Skills from Brazil Page 8

  “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?” asked Jamie, feeling a bundle of nerves begin to sprout within him.

  Rafael nodded.

  “Every day … when I wake up, the first thing that I do, before anything else, is pray that, one day, my dad will come back,” said Jamie.

  He talked quietly, and when he’d finished speaking, his mouth curved downwards. It was true – he did do that every day … and he had never told anyone.

  Rafael stopped walking and turned to look at Jamie. It was the kind of look that only brothers normally give each other.

  Silence stood between them.

  “B-b-b-but you know he never w-will,” whispered Rafael, finally speaking for the first time that day.

  Jamie shook his head. A tear wet his eye.

  “It’s been nearly t-t-two years now,” said Rafael. “And you know, my d-dad hasn’t smiled once – not properly – since sh-sh-she…”

  Jamie thought back to Bernard’s broad smile in that photo of him and Stephania at the house. It was such a big smile, that it looked as though it should last for ever.

  “Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?” said Jamie. “But it gets better. It never stops hurting … but it does get better.”

  Ready

  Jamie and Mestre looked at each other, each bearing a steely glare; each unwilling to give way.

  Jamie had once again asked to start working with the ball. Mestre had once again told him he was not ready.

  Then Jamie felt the cord snap inside him. Ready … why did he keep going on about being “ready”?

  “Fine!” said Jamie, picking up his stuff. “It doesn’t even matter whether you think I’m ready because I don’t need you! I’m in Brazil – the home of football – I can play football on the beach with anyone I want!”

  With that, Jamie began stomping up the beach. His outburst had not soothed his anger, only inflamed it.

  “You should come back,” said Rafael, sprinting to try and keep up with Jamie. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “The only mistake was wasting two whole days listening to his stupid ideas,” snapped Jamie. “Like I’m going to go home and tell Jack and Mike: yeah, I was in Brazil but no, I didn’t actually play football.”

  It was only the huge commotion that was occurring further up the beach that pulled Jamie out of his anger for a second. About fifty yards away, lots of people were making noise and shouting and clapping. They seemed to be aiming their attention in one direction, towards one particular person.

  Jamie focused his eyes and made out a figure walking towards him down the beach. The person was being followed and cheered as he walked.

  Indeed, it was the walk – the athletic grace of it – that gave away the person’s identity. Jamie had recognized him seconds before he could hear the cheers that were accompanying him.

  “Arnaldo! Arnaldo!” the people were singing, as the best young footballer in the whole of Brazil walked down the beach.

  Then something absolutely incredible happened: Arnaldo began to smile and wave … in Jamie’s direction!

  Jamie could not believe it. This was way beyond his wildest dreams.

  He smiled and waved back as the heroic figure drew nearer still … and then watched as Arnaldo walked past him.

  It hadn’t been Jamie that he had been waving at.

  Jamie turned around to see where he was heading … it was straight towards Mestre. What did Arnaldo want with the old man?

  “Mestre!!” Arnaldo was now shouting, quickening his pace to give the Master a high five. “Meu amigo!”

  Mestre and Arnaldo give each other a huge hug and immediately began laughing together. It was like a child greeting his favourite uncle.

  Jamie shook his head in utter disbelief.

  “Can we talk to him, Rafa?” he asked. “Can we talk to Arnaldo?”

  “Well, that depends,” said Rafael. “Last thing I remember is you shouting your mouth off at the man who taught him everything he knows!”

  Meeting the Man

  “There’s so much I want to ask you!” said Jamie, feeling his body tingle with excitement. “That magic in your play, please tell me how you get it!”

  Mestre and Arnaldo were sitting on a couple of deckchairs watching the kids by the sea perfecting their skills. When Jamie had apologized for losing his temper, Mestre had just laughed and said: “It’s good. This is what a footballer needs – passion!”

  Mestre explained that ten years ago Arnaldo had been just like Jamie and the other kids: one of Mestre’s pupils on the beach.

  Arnaldo himself had nodded.

  “Eh…” Arnaldo said, looking at Jamie. “You learn with Mestre now, yes?”

  Jamie nodded enthusiastically but, inside, he was full of embarrassment. He couldn’t believe that a few minutes ago he had been prepared to turn his back on Mestre. This was the man who had taught Arnaldo – and Jamie had got in a huff with him! What a waste it would have been if he had stormed off … what a mistake. Maybe Jack and his mum were right; perhaps he did need to work on keeping his temper under control.

  “And you have been running on the beach?”

  “Sure have,” Jamie grinned.

  “And you have been dancing?”

  “Yup,” confirmed Jamie.

