 "Divine intervention, or at least some lucky shorts")
Salvador, Brazil - there is a saying in this coastal city of mixed religious heritage and creeds that goes like this: If superstition decided football matches, all matches would end in a tie.
Still, that has never kept fans here from turning to rituals, magic, prayer or just odd practices to give a helping hand to their favourite clubs, or to Brazil's national team.
Whether wearing the same pair of shorts for as long as their team is winning or leaving a sacrificial chicken and other offerings on a street corner, many fervent football fans, in Salvador and beyond, believe the outcome of matches is somehow in their control.
"I write the name of the opposing team on a piece of paper, put the piece of paper inside a glass and put the glass in the freezer," says Heraldo Souza da Silva, a businessman, explaining his strategy of "chilling the adversary" that is generally applied in support of his local team, Esporte Clube Vitória, but is adapted to serve Brazil during the World Cup.
Talent does not always dictate results in soccer; luck is the 12th player on the turf, and there are plenty of stories about teams that scored against superior opponents. Think of the United States' 1-0 victory against England in the 1950 World Cup, also in Brazil, a stunning feat by an American squad made up of part-time players, including a teacher and a hearse driver, against a team considered one of the best in the world.
Nelson Rodrigues, a Brazilian playwright who died in 1980, had a name for those unlikely and inexplicable goals, at least in the earthly realm: gol espírita, or spiritualist goal, because, it is said, such a goal can happen only through divine intervention.
Brazilians are certain that such intervention expresses itself in many ways. Fans of Cruzeiro Esporte Clube, a top-level squad from the mountainous state Minas Gerais, say the team had no chance this year against San Lorenzo de Almagro, its Argentine opponent in the quarterfinals of the prestigious Copa Libertadores, because Pope Francis is among that club's staunch supporters. (These days, rumour has it that the pope's prayers are for Argentina, his home country and a soccer powerhouse.)
"Luck interferes, for sure, but the most ardent soccer fans don't call it luck," said Ordep Serra, a professor of anthropology at the Federal University of Bahia who has extensively researched the role of religion in Brazilian communities. "To them, it's the prayer they prayed, the ritual they followed. There is chance in soccer, and though people know they can't control or predict things that happen by chance, they're quick to assign meaning to them."
This month, João Ubaldo Ribeiro, an author who was born on an island off the coast of Salvador, wrote that his father confined him to the bathroom for many of Brazil's games at the 1958 World Cup in Sweden after realising Ribeiro was there, flushing the toilet, when Brazil scored against Austria in its first match. (My father, who is from Salvador, refuses to let my mother in the room whenever his beloved Esporte Clube Bahia plays. It is to avert the temptation of blaming her for the team's losses, he says, of which there have been many of late.)
In Rio de Janeiro, Jose Ribeiro, a rapper, fasted until the end of Brazil's friendly against Panama on June 3, believing that "on an empty stomach, it's easier to channel my energy to the players." (Brazil won, 4-0.)
That afternoon, at a bar just blocks from Estádio do Maracanã, Rio's famed football stadium, Guilherme Vieira donned the same "lucky shirt" he was wearing when Brazil beat Spain in the Confederations Cup final last year. Roberto Sant'Ana carried in his pockets the same three rocks he picked up years ago, after he heard in a dream that if he took the rocks to a stadium, for any game, his team would win.
"I can't tell you it's 100 per cent, but I'll tell you one thing," Sant'Ana said. When Brazil faced France in the quarterfinals of the 2006 World Cup in Germany, "Security told me I couldn't bring the rocks with me," he says. "And Brazil lost."
Serra, the anthropologist, says half-jokingly that here, "even atheists make exceptions to plead the saints for help for their team." It almost seems as if superstition is contagious.
Simon Johnson was a football fan in his home country, England, but hooligans were wreaking havoc at the stadiums at the time, so he stayed away. When he moved to Salvador in 1993, Johnson says, the first game he saw featured Vitória, and the team went on to reach the Brazilian finals.
Johnson has worn the same shorts he had on that day to every game he has attended. They have been washed so much that they have gone from black to grey.
Augusto Cesar, a priest in the Candomble religion, a mix of Roman Catholicism and African polytheism that is one of Salvador's dominant faiths, has another theory. "Football is a game, like everything in life, and though you can never tell what's going to happen when the ball starts rolling, it never hurts to ask for a little protection from above," he says.
