Saturday, 4 July 2009
A (mercifully) quick one, this. And yes, it’s about pissing football again, so sorry in advance. Around a year ago (and yes, Your Life Is An Impossibility is now approximately 15 months old! Happy Birthday, Your Life Is An Impossibility! Vote now, readers, for your least favourite story/bit, and win a big yellow fruit from the garden and a Santa shirt signed by Adilson! (see entry dated 3 May 2009)), the writer of all this nonsense set off on a epic adventure with Santa Cruz Futebol Clube and the infamous Inferno Coral around the nordeste of Brazil. The reason for such meanderings, of course, was O Mais Querido’s bound-to-be glorious campaign in Serie C of the Brazilian Championship. Alas, nothing is as glorious as staying in your own bed, as Oblomov might have said, and Santa proved woeful even by their own rotten standards. Your writer’s quixotic wanderings got no further than Campina Grande, as Santa were knocked out in the second phase, and therefore, dear readers, were relegated to no lesser joy than playing in Serie D in 2009.
And Serie D didn’t even exist until this year! Caramba!
Now. Faust and Robert Johnson (nice photo above courtesy of stealthingsfromtheinternet.com) sold their souls to the devil, the former in exchange for knowledge, the latter for some nifty blues fingers. Fans of Recife's Sport (including Mr Anonymous, our welcome new reader) clearly bartered such flimsy souls as they have in return for winning the tatty bauble that is the Copa Do Brasil last year. My question is, and I bet you’re dying to know yourself – just where can you find a good devil when you want one? (A few flippant suggestions for starters: the Collor family estate in Alagoas, Eamonn Holmes’ house (www.eamonn.tv/static/eamonn_holmes_front.htm), here - http://www.bandacalypso.com.br/, Tony Parson’s house…and you get the idea).
To explain. As a young whippersnapper of 18 I moved from Belfast to Manchester, ostensibly to study something I can’t quite remember, but really so I could watch Manchester City every week. City were in the English First Division at the time. Every week found me on the Kippax in the pissing rain. Within four years a pre-richestclubintheworld City found themselves halfway down the Third Division. I pickedupsticks for London. City improved dramatically.
A poker hand of years after that Brazil beckoned. I lived in Belo Horizonte. I was (and still am) Atleticano - of course, because as everyone knows Atletico are o time do povo in BH. One year later – Atletico are relegated to Serie B for the first time in their history.
Wracked by guilt, I flee to João Pessoa, where thank Eamonn, there’s no football. Until I get to Recife. And I´m not going to tell the story again (see entry dated 4 July 2008). All I need to say is that Santa were sitting comfortably in Serie B when I got here and became tricolor até morrer.
And now look!
So if anyone knows an angry man with a red face and pointy ears and a pitchfork can you please give me his number, please? Because tomorrow morning all this foolishness starts again, and I’m bound for the Tricentenario Hospital around the corner here in Amaro Branco, where in the murky dawn (5am, to be precise. 5am!) we’ll all (the neighbours, or at least the tricolores amongst them) board a battered bus and roll the 265km down to Maceio (a three hour journey at best, and the game’s not until 4pm, but the rest of the bus gang want to hit the beaches for a few hours before the game – not something that happened too often during City away days in Middlesbrough), to see Santa take on (but not lose to, please, Eamonn!) CSA in the first game of the 2009 Brasileirão Serie D.
Santa have done their bit – chewing the ears off Sport and Nautico in the first round of the Pernambuco Championship this year, before fading a little in the second round and finishing a decent enough third, then after a few of their big dogs (albeit that in a global footballing context Santa’s big dogs aren’t much more than Jack Russells) went off to seek their fortunes elsewhere, retooling the cast with promising locals, or more appropriately once promising but now a bit down on their luck locals.
So spectacular were Santa’s signings that this writer became infuriated by the coverage of such minor international events as Real Madrid ponying up for Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaká, and the sad passing of Diana Ross’s prettier sister Michelle Jackson Ross, and the regular dessert spoonful of plane crashes and North Korean missile tests – who cares about all of that? When Santa are building a galaticos midfield of not just Anderson, Gobatto, Alexandre Oliveira and Neto Maranhão, but Juninho and Thiago Laranjeiras as well! And favourite beach football star Roger is staying, and that can only be good news, because everyone knows that every Brazilian team has to have at least one player called Roger!
So cancel all that stuff about looking up D.E.V.I.L. in the Yellow Pages or Lista Online, ‘cos I think I’ve found the scamp, and he's not dressed as a big cat or a prostitute and he's not hanging out in 1930s Moscow (that's it! that's what I was studying in Manchester! Books!), but he might well be living well in a seedy worker's motel in Afogados. Because clearly someone in the Fernando Bezerra Coelho camp (see entry dated 5th February 2009) met old Louis Cipher (quoting Mickey Rourke movies – a dark day indeed) at midnight in the Praça Do Derby a few weeks ago, and while this fellow stout of heart might have got a big sack of gold from Fernando for his trouble, he might well be feeling a bit low in the soul department. Or I hope he is, because I really don’t want to be crawling back from Maceio in the dark and the rain after Santa have got their backsides kicked by a bunch of clowns from Alagoas.
PS. And as I write news comes over the wireless that Santos have opened up a can of whup ass on nasty old Sport down in São Paulo (state). Eamonn bless you, Mr Bub!