Their Game, Our Game

India’s passion for Brazilian football isn’t only a matter of perception or bleary impressions gained from talking to PLUs. In an Outlook-MDRA survey conducted in five football-crazy cities of India, Brazil notched maximum support—42.2 per cent, followed by Argentina, a poor second at 17.4 per cent. None of the European giants could even register a 10 per cent support. Most cited Brazil’s attractive style to justify their choice.

India’s support for Brazil isn’t of recent vintage, induced only by the live TV coverage of the World Cup. Former Indian goalkeeper Brahmananda Shankhwalker has vivid memories of the time past midnight 40 years ago when he and friends pushed their car out of the garage like thieves after the final got over, so as not to wake up the others. They had been indulging in the experience of Brazil, in Pele-induced joy—but only aurally. With no live TV coverage, the bunch had been listening to the radio commentary of the final, live from Mexico City. “It was thrilling,” says Shankhwalker, adding that his joy doubled as Brazil won 4-1.

Brazil’s sense of style appeals to the world. For India, it has a special attraction. “For Indians, style means being ‘stylish’—which basically means doing things with a flourish,” says historian Mukul Kesavan. “What draws us to Brazil is watching someone like Ronaldo, or in earlier times Pele or Zico, hurl themselves into attack, madly rush up the forward line. Great individual flair with extraordinary teamwork.” Indians love stylish players like Mohammed Azharuddin because he seemed to abandon safety for flourish, says Kesavan. “One reason the Brazilians are loved is that they seem interested to play the beautiful game,” he adds.

The legend of ‘Beautiful Brazil’ persists here, though Brazil is no more the Brazil of old. This enduring lore took birth because of their past: A bunch of black, brown and white men playing for one team, with beauty, guile and effect, lifting the ’58 World Cup a decade after India’s independence, when Africa was yet not free, and white men dominated all sports. They had names that evoked romanticism and mystery—Vava, Didi, Falcao, Garrincha, Pele, Filo and, later, Zico and Socrates. They were not giants, muscle-bound men kicking the ball high and forward—like the ruthless Germans, for instance. The nature of Brazil’s world-beating soccer effortlessly melded with the kind of hockey Indians of that era prided themselves on—both games played with wizardry.

India’s attraction for Brazil was natural. Former Indian footballer Chuni Goswami provides a soccer dimension to this: “We did well in football in the Asian Games and the Olympics in the 1950s and 1960s. We also played with skill, not strength. We surprised our opponents in Asia with good dribbling, effective short passes, twists, turns and feints. Our style resembled the way Brazilians play; that’s why, being Indian and not being in the World Cup, Brazil represents us.”

In those times, blacks and browns had little to relate to in world sport. The Olympic Games were dominated by the US, ussr, Germany, England, Australia and other European nations; cricket’s top dogs were England and Australia. Tennis was white. The African mine of excellent middle-distance runners was still untapped. But for heavyweight boxing, the white man dominated sport.

Then came Brazil, and challenged this supremacy. “They were the first to use the ethnic diversity of their population,” says academic and sports commentator Novy Kapadia. “They had native Indian, African, German, Irish and of course players of Portuguese descent.” This created the warm buzz of ‘unity in diversity’, a theme many would have found comforting in the aftermath of Partition. Kapadia also says love for Brazil started in Calcutta, which provided the trigger to the nationalist movement decades ago. No wonder, this love for Samba had strong anti-colonial themes. As Kapadia says, “All Europeans fitted the stereotypes of the colonial ruler—fair, blond, blue-eyed, tall and muscular.” Brazil’s triumph in 1958 became India’s, in what can be called displaced psychological projection. “(An idealised) Brazil became a kind of proxy for (for a highly idealised) India,” adds writer Mike Marqusee.

But the assimilation of races in Brazil wasn’t without problems. When Brazil lost the 1950 World Cup final to Uruguay, three black players bore the brunt of criticism. The goalkeeper, Barbosa, suffered this humiliation until his lonely death 50 years later. In The Ball Is Round, David Goldblatt writes: “The multiracial, confident, progressive Brazil that was conjured from football was dissolved in an acid bath of racism, self-doubt and self-loathing.” There wouldn’t be another black Brazilian keeper until Dida in 1995.

Not too many in India knew this story; not too many, in fact, saw the great Brazilian players on live TV. They were informed of their genius by the spoken and written word. “There was no TV then, of course, and some films were shown in theatres,” says Goswami. “So newspapers reports were our main source of information about them, describing the magical moves they made, the dribbling, the passing...it was like folklore for us.” Adds Shankhwalker, “The elders in my family had a liking for Brazil; the first word you heard in the context of football was Pele. You were told he was god of football.”

Folklore, politics and history have carved out a distinctive image in the Indian heart about Brazil—yellow shirts continually flowing in inventive attack, possessed of astonishing beauty, fearless of defeat. It’s a mythical image: Brazil doesn’t play like the Brazil of yore any more; they’re not indifferent to defeat, no more content with just the joy of playing. Their goalkeepers, once comically inept, are dependable; their defenders are solid, reluctant to foray deep into the other half. Pundits agree that Spain and Argentina now play the way Brazil played. “I just don’t get excited by the football they play these days. Brazil have relinquished the fantasy and abandoned their roots,” says Socrates, who led the 1982 Brazil team and also played in 1986, which probably was Brazil’s last really great team. About Brazil’s defeat to Italy in ’86, former Indian captain Shabbir Ali recalls, “Socrates, Zico attacked brilliantly, but the Italians made two-three counterattacks and Brazil had no defence—they were knocked out.”

Chastened, Brazil changed their style, sacrificing much flair and flourish. But they still draw fans because of their knack of coming up with a player or two of rare genius. Old-timers, though, feel support for them has declined, as fans are exposed to other purveyors of style, like Spain and Argentina. But these two countries, as our survey shows, still have a lot of catching up to do with Brazil in India.

The only place in India where support for another team matches Brazil’s is Goa, which has many citizens rooting for Portugal. Says former Indian player Savio Madeira, “Goans have a strong affinity for Portugal because of the colonial past, a lot of Goans speak Portuguese. It’s a close race between them. We in Goa love Brazil’s style. And like them, we have the carnival, and also the laidback culture of dancing, singing and enjoying life.” Incidentally, the first Brazilians to play for an Indian club turned out for Vasco in Goa.

Marqusee says Indians love Brazil because their style, even in this era of reduced inventiveness, enables him to enjoy a sport in which the favourite team’s defeat isn’t shattering. “Supporting Brazil is much less stressful, more humour-filled and positive than supporting one’s own country would be,” he says. “If Brazil lose, Indian football fans would be disappointed, but not crushed. They wouldn’t look for scapegoats. They wouldn’t writhe in frustration. See the Indian cricket fans’ attitudes towards the Indian team.”

For Indians, emotional investment in Brazil is relatively risk-free, frequently entailing rich visual dividends, even in defeat. It’s also the reason why India would want Brazil to return to its old ways—play with flourish and flair, oblivious to the possibility of defeat.