Monika Fischer and Mathias Braschler roamed Brazil for over a month, traveling ten thousand kilometers to cover the passion inspired by the World Cup. The Guardian published 14 pages and the had the cover of its weekend supplement. They generously agreed to let us republish it here. A video by Mathias and Monika can also be viewed on the GuardianFootball Youtube channel. A new video will be added daily.
‘Kiki’ Cristopher Roberts dos Santos Ramos, 13, Ouro Preto.
With its steep hills and cobblestones, the neighbourhood of São Cristóvão in Ouro Preto isn’t an easy place to play football. But Kiki seems unconcerned as he recovers his ball while playing at the Social Assistance School, a center for children living in troubled areas; he holds it by a flap of torn leather. ‘We come here so that we don’t stay on the streets,’ he says. ‘As soon as we’re done with our homework, we play football.’ His teacher says Kiki stands out. ‘Nobody can take the ball away from him. He’s the best player here.’
Jessie Salustiano da Silva, 31, maintenance worker, São Paulo.
Da Silva made his way from Brazil’s poor north-east to the biggest city in South America. He found a job as a maintenance worker in the Copan building, a 38-storey structure by the architect Oscar Niemeyer – so densely populated it has its own postal zone. Every Wednesday night, he and his workmates have a kick-around. There is also an annual tournament for every team in the Copan. ‘When I moved here, I made many friends playing football,’ he says. ‘Football relieves tension. You forget about your problems. You leave them at home with your wife.’
Luiz Carlos Beskow, 60, Rio Grande do Sul.
Beskow is a gaúcho cowboy who was born and raised in Brazil, and now lives in Porto Alegre. ‘I am of German descent like many other gaúchos, so I will root for Germany,’ he says. ‘Lots of people from my generation would like to be in an independent country.’
Rafael Barros da Silva, 13, pupil at Saber Viver football school, Recife.
Growing up in the Ilha de Deus swamp community of Recife, Da Silva has been exposed to poverty, drugs and crime from an early age. His favela used to be one of the most dangerous places in the city. But the authorities have retaken control of the community and a local pastor has tried to give children new choices by opening a football school among the mangrove trees. The pitch is flooded most of the month, but players still practise their volleys and overhead kicks in the mud. ‘This school brought all of them together,’ says the pastor, Josemir Pedro da Silva. ‘Today they really listen to me. In some cases they obey me even more than their own parents.’
‘Indio’ Rogerio Bueno dos Santos, 15, Barrio de Fazendinha, São Paulo.
‘Indio’ sports a Neymar haircut but unlike his hero, he is too shy to be interviewed. The family plan to watch the World Cup at home on a fuzzy television screen. ‘I can’t even afford to go to a local Santos match,’ says Indio’s father José. Instead, the children will live out their dreams on the mud and deep puddles of the community pitch in the Barrio de Fazendinha. ‘We almost have enough in our family to make a team,’ says José, ‘but it’s hard to get enough people to have a proper game.’
João Marcos Santana Melo, 22, cable TV technician, Ondina, Salvador.
Five-a-side, first to score two goals stays on: the rules for players at the beach-side football court in Ondina will be familiar across the globe. But for João Marcos, this is not just the highlight of every weekend, it is also how he met his girlfriend. She took one look at him playing, she says, and fell in love. Marcos hoped football would become his career, but after failing trials for a local team, he is now working as a TV technician. But he’s devoted to the game. ‘Football is a wonderful thing… I forget about everything else when I’m playing.’ He supports Vitória, a local club, but is opposed to fans who take their obsession too far. ‘If you invited me, I’d watch any game. I’m not a fanatic.’
Awyató (Jaguar), 41, chief of the Sateré-Mawés indigenous group, Amazon.
Many of the Sateré-Mawés group took up football when they were relocated to Manaus. ‘Football keeps the community peaceful. We try to make people who are not friendly play together. When they win, they celebrate together.’
Brenda Carioca Pontes, Peladão Queen, 19, Manaus.
