The day football died The legendary Zico called it “the day football died.” That is, obviously, an exaggeration. But when Brazil lost to Italy 3-2 in the second round group stage of the 1982 World Cup, it was at the very least a certain brand of football that was going on life support, if not dying, and one that would be shut off permanently four years later, in Mexico, when Michel Platini’s France defeat the Selecao in the quarterfinals on penalties. We’re talking about the world’s stereotype of Brazilian football. It is the one that’s all about samba, flair, “jogo bonito”, free-flowing joy and enthusiasm: the fleet-footed shimmies and feints of the classic dribble which some believe (maybe apocryphally, but it’s still a great tale) were born out of “Capoeira” the Brazilian martial art -- part ballet, part Cirque du Soleil contortionism and acrobatics, part lethal kicks to the head -- that was originally developed by Afro-Brazilian slaves so they could pretend to dance while actually training to one day fight back against their masters. You know the clichés. And you know the dark flip-side traits of the Brazilian game: over-elaboration, lack of structure, defensive lapses and placing entertainment above victory. Tele Santana’s 1982 team was the last great Brazil team which played the way folks who don’t know the game think Brazil plays and has always played. (The 1986 side, also coached by Santana contained many of the same faces, but the change was already evident and, in any case, it wasn’t anywhere near as dominant.) For people of my generation -- too young for The Netherlands’ “Clockwork Orange” of the 1970s -- Brazil 1982 was the greatest team we’ve ever seen, at least until the Spain of recent times came along. For a start, it didn’t look like an obvious team as much as it was eleven guys thrown together, left to their own devices to figure out who played where. Like a pick-up basketball team, where genuine ballers step on the court and you don’t worry too much about who’s got who and whether you’re playing zone or man-to-man, or who plays the point. It just kinda flows. And, like pick-up hoops, you might get stuck with some genuine stiffs, guys who are totally out of place because they are so much worse than the rest of the team. Brazil had two: the goalkeeper, Valdir Peres, and the centre-forward, Serginho. [A quick aside. Much as it pains me to admit it as an Italian and an Azzurri fan, if either Careca -- who was injured -- or Reinaldo -- who was excluded, allegedly for his political views and allegiance to the Black Panthers -- had been up front for Brazil on that July day 32 years ago, history might have taken a different turn.] Brazil in 1982 had a back four, albeit one where the right-back, Leandro, played like a winger, and the left-back, Junior, popped up all over the pitch. In front of them were two playmakers, Toninho Cerezo and Paulo Roberto Falcao, and, ahead of them, two geniuses with the freest of roles: Zico and Socrates. Serginho was the somewhat static centre-forward, with Eder -- ordinarily a winger -- buzzing around him. Some called it 4-2-2-2. Most called it intoxicating. And after that game in Barcelona, we never saw anything like it ever again, hence Zico’s obituary. What is true is that the romantic utopian side of the Brazilian game got a bloody nose that day. Against Italy’s ordered, counter-attacking style, the Selecao ended up being less -- far less -- than the sum of its parts and the blame fell on Santana’s supposed tactical naiveté. Defenders wandering off following their instincts, midfielders always looking for that extra pass, the whole team pushing forward furiously with the score deadlocked at 2-2, even though Brazil knew (or should have known) that, given the tournament’s format, a draw would have been enough to advance to the semifinal. Brazil changed and never looked back. Santana, duly chastised, returned for the 1986 World Cup after a two-year stint working in Saudi Arabia but, as noted above, things were different. What followed was a distinctive pendulum shift in the opposite direction. In 1990, Sebastiao Lazaroni introduced a sweeper -- Mauro Galvao – as part of a 3-5-2 formation, to the horror of the purists. Four years later, Carlos Alberto Parreira tightened the screws even more, putting a full-back (Mazinho) on the wing, together with two (count ‘em!) defensive midfielders: Mauro Silva and Dunga. Brazil won the 1994 World Cup in the United States and, to some degree, the experiment was repeated in 1998 -- when the legendary Mario Zagallo returned to take the helm for a third time -- at least in terms of having two destroyers in midfield (Dunga was joined this time by Cesar Sampaio.) Luiz Felipe Scolari was in charge in 2002 and, while he fielded an attacking front three of Rivaldo, Ronaldinho and Ronaldo, he made up for it with three centre-backs -- Lucio, Edmilson and Roque Junior -- and the purely defensive Gilberto Silva in midfield. Brazil were more attacking in 2006 and, at least on paper, it was meant to be a return to the “Jogo Bonito.” Parreira was back and did a 180 degree turn compared to 1994, cramming Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Kaka and sometimes Adriano into the starting lineup. He was able to do this, again, by playing two holding midfielders but, in any case, we rarely saw the free-flowing game on which Brazil’s legend was based. It looked and felt uncomfortable, which brings us to 2010 and Dunga. Again, two holding midfielders (one of whom was Felipe Melo...) were present and sometimes were joined by a third or by Dani Alves, a wing-back, in the middle of the park. Don’t take all this as a criticism. Throughout those two decades and six World Cups, Brazil remained one of the very best sides in the world (the fact that they reached three finals, winning two of them, is evidence of this). Furthermore, they were usually among the most entertaining of teams, simply because they often had better players than the opposition. However, it wasn’t Tele Santana’s Brazil. In that sense, Zico was right. And yet a look at what happened before 1982 suggests that, if the Italy game was the end of an era, it had been a relatively brief one. Because, contrary to the stereotypes, much of Brazil’s history was marked by vigorous internal debate about how the Selecao should line up tactically and how to best exploit the country’s enormous footballing potential. And, unlike the line some may peddle -- romantic disorganization coupled with individual genius and improvisation resulting in joy and dominance on the pitch -- Brazil’s success has long been the product of careful preparation. As Jonathan Wilson writes in “Inverting the Pyramid” -- the seminal book for those interested in the tactical evolution of the game -- way back in 1958, when most European teams were in a virtual stone age of hill runs, medicine balls and red-faced, shouty assistant coaches, Brazil meticulously prepared for the World Cup by scouting 25 locations and having a team psychologist evaluating every player. [Not that it was the most inspired psychologist: He famously recommended that Garrincha was unsuited to playing in high pressure games. Fortunately, coach Vicente Feola ignored him and he and a kid named Pele powered Brazil to World Cup victory.] In 1970, they went one step further and had the team undergo a NASA training programme. The players were fitted with individual, tailor-made boots and, for two weeks, diet and sleep were strictly controlled. Even Brazil’s famous gold shirts were designed for optimum performance in the Mexican heat. Equally, when it comes to tactics, if the European stereotype was often that of eleven uber-gifted guys thrown together on the pitch, it may have been simply because South American tactics had their own evolution. As in Europe, it began with the old 2-3-5 and then moved to the WM. But, from there, it evolved to the 4-2-4 and the asymmetric “diagonal” which in so many ways was ahead of its time. We don’t think about this sort of thing when we contemplate the Selecao. Years of marketing, highlights and the memory of Santana’s 1982 team mean we’ll forever consider them extemporaneous geniuses and entertainers, effortlessly improvising greatness on the pitch when, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. The greatness isn’t improvised and it certainly isn’t effortless. The ghosts of 1982 don’t haunt their ancestors the way those of 1950 did. They do it in a different way; they represent the ideal not pursued. They are the choice you made when you decided to give up the song-writing for a career in middle-management; when you packed up your art supplies and applied to law school instead. They are the path abandoned, even as the rest of the world continues to believe you’re confidently going down it. And some believe you should return to it. Posted by Gabriele Marcotti
Posted on: Sun, 09 Mar 2014 18:14:06 +0000
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