But, Cesar concedes, "even with your saint as the arbiter, most times, it's the best team that wins."
Still, that has never kept fans here from turning to rituals, magic, prayer or just odd practices to give a helping hand to their favourite clubs, or to Brazil's national team.
Whether wearing the same pair of shorts for as long as their team is winning or leaving a sacrificial chicken and other offerings on a street corner, many fervent football fans, in Salvador and beyond, believe the outcome of matches is somehow in their control.
"I write the name of the opposing team on a piece of paper, put the piece of paper inside a glass and put the glass in the freezer," says Heraldo Souza da Silva, a businessman, explaining his strategy of "chilling the adversary" that is generally applied in support of his local team, Esporte Clube Vitória, but is adapted to serve Brazil during the World Cup.
Talent does not always dictate results in soccer; luck is the 12th player on the turf, and there are plenty of stories about teams that scored against superior opponents. Think of the United States' 1-0 victory against England in the 1950 World Cup, also in Brazil, a stunning feat by an American squad made up of part-time players, including a teacher and a hearse driver, against a team considered one of the best in the world.
Nelson Rodrigues, a Brazilian playwright who died in 1980, had a name for those unlikely and inexplicable goals, at least in the earthly realm: gol espírita, or spiritualist goal, because, it is said, such a goal can happen only through divine intervention.
Brazilians are certain that such intervention expresses itself in many ways. Fans of Cruzeiro Esporte Clube, a top-level squad from the mountainous state Minas Gerais, say the team had no chance this year against San Lorenzo de Almagro, its Argentine opponent in the quarterfinals of the prestigious Copa Libertadores, because Pope Francis is among that club's staunch supporters. (These days, rumour has it that the pope's prayers are for Argentina, his home country and a soccer powerhouse.)
"Luck interferes, for sure, but the most ardent soccer fans don't call it luck," said Ordep Serra, a professor of anthropology at the Federal University of Bahia who has extensively researched the role of religion in Brazilian communities. "To them, it's the prayer they prayed, the ritual they followed. There is chance in soccer, and though people know they can't control or predict things that happen by chance, they're quick to assign meaning to them."
This month, João Ubaldo Ribeiro, an author who was born on an island off the coast of Salvador, wrote that his father confined him to the bathroom for many of Brazil's games at the 1958 World Cup in Sweden after realising Ribeiro was there, flushing the toilet, when Brazil scored against Austria in its first match. (My father, who is from Salvador, refuses to let my mother in the room whenever his beloved Esporte Clube Bahia plays. It is to avert the temptation of blaming her for the team's losses, he says, of which there have been many of late.)
In Rio de Janeiro, Jose Ribeiro, a rapper, fasted until the end of Brazil's friendly against Panama on June 3, believing that "on an empty stomach, it's easier to channel my energy to the players." (Brazil won, 4-0.)
That afternoon, at a bar just blocks from Estádio do Maracanã, Rio's famed football stadium, Guilherme Vieira donned the same "lucky shirt" he was wearing when Brazil beat Spain in the Confederations Cup final last year. Roberto Sant'Ana carried in his pockets the same three rocks he picked up years ago, after he heard in a dream that if he took the rocks to a stadium, for any game, his team would win.
"I can't tell you it's 100 per cent, but I'll tell you one thing," Sant'Ana said. When Brazil faced France in the quarterfinals of the 2006 World Cup in Germany, "Security told me I couldn't bring the rocks with me," he says. "And Brazil lost."
Serra, the anthropologist, says half-jokingly that here, "even atheists make exceptions to plead the saints for help for their team." It almost seems as if superstition is contagious.
Simon Johnson was a football fan in his home country, England, but hooligans were wreaking havoc at the stadiums at the time, so he stayed away. When he moved to Salvador in 1993, Johnson says, the first game he saw featured Vitória, and the team went on to reach the Brazilian finals.
Johnson has worn the same shorts he had on that day to every game he has attended. They have been washed so much that they have gone from black to grey.
Augusto Cesar, a priest in the Candomble religion, a mix of Roman Catholicism and African polytheism that is one of Salvador's dominant faiths, has another theory. "Football is a game, like everything in life, and though you can never tell what's going to happen when the ball starts rolling, it never hurts to ask for a little protection from above," he says.
But, Cesar concedes, "even with your saint as the arbiter, most times, it's the best team that wins."
© 2014 The New York Times