Bora, PORRA… caralho, que filho da puta é essa!!

Six thousand Brazilians cursing. It’s not even a “classic” game: It’s Recife’s Naútico v. Bahia’s Victoria, late on a Tuesday night, but it’s rowdy, on your feet, jumping, singing, a mass of red and white and shaking fists and arms, and I can only imagine what an “important” game looks like (World Cup 2014: please?!?!). Naútico wins, 3 x 0.
Learn Portuguese swear words: check.

Wednesday night, I watch Rio de Janieros’s Santos play Sao Pablo’s Flamengo. They’re both Division 1 teams, and it’s a different game: precise and fast and meu dues these players are good. Santos scores 3 goals in the first half, but the game ends with Flamengo in the lead, 5 to 4. Nine goals scored in a game! One kid, Neymar (he’s 19!), dribbles the ball from midfield, leaping across defenders, flying across the pitch; the goalie comes out to meet him, but Neymar darts around him and he scores, and the whole thing takes ten seconds. Caralho. This is not soccer as I’ve known it; it’s fut-ee-bol. It’s a different sport entirely, and it’s too cliché to admit: soccer in Brazil makes me love soccer.


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