Boys from Brazil

I was reflecting, thinking, mulling over ideas, reviewing feelings. The focus: our National Team. And I conclude the following: These 22 players of ours are golden boys, the vast majority coming from the outskirts of so many regions of the country. I see their physique, their physical build, the frail way most of them are, thin, sometimes a little awkward, and I feel an immense amount of admiration and respect for each one of them.

These boys of ours represent our deepest, most suffering, most disillusioned Brazil, most similar to that magical Macondo born in the ancient heart of Gabriel García Márquez. These boys have barely blossomed into life, still building their extensive repertoire of football-art, their smooth moves, that undeniable skill with the ball, that unbelievable agility and an unsuspected stamina of seven lives on any pitch in the world, when they are immediately sold to a Barcelona or another great Spanish, Italian, French, or English team. And they go, often only knowing how to speak a few isolated words in English or Spanish like "Buenas noches," "Thank you," "Muchas gracias," "Please!", "Good morning." And they stay there, far from their fathers, mothers, siblings, far from their lands, food, smells, mother tongue, fields, roosters, nights, and backyards.

In a foreign land, they need to be professional magicians: in each game, they must perform at least one, two, or three miracles on the field, recovering a flash of semi-forgotten genius. At every moment, these boys have to demonstrate the value of their legs, cunning, speed, and sense of precision, for which their transfer was sold. They are like eccentricities on display, having to convince, day after day, club officials with foreign languages ​​and eyes fixed on figures, impatient coaches, easily irritated teammates, and, more often than not, simply envious players. And they cannot fail because their bosses do not forgive mistakes. Much less the press in their new countries.

I think about all this and feel a pang in my heart. I mentally relive the look in each of their eyes, their tense faces, their expressions touched by emotion every time they begin to hear the first chords of our beautiful anthem, "Ouviram do Ipiranga" (They Heard from Ipiranga). There's a hint of repressed happiness, a supernatural calling for them to soon embody the Catholic saints of their devotions in the field, to give life to the sacred Orishas. And that's why the Brazilian National Anthem resonates with them as if it were not from a concrete, real country, but rather from a country made solely of tears, nestled in a purely emotional, ethereal continent, like South America.

And they do what they know best when they say, "I'll give my best." There's a potential naiveté in each of them. It's as if part of their childhood, all of their adolescence, and almost all of their youth have been stolen from them. But they've been left with this purity of soul. And when I think of the tank-like players who defend Italy, England, Spain, Holland, the United States, France, Belgium—always robust players, with their noses often in the air, muscular, with pigeon chests, and heights nearing two meters—that's when I feel even more pride, I close my eyes and beg a God who is always attentive and who hears and answers prayers to remove all their difficulties.

These boys look at Felipão not as a coach, nor as a boss, they look at him as a caring, friendly, attentive father who worries about each one of them, about their well-being, about preserving that "best of me on the field." And how it pains my heart when I see commentators from CBN, SporTV, columnists from O Globo, Folha de S.Paulo, Veja, Época belittling them, projecting their deep unease with life onto their young faces, precisely those who truly do their best, multiplying like the miracle of fish to fill every empty space on the pitch, making spectacular saves, shooting at goal as if they were making the only and impossible play of their lives. They are the ones who run to embrace him, their eyes already clouded with tears, they who cry like children long forbidden to cry, celebrating an essentially emotional country – Brazil.

These boys carry within them all the open wounds of Latin America, their memories of poverty and misery, their efforts from a very young age, still beardless, to help financially support their families.

And that's why David Luiz quickly goes to James Rodriguez to console him, to comfort him, to cry with him over the painful defeat, even though he was the winner. The awkward Brazilian asks the euphoric crowd that fills the beautiful Fortaleza stadium to stop applauding him and applaud the inconsolable Colombian star. Because David Luiz knows well how to understand the pain of defeat, the weight of disappointment on the football field and in the arenas of life.

I am immensely proud of the boys who are returning to the Comary training center. Before, they used to drum on the bus, taking pleasure in showing off small signs of apparent wealth, like good and flashy soccer cleats, eccentric and colorful haircuts, Beats headphones, state-of-the-art smartphones and tablets, powerful, big watches full of lights.

These boys of ours fight every day they play in the World Cup to take down eleven hungry and restless lions. They know they can't give their many detractors any reason to complain. And, therefore, they can't afford to make mistakes.

In truth, our national team is as wonderful as our country. A fantastic Brazil that hesitates a thousand times before recognizing itself as a land blessed by God, a remnant of a joyful, hospitable, festive, fun-loving, and unpredictable people, as only descendants of indigenous, Portuguese, and African people could be.

I know how much they must be suffering with Neymar's physical drama, with their captain out of the next game. They are, as a group, the best Brazilian team to represent us, with all our tragedies and all our glories. And it's good that it's that way. They need to receive all the hugs from all the mothers in the world these days.

Keep going because you are the best humanity that Brazil has ever produced. And those who best represent us. (Sleep on that.)