Vasco: The Futebol Post

In December of 2006, I hugged a chubby, unimpressed Englishman in London.

I squeezed him as hard as I would an old friend or an I-thought-you-were-dead-and-just-found-out-you’re-not relative. I didn’t do it on purpose. It was impulse. The second I saw Thierry Henry’s free kick brush the top of net, I was embracing this confused man.

I don’t even remember thinking about what I was doing. I was in bliss. After standing outside for three hours trying to swindle swindlers for tickets, after they repeatedly call you a Yank-cunt, the whole reason thing kind of flies out the top of the stadium.

The man, looked at me, then looked at his fellow Britons occupying the nosebleeds in Arsenal’s brand spanking new Emirates Stadium and merely adjusted his glasses. They seemed to have managed to shift during the shaking and debauchery of my, seemingly out-of-order, celebration.

The goal, after all, only tied the match 1-1.

While this is the saddest example, I’ve stumbled upon other disappointing levels of enthusiasm during my pinballing between Europe’s biggest soccer stadiums over the past four years. I’m certain, that if that same pompous character found his way into a Rio De Janeiro stadium his glasses would explode — along with his head.

After what I saw Sunday afternoon, I’m convinced that not a single fan in Rio would be impressed by the passion of their European rivals.
You know how, sometimes there is one person during any given American sports finals (Baseball, Basketball, Football) who is just taking it way too seriously and getting way more into it than everyone else. Usually this is the person that comes to mind when you think of fanatic.

This same person actually has the grapes to brand the team’s logo somewhere on their body. This guy (or girl) breaks shit when the team loses, gambles and may or may not hit people they love during the team’s hard times.

Now. Imagine that someone cloned this crazy bastard 30,000 times and allowed all of them to unite, at once. Then, in true Clockwork Orange fashion, let them watch something that would make them more upset than anything in the world.

Me and Bob’s experience last Sunday afternoon was double that.

As someone who, for better or worse, becomes entirely, illogically obsessed with soccer, I felt some emotional involvement in the result. Yet my two-month loyalty to the Vasco crest put me more out of place than in place among the weeping and enraged distortion of a mob.

What exactly was at stake to make this day especially demonic?

When a team does poorly in American sports, they finish at the bottom of the standings and are told, “better luck next year.” You know, win or go home (until next season starts).

In contrast when a team does poorly in the world soccer leagues (not including the MLS) one year, they are relegated (or demoted) to the division below them. In other words, win or you don’t earn the right to even compete against the best next year.

It’s like if the Los Angeles Dodgers finished in last place, the entire team would have to play in the AAA league the next season. The top teams in the second division go up and the bottom finishers in the first league go down.

And the cycle can continue. Most leagues around the world have around 7 divisions. A team could be relegated from 1st to second Division one year and from 2nd to 3rd the next year. Emotionally, the toll this could take on a fan could be fatal.

Imagine that the Lakers did so badly that they had to play in some semi-pro league for an entire year the next season. Their games would be off major channels, attendance and advertising dollars fall. Then imagine that the Lakers were one of only two teams in the NBA to never have been relegated, in their 110-year history. And imagine that the only other team that hasn’t been relegated are the Celtics, your biggest rival.

This is was at stake for Vasco on Sunday. To make matters worse, their fate was out of their hands. In the U.S. we would say, Vasco needed to win and have help, to save their season. They needed a victory and a few other teams needed to lose in games that were being played simultaneously throughout Brazil.

For this reason, radios were wedged into the ears of nail nibbling fans. They listened intently for the results of other matches, as they watched Vasco slowly dying right before their eyes.

Roars and moans boomed from the crowd in reaction to the action in front of them, but they also spread infectiously when information about another relevant match filtered through the stands.

Outside the stadium, people were already on edge. The scalped tickets we bought angered the turnstile soldiers so much, that I had to play the stupid gringo card on them.

“Umm, No falar porch-ugese.”
“English?”
“Yeah.”
“Who gave you these tickets? These are illegal, you could go to jail!”

I proceeded to make up a story about a Brazilian cousin who gave us the tickets earlier that day. Bob followed along. The Vasco guard, stern finger pointing and all, let us pass.

Things were blatantly optimistic before the match. Like all good (albeit disillusioned) fans, even in the face of certain doom, hope was the buoy that kept the crowd afloat. Along with the radios, fans kept lucky herbs wedged behind their ears.

The kind of dumb joy that comes with watching sport for most laymen was gone before the game even began. People were bellowing the clubs anthems, but I don’t think anyone, including myself would describe the atmosphere as fun. Clouds were sagging above the stadium.

