored soon after after creating numerous opportunities. Everyone hugged again but the affection was brief because another score was expected, no, demanded, soon.

I began to watch Adriano. He was clearly the physically biggest player on the field and his body language did indeed suggest that he could have been depressed. He only moved with urgency when the ball was within ten yards and often wasn´t even watching the play, standing with his head down. However, he was suddenly in everything as Flamengo attacked and attacked. He got his head the highest at every corner kick, but was always just out of position, heading over the bar and wide or straight down. The crowd´s mood shifted from suppressed anger to anxiety as time ticked by without a score and more chances were squandered. Injury time was announced, three minutes, and it was still 3-2, not enough of an advantage to ensure their advance to the next round. They went forward again and again, tired players spraying shots from the deep and the Caracas defenders desperately clearing anything that came close to the line. A grown man in front of us hurled himself to the ground at one wasted opportunity as if the redeemer had just walked in front of him. You might think this exaggeration but I am not embellishing.

The final whistle was blown with this unacceptable scoreline standing. New chants began, Sergio translated. One said roughly "Hey Adriano, fuck you"; another was "Bruno, we don´t need you", quite a meteoric fall from "the number one goal keeper in Brazil". The only positively greeted player was named Petkovic, and Sergio explained that other players were targeted by hate chants just because of their disputes with this player. The hate chants each sounded unique, and the player´s names fitted perfectly no matter how many syllables they contained, suggesting they had been prepared in advance. I didn´t see how this was going to inspire them to better performances in the near future, especially given the supposed mental health problems of their star.

We headed back to the car and the usual waiting for car park queues (problems not unique to Brazil) ensued. Sergio´s mood had changed and he didn´t want to discuss the game too much. Any comment on Caracas style or quality of play was met with the deadest of bats. Eventually we were on our way, and Sergio rather clumsily explained why he didn´t want to drive up into Santa Teresa to pick us up. It was dangerous, he said; sometime drivers get mugged at red lights. Taxis won´t take people up there either. With that he dropped us off in Lapa to make our own way, really the only major blot on his copybook for the night.

Other results went in Flamengo´s favour and they went through anyway. They play next week, and I advise all appropriately placed tourists to attend but to carefully check the opposition team´s colours and wear something far removed.