It’s been 65 years, and it seems like yesterday – 06/28/2023 – Juca Kfouri

Boys, I saw it!

At the time, it is true, I heard more than I saw, in the unforgettable voices of Edson Leite and Pedro Luiz, on the airwaves of Rádio Bandeirantes.

“My timer marks, 45 minutes of the second half. Score at the Rasunda stadium, in Solna, Brazil 5, Sweden 2”, the sound was interrupted, with echo, and celebrated the victory of the selection over the hosts of the World Cup, in Stockholm.

For an eight-year-old boy, who watched his first World Cup, the gigantic significance of the feat only made sense due to the joy of the older ones, who seemed not to believe what they were hearing.

A generation that had suffered with the Maracanazo in 1950 freed itself from frustration, kicked the pain to the sidelines and sang the songs that commemorated the epic.

Exactly on June 29, 1958.

The father, a moderate smoker, one of those who extracted unspeakable pleasures from each puff of the oval Petit London cigarette, lit one after the other, to contain his nervousness.

When the Swedes made it 1-0, just after four minutes, all expectations turned into pessimism, as if the Brazilians really weren’t destined to win.

But at 9 and 32 minutes, as if the second goal was a repeat of the first, Mané Garrincha passed to Vavá to turn the scoreboard. And, between the two goals, the boy Pelé had hit the opposing goalpost.

The break arrived like a blessing, to calm the atmosphere in the living room in Itaim Bibi, although without any advance celebration. There were still 45 minutes to go, and the trauma of losing to Uruguay eight years earlier was present, not, of course, in the eight-year-old’s mind.

No sooner had the second half started, and Pelé hatted the defender and almost scored a great goal.

Stubborn, insistent, courageous, brilliant, in the 55th minute, he took another hat off to another defender and then scored the 3-1 goal.

Thirteen minutes later, it was Zagallo’s turn to make it 4-1, and then there was nothing to fear.

The world bowed to Brazil.

Even the second Swedish goal didn’t scare because there were only ten minutes left and victory was guaranteed.

Just in case, just to leave no doubt, at exactly 90 minutes, the boy who would become king established the definitive score: 5 to 2.

“The world cup is ours / no one can compete with a Brazilian / this squadron of gold / he’s good at samba, he’s good at leather / the Brazilian abroad / showed football how it is / won the world cup /sambando with the ball in your foot/goool!”, the marchinha immediately took over the country.

It could have rhymed with Mané, it could have rhymed with Pelé, but the truth is that it would also have to rhyme with Didi, chosen as the best player in the World Cup.

Think about it: there was Mané, there was Pelé, and the best was Didi.

That’s why the boy still thinks that team was the best of all time, even better than the 1970 team.

Then, still young, more mature, almost old, he got tired of reading about the feat and was able to watch the entire game on precious film.

So that everything would be even closer to the memory that already held invaluable wealth.

Four years later, those same heroes repeated the feat, in Chile, and, incredible, one of them tripled it in 1970, in Mexico. Guess which one.

Today, 65 years later, it seems like a dream.

Not just because we lost the conditions to win World Cups, because in 1994 and 2002 we reached the fifth championship.

Fundamentally because the eyes, at 73, are different.

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