Vasco seemingly went ahead early in the match. The stands erupted. I noticed, a chubby, shirtless fan tackle his friend down the cement stairs, flopping onto the ground in euphoria. Unfortunately the goal was scored from an offside position and was called back. This mirage was the closest Vasco got to being on the scoreboard.

When Vitoria, Vasco’s final nemesis, knocked in a goal about midway through the first half — most optimism was vanquished.

Halftime was eerie. About half of the fanatics sat, head in hands, silently. The other half, either shouted insults at an empty field or ate away their worries at the Habib (middle eastern McDonalds and Vasco sponsor) snack-stands. But it wasn’t until the second goal trickled into the net, piercing what was left of the crowd’s nearly empty hope-balloon.
No more than a minute had passed when the first police baton came cracking down on the noggins of fans. The section immediately to our right was the first victim. A good dozen riot police burst up the steps, swinging wildly at fans. Not sure if anyone knew why.

Maybe a fan yelled something or socked another fan, but the origin didn’t seem too important. Instead the level of fear and anger skyrocketed. People stopped watching the game completely.

Scared fans and families began flooding the exits away from the war zone. I figured we were safe as long as our section didn’t erupt in fury. Plus, I pride myself in never leaving games before the final whistle.

About the same time I was musing my priorities, I began fingering my camera in my pocket with front line footage in mind. Right then a flare was thrown near a field cameraman and another battalion of police, after marching immediately in front of us, scaled the stairs of the section immediately to our left.

In baseball, they call it a pickle. You have to get to the bases (exits), before the opponent (in our situation the mob or the police) tags you (tramples or batons us). So, it was on.

Most of the crowd began taking to the exit tunnel that is the buffer between the outside and inside of the stadium. We followed but hadn’t made it through the tunnel when a few dozen people began sprinting and screaming back towards us. Running away from something.

When you watch movies and see water or fire cascading down hallways, there is always some tiny nook on the side to jump into for safety. In our case, it was the women’s bathroom. Women and children were screaming, panting and holding each other. One chubby teenager was throwing up in the sink, between wiping his tears.

I realized then, how people die at soccer games — they are scared to death. And by that, of course I mean trampled. This was no place to be.

So we picked a point, like you do jaywalking, and dashed towards the nearest exit. On the way up the exit ramp, a group of stone-faced 20-30 year olds were marching back into the stadium. A woman shouted “elles vaim voltar,” or “they’re coming back.”

Outside the stadium, tension was still sky high and sporadic waves of riot police were scanning the crowd from horses, clutching batons and large wooden staffs. Pockets of the crowd outside were arguing with each other and with the police.

We walked through the 110 years of flat lined tradition and passion. Making it onto a bus a few blocks away.

On the bus, the despair drew on. Some of the more subtle reactions ranged from smashing used watermelon wedges on benches to jerseys being turned inside out in shame. Even futebol neutrals seemed down about the whole thing. It’s rare, in Rio, to see literally everyone on a bus frowning.

A day later, every newspaper on every newsstand and every coffee drinker in every snack stand in Rio reacted to Vasco’s bloody Sunday. I imagined it was a sort-of unique riot because the brawl wasn’t between two sets of rival fans. It was a manifestation of the temporary end of the lives of thousands of sports fans.

Whether the police were trying to straightjacket the crowd, to protect them from themselves, is up in the air. A lot of times, looking at the cops faces, its hard not to see a hint or two of enjoyment in beating the rowdy fans.

Vascainos (fans of Vasco), now have to endure an entire summer of torture and taunting from their rivals as they wait for their second division campaign to begin. Which might even turn out to be a more stressful season, because if they don’t finish in the top four next year, they will be stuck in the second division.

I think this is the most difficult part for the fans.

One fan, after we left the stadium, actually tried to kill himself. News stations repeatedly displayed the sight of this Vascaino, dangling his body from the top of the team’s stadium. Vasco’s motto “Força Jovem” written on his shirt faced news cameras.
Right when he was letting go, a few police officers caught his hands.

Needless to say, when I arrived in Brazil, the only direct experience I had with the domestic leagues was what I read about on occasion. Of course, what sticks out in my mind about the South American leagues (Brazil and Argentina in particular) is the unparalleled passion of their fans. More often than is reported, I’m sure, the passion does erupt into violence. Every year, these two leagues lead the recorded fan death tallies in the world. Most of these deaths come from trampling.

This is the first time a team I support has ever been relegated. I gotta say — it’s an ugly sight.