Brazil is the home of several offshoots of football. Chief among them is peladão – a tournament that mixes a kickaround with a beauty contest. Tens of thousands of people join these events in Manaus, in which teams link up with a female participant to compete in two overlapping contests. If a club loses in the knock-out tournament they can still progress if their beauty contestant gets through her round, and vice versa. Pontes was crowned Peladão Queen last year. ‘It is very gratifying to represent a team. There were many girls: 507 teams, 507 girls. I’m very proud.’
Maria dos Milagres Meira, 39, housewife, Cabaceiras, Sertão.
Dust dry and culturally conservative, the north-eastern Sertão region is less advanced in terms of economic development and gender equality. But Meira has pushed the boundaries since she was a child. Then she had to play football by moonlight because there was no electricity and her parents did not approve of girls participating in a ‘boys’ game’. Today, she has her own team. ‘Football for us housewives with nowhere to go means fun,’ she says. She and the other 20 members of her team will watch the World Cup in a bar, but they would rather support the women’s side. ‘It’s not that there’s not enough room for women in football – there’s no room at all.’
Cassiano Silva, consultant, lawyer and accountant, 30, Belo Horizonte.
In the upper class neighbourhood of Estoril in Belo Horizonte, an hour on a football pitch costs more than a week’s minimum wage. But shared among 10 well-heeled players from the mining industry, the 300 reais (£80) leaves enough for a beer, samba and pagode, says Silva. ‘Football to me represents union. It means getting together with friends, an interaction, leisure, a relaxing moment. We’re always so busy, so stressed with traffic jams. And we’re here (on this pitch) on this hill, breathing fresh air. When you’re with friends you forget about work, about school. That’s what football means to me.’
‘Cypa’ Paulo Cezar Bento, 46, PE instructor, and son Roberto Antonio Santana Dos Santos, 24, Vidigal favela, Rio de Janeiro.
Bento played professionally until he realised the majority of players in Brazil have to scrape by on the minimum wage. He is now a coach for local kids. ‘Football is my life,’ he says. His son Roberto trained briefly with the Rio second-division club Bangu, and has endured hardship to make a career out of the sport. ‘I suffered. Sometimes I had to train on an empty stomach. But I can’t do anything else. All I can do is play football.’
Pedro Luna, Santa Cruz fan known as Tricolor Jesus, Recife.
The city of Recife is famous for its passionate fans. A regular among them is Pedro Luna, who dresses up as Jesus to amplify his message of peace, spirituality and faith in the local club. Santa Cruz (Holy Cross) was founded in 1914 by 11 youths who used to play football in front of the local church. Their goal, Luna says, was to make the sport – then a leisure pursuit for a privileged white class – into a ‘people’s game’ for everyone, including the poor and former slaves. ‘We have a very unique, visceral relationship with our team. It’s based on a family history, passed through generations. The World Cup only gets us together every four years. Local football brings us together every weekend. The World Cup is an event whereas the local soccer is a religion.’
José Carlos, 10, and Gabriel Brayan Santos Marques, 13, Manaus.
The torn and patchy artificial pitch at the Prosamim plaza has long been neglected by the authorities, but it is good enough for José Carlos and his friends to play out their dreams of football superstardom. They live in a public housing project on the outskirts of the biggest city in the Amazon, but their imaginations are elsewhere. ‘If I could leave Manaus I’d go to Portugal because I want to meet Cristiano Ronaldo,’ José Carlos says.
Barbeiro, Tato and Galo Cego, inmates at Curado prison complex, Recife.
When prisoners send a volley over the heavily guarded perimeter of Recife’s biggest jail, they have to be careful if they want their ball returned. ‘We need to ask the guard’s permission to get it. Otherwise, he’ll think we’re trying to escape,’ Barbeiro says. He is two-and-a-half years into his sentence for drug trafficking. Like many in the jail, he had other dreams. ‘What I really wanted to do was to play for a good team. I wanted to represent our country and fight for it,’ he says during a break from the daily kick-arounds in the exercise yard, the highlight of the inmates’ days.
Additional reporting by Karina Vieira