  Arnaldo began laughing. He stood up and started doing some samba moves in front of Mestre. He even tried to pull Mestre up from his seat to dance too but Mestre was having none of it.

  “Mestre!” said Arnaldo, now laughing even harder. “So now it is time for him to play footvolley?”

  Mestre got to his feet and smiled.

  “OK,” he said finally. “The British boy has passion. So now we see if he is ready.”

  Mestre and Rosária were on one side of the net, warming up, with Arnaldo waiting for Jamie to join him on the other side. Jamie was on his way; he was just getting some instructions from Rafael, who had asked if he could have a minute to tell Jamie all the rules.

  “Footvolley is basically a mixture between volleyball and football,” he explained. “There is a court marked out in the sand, which you can see, there is a net and there are two players on each side; in this case, you and Arnaldo versus Mestre and Rosária.”

  Jamie grinned. He loved it when Rafael said the words “you and Arnaldo”.

  “Listen, Jamie, this is important!” said Rafael. “There are lots of people watching, you are going to want to play well. You can use any part of your body to control the ball and get it over the net apart from your hands. So, that basically means your feet, chest and head.”

  “Got it,” Jamie said.

  Looking at the intensity in Rafael’s eyes, he suddenly felt as though he were being given a pre-match team-talk by a top coach. He realized again how much he liked and respected Rafael. He was so happy that they were talking again after what had happened last night.

  “And remember,” said Rafael. “Because you can’t use your hands, it’s very difficult to do a smash, so some of these rallies will go on for a very long time.”

  Jamie nodded again, shook Rafael’s hand, took his place on the court and did a high five with Arnaldo. If he was completely honest, Jamie wasn’t that worried or nervous because alongside him, as his partner, he had one of the best young footballers in the world. All Jamie had to do, he reasoned, was set the ball up for Arnaldo and this would be a pretty simple victory.

  Not for the first time in his life, Jamie could not have been more wrong.

  Golden Touch

  The ball dropped perfectly, just over the net, and settled smoothly into the sand. It had been struck with such sweet softness that it had seemed to drop lightly towards the sand like a falling leaf.

  Jamie and Arnaldo both collapsed, panting like wild dogs. Mestre had taunted and teased them by keeping every rally going
for such a long time that, by the end, they were begging for it to be over.

  Jamie had run and scampered as far and fast as he could. Arnaldo had shown some unbelievable touches but none of them had compared to the control of the ball that Mestre had demonstrated.

  Every single touch of the ball he’d had had been pure gold, including this last one, when he had deftly flicked it just over the net with the outside of his foot to win the game for him and Rosária.

  Jamie felt a hand grab him and pull him up from the ground.

  It was Arnaldo. He still wore the same smile that he’d had before the game.

  “Don’t worry that we lose,” he grinned as he and Jamie shook hands with their opponents. “This is why we call him O Mestre!”

  Jamie nodded. For the first time since he had arrived on the beach, he genuinely understood the truth of the situation.

  On the other side of that net was a living, breathing master of football.

  “He wouldn’t tell me who he really was,” revealed Jamie. “His real story…”

  He and Rafael were just turning into the road of Rafael’s house. Even though he had lost at footvolley, Jamie was feeling much better. After all, he had now kicked a ball! Yet this one question was still bugging him.

  “After the game and once we all had our photo taken with Arnaldo, I went up to Mestre by myself and said to him: ‘Your touch is better than any player I have ever seen, even the ones at Barca and Madrid. Why hasn’t the whole world heard of you?’“

  “And let me guess,” laughed Rafael. “Mestre didn’t tell you his story?”

  “No,” said Jamie. “He just looked at me and said that tomorrow he would start to show me the secrets. You must know his story, Rafa, if your dad has known him for so long. Come on, tell me … I’ve got to know!”

  “He is exactly who he says he is,” smiled Rafael, as though he knew more than he was prepared to tell Jamie. “He’s the man who will show you the secrets of the Brazilian skills.”

  Night Mail

  Up in the Air

  Wednesday 28 May

  “There are many different types of football,” said Mestre, his powerful, firm hand resting on Jamie’s shoulder. “The beach is different to the rest because here it is difficult to dribble in the sand. Here, everything is about keeping the ball in the air. But you take these lessons from the beach and they work in any football … you understand?”

  “Yes, Mestre.”

  “Good – so now you try.”

  Without warning, Mestre volleyed a football hard at Jamie, who instinctively chested it up into the air and began juggling with both feet. He had just passed his first test of Brazilian beach football.

  Soon, Rosária came to join him, and then three more players. They formed a small circle on the wet part of the sand just next to the sea. They were playing the most simple of football games – keeping the ball up. Each player was allowed just one touch with any part of their body (apart from their hands) and, collectively, their aim was to keep the ball in the air for as long as possible.

