This was hypnotic football, football as sorcery, impossibly languid and creative, as louche and seductive as Bowie and Jagger and Richards all rolled into one. These games were won because of what the Brazilians could do with the ball and with what they could make the ball do, not because of how fast they could run after it, or how hard they could smash into an opposition player.
Borne back ceaselessly into the past
And all of it, it seemed, flowed through Socrates, skinny-legged, socks around his ankles, an imaginary cigarette, almost, hanging from his mouth.
I still travel the world and find out that the 82 team is everybody’s team.
Everyone who comes to Brazil falls in love with someone.
I’m struggling for freedom, for respect, for ample and unrestricted discussions, for a professional democratisation… and all this from a soccer player, preserving the lucid and pleasurable nature of this activity.
Socrates was a very intelligent man, he had great class. I remember that he was an objector, he wanted to know everything: why he couldn’t smoke on the team bus, why we had to be in retreat on the Saturday nights before games. He was an intelligent person who was interested in politics, although he smoked and drank a bit too much.