Tribute to Pele
Pelé’s style when stopping the ball was dazzling, as was the way he feinted to unbalance his marker. But that mercenary always appeared to kill
He only made three plays. A hack per play. Every time he caught the ball, the same defender would invariably appear on the first or second dribble; a Portuguese mercenary selected to kill the idol. It was incredible. Seen and unseen. I couldn’t believe what was happening.
Pelé’s style when stopping the ball was dazzling, as was the way he feinted to unbalance his marker. But that mercenary always appeared to kill. The scythe was his leg and every time he entered, whoosh, he would shake the idol so that it fell over. Throw out that defender, throw him out. But what does the referee do? Don’t you see? There were three entries so that he did not pass, that was the slogan: intimidate him. And in the third Pelé did not get up anymore.
When that World Cup in England began in 1966, I still wanted to be a footballer when I grew up. Pelé and the forward of Real Madrid, that of Di Stéfano, were my greatest myths of the vast region of football. Watching a European Cup football match on those black and white televisions had been the greatest event that could happen to me until then. I retained the plays in my memory, I visualized them and after each game I tried to emulate them even if I had to do it playing alone, at home and with one sock per ball. But at that time the World Cup was appearing on the scene, the most that could be seen. And among all the teams from the different countries, one stood out for me, without a doubt: the one from Brazil with Pelé as a great figure.
My father bought me a soccer magazine in Biarritz where all the Brazilian players appeared in their yellow jerseys. They were fantastic. The ones I liked the most were those with very brown skin. I don’t know why but they gave me the impression of being better soccer players and with superior technique than those with white skin that I was used to seeing. I wanted to keep the magazine intact but had the courage to cut out the full-length photograph of my idol, Pelé. It wasn’t to hang it as a poster or carry it everywhere in your pocket, but to have it individualized. The only one that for me truly deserved it. And neither to pass it from hand to hand at school as was done with Brigitte Bardot’s or Silvia Koscina’s but, on the contrary, to look at it imagining my plays before or after my game, as a source of inspiration.
In this way I was fantasizing about the imminent World Cup and the possibility of seeing Pelé on the screen. And the long-awaited day came when Brazil played against Portugal. «Fratricidal duel. They are the fiercest,” someone said. I did not know then what such an assertion or message meant. The only thing that I understood very well was that Brazil was still the best team and the favourite, therefore any matter that dealt with that game did not touch me even a hint of doubt about who would win.
My memory when it goes back to the game remembers a head, mine, almost framed in the television looking for my idol in black and white. I barely remember the voices of those around me. For me there was only Pele.
At the third inning they took him on a stretcher. In twenty minutes or so, my dream was gone. I was sunk I couldn’t understand anything. I could hardly watch the game because of the confusion that overwhelmed me. And the mercenary defender was still on the field. It was the biggest disappointment of that time and what I learned must have affected me deeply: you always play it, bet, there are scoundrels that intervene, and you win or lose.
Other surprises would emerge in that World Cup, such as Eusebio, from the team that had injured Pelé; the German and English teams. But for me, that whole event was tinged with a veil of despair due to the premature disappearance of my idol. He no longer played again in that, for me, damn World Cup. I waited until the next one, the one in Mexico in 1970. I waited for Pelé again. He came out triumphant. And I realized that this is what life should be about, waiting.
And the clouds don’t move. I don’t feel the time. And I don’t want to go back, I don’t want to go back.
Extract from the novel Dry Storm (2001)
Themes
Alfredo Di Stéfano, Andrea Pirlo, Arjen Robben, Brigitte Bardot, Pelé, Radamel Falcao, Real Madrid, Biarritz, Brazil, Mexico, Portugal, Zarza la Mayor, Copa del Rey de Fútbol, First Division, Second Division, Second Division B, Third Division (ProLiga), football