They’re travelling all over the world and three of them scored four of the five goals in Spartak’s game against Arsenal last week
Amy Lawrence As the ball glided around on an ice-rink pitch in Moscow’s Luzhniki Stadium, there was something surreal about the fact that four of the five goals in a game between Russian and English teams were scored by players who supposedly hone their skills on the beach. How did this happen? What are all these Brazilians doing in Europe?
While Brazilian football, currently under government investigation to stem the flood of bungs, passport fraud and clandestine transfers, doesn’t know whether it is coming or going, its players certainly do. They have dancing boots, and will travel. Last year a grand total of 658 Brazilian footballers emigrated to foreign climes.
That would make enough teams to fill the English premiership, first division and most of division two. Not only are they exported to the major European paymasters in Italy, Spain, Germany, France and England, they crop up everywhere from South Africa to Slovenia, from Indonesia to India. Heaven knows what the son of Samba plying his trade in Iceland makes of life.
Arsenal’s defender Silvinho contemplated the exodus and simply exclaimed: “Jesus!” He explains that the opportunity to learn about a new culture, language and style of football is enticing. But basically they go for one reason: money.
A commission revealed 98% of Brazilian players survive on a minimum salary of about R1?000 a month, scant reward for enduring an 11-month season that is so random and complex it leaves everyone as bemused as they are exhausted. As Edmundo moaned: “In Europe you play twice a week at the most. Here in Brazil it’s an absolute marathon; you play Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday again.”
The lucky travellers, such as Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo or Jardel, make their names and their fortunes abroad. As for the rest, Adlo Rebelo, who is heading the national investigation, says that for every one who succeeds another young starlet ends up signing a contract in a language they don’t understand before being rejected and kicked out into the street.
“I didn’t have many problems but I know there are many cases where players go back to Brazil complaining that they don’t like the weather, the country, the language, the coach …” muses Silvinho. “I am lucky to be here in England, God knows.”
To flourish demands as much mental will as technical wizardry. The case of Francileudo dos Santos is a typical example of how things work. He was recruited by Belgian club Standard Liege from the northern state of Maranhao at the age of 16, before he had ever played professionally. He arrived in the middle of winter with a suitcase full of Bermuda shorts. Despite this, he had an excellent season, was dispatched to a club in Tunisia (glad he brought those shorts after all?), impressed again, and was bought by Sochaux for $1-million, where he is currently top scorer in France’s second division and improving fast.
The hurdles to be overcome depend on the destination. It took Robson, such an unsettling presence for Arsenal in Moscow last week, a couple of years to thrive in Russia.
Spartak Moscow’s coach, president and general overlord, Oleg Romantsev, decided some years ago that he wanted to integrate some South American soul into his Soviet machine.
The first to make an impression was Leonadis, but he didn’t last long after suffering a frost-bitten finger during training not a common injury among Russians. Robson, a fixture in the Spartak side, is made of sterner stuff.
At first he had to cope with being the butt of jokes at the training ground. The usual stuff, like when he asked Ilya Tsymbalar what to say to get an apple and he ended up with a beer.
It’s hardly surprising it took time to work out what tickles his team-mates’ tastebuds: at Spartak’s restaurant, a plush cellar frequented by wealthy locals, which also serves as a meeting place for the club’s players and officials, a special dish called “Footballer’s Dream” promises toast with bacon, marinated cucumbers, cubes of pineapple and chips.
Three years into his exile, Robson still has problems with the language. The adaptation process, though, is not all jocular. One day he was strolling through Gorky Park only to be confronted by a band of skinheads. Fortunately and this is the club’s official line potential distress was diluted because there were some Spartak fans among them.
“The unpleasantness,” wrote the club’s magazine, “was limited to a lecture on the superiority of the white race.”
Against this backdrop, and the fact that bananas are lobbed from the stands when Spartak visit the provinces, the idea of Robson becoming football’s first black Russian is an astounding one. After three years in the country he made such an impression that Romantsev, who coaches the national team as well as Spartak, spoke of arranging citizenship. His Cameroonian club-mate, Jerry Christian Tchuise, has already been naturalised.
Naturally Robson gets homesick. During two days spent exploring Moscow I saw only two black people going about their business in town. Having said that, this thriving city is embracing cosmopolitan variety at breathless pace. Players like Robson can expect salaries of more than $250?000 a year and he won’t struggle to enjoy his wealth among Moscow’s high society. The first of a parade of shops flanking Red Square is Christian Dior, mobile phones trill permanently, new bars and restaurants open every day, ranging from TGI Friday’s to Tibetan.
Robson has been joined at Spartak by Marcao. A handful of compatriots to keep him company have come and gone but the latest, who terrorised Arsenal in the Champions League, looks like he is here to stay. Even though Romantsev was strangely grumpy about his performance and demanded improvements, Spartak’s boisterous followers seemed enthusiastic enough about their exotic match winners.
Overrun in midfield, how Arsenal could have done with Edu, the Corinthians playmaker who got as far as Heathrow when the club tried to buy him last summer, before passport irregularities sent him packing back to Brazil. He was distraught. Silvinho, who flew over with Edu after spending his summer break in Sao Paulo, recalls how excited the young midfielder was.
“Before we flew over I was in Sao Paulo for my holidays and spoke to him a few times, congratulating him on his contract and telling him it was a really good team and a good country. It’s wonderful here, and he expected to come, saying, ‘Oh, Silvinho, there are so many great players there!’ I told him they were good guys. Passports are a problem and it’s for the people who run the game to sort it out.”
Provided his documents arrive before the January 1 deadline, Edu will be straight on the plane to London. Arsne Wenger is hopeful his passport will be the perfect Christmas present.
If he does finally make it, he should at least be eligible for the resumption of the Champions League after the winter break.
Against Bayern, he would cross swords with compatriots Elber and Paulo Sergio, before meeting up with Lyon’s Sonny Anderson and Edmilson.
Although the result in Moscow was forgettable, Silvinho was happy to catch up with Robson, an old mate from Corinthians days. They didn’t swap shirts though. For Brazilians, playing in the cold is a challenge worth trying, stripping is out of the question.
Additional reporting by Brian Homewood in Rio de Janeiro