  By watching the other players, Jamie quickly observed how they used their shoulders, heels, thighs and knees just as much as their feet. Each part of the body had its own shape and way of connecting with the ball. For example, the knee and heel were hard, giving good power and distance, while the thigh and chest were soft, offering more control.

  New to Jamie too was the fact that they seemed to use the outside of their foot when touching the ball as much as the instep; not only did it allow the players to get so much more spin on the ball but it looked more fun too!

  Above everything, though, the key was to never give up. Every ball was retrievable.

  “You can make that one!” Rosária said to Jamie on one occasion that he had let the ball bounce into the sand.

  “But it was too far away,” appealed Jamie, sorry to have let the other players down. They had kept it up for a hundred and four touches. “I’d have to have dived face-first into the sand to keep that one up!”

  “Yes!” said Rosária. “And what is the problem with that?!”

  It was true. Jamie watched how the other players chased every ball down, diving into the air, running into the sea, leaping into the sand to kick, head or chest the ball back to a waiting member of the team.

  The best part of it was that no one ever got injured because the sand or the water was always there to break their fall.

  Jamie realized this when he made his first run into the sea, chasing down a ball at full pelt, skipping into the water and then launching himself into the air, producing a bicycle kick to arrow the ball back behind him to where the rest of the players were standing.

  After he made contact with the ball, his whole body plunged into the refreshing blue Brazilian sea. It was like a cool, cleansing shower. Jamie blew the bubbles out of his nose and then, feeling his feet touch the sand, pushed himself back up and out of the water in one powerful movement.

  He rose, refreshed, from the sea and then sprinted back on to the beach to carry on with the game.

  As he did so, he saw Mestre nodding and smiling.

  Now Jamie got it. Now he understood.

  Or at least he was starting to.

  One Last Trick

  Saturday 31 May – three days later

  “I can’t believe it,” Jamie said to Mestre. “Ever since I’ve been playing with you guys, the time has gone in a flash. I can’t believe I have to go home tomorrow.”

  For the last three days, every second on the beach had been filled with football. All manner of games had been played: footvolley, keeping the ball up in the air, beachfootball … in each one the principle was the same – controlling the ball with every part of the body and keeping it in the air for as long as possible.

  Initially, Jamie had found it difficult. At home, all the coaches had always told him the same thing: “Keep the ball on the ground!”

  That was how the Europeans did it; the Spanish, the Italians … they generally passed the ball on the ground. This was different. This was about keeping it up, keeping it alive, by any means and any skill possible.

  However, with each second, with each hour and with each day, Jamie had got better and better. By now, Jamie’s last day, he had developed the skill to use every part of his body in his play. There was not a ball that he didn’t believe he could keep in the air somehow.

  It had reached the stage that the Brazilian beachgoers were now well used to seeing the small, pale British boy sprinting like a madman into the sea or diving head-first into the sand, to flick, kick or head the ball, just to keep a game going. Yes, it meant he got a face full of sand about ten times a day, but he could not have cared less.

  Mestre was standing on the beach, looking at the sea, with Jamie juggling a ball alongside him.

  “We are always here,” said Mestre. “You can come and see us again.”

  Jamie nodded, but something inside told him that this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

  “If I don’t,” said Jamie, catching the ball for a second, “can you teach me one last trick? A special one? You see, when I get home, I’m going to play in a massive match at school and I’ll be up against an extremely difficult opponent. I’ll need a bit of magic to beat him.”

  Mestre turned and looked at Jamie. Although they had been getting closer and Mestre seemed to be happy with Jamie’s progress, Jamie could still never tell what he was thinking … and he had never seen this look in Mestre’s eyes either.

  “A Mágica,” Mestre said after a while. “Rafael told you about A Mágica?”

  They both turned and looked at Rafael who, as always, was making notes in his pad. He had worked just as hard as Jamie over the last few days – in a different way.

  “No,” said Jamie. “He hasn’t told me anything. It was just a question I thought of now, I promise.”

&n
bsp; “OK, then! It is your last day – I will do it,” said Mestre, standing up and walking over to a game of beach football that was happening further down by the sea. As he walked over, the other players all stopped and smiled and began debating which side would take Mestre.

  Perhaps sensing what was about to happen, Rafael came and sat down next to Jamie and, for once, closed his notepad and set his eyes on the match in front of them.

  “Do you know what he’s going to do?” asked Jamie.

  “Maybe,” smiled Rafael. “But I’ve only heard about it. I’ve never actually seen it.”

  A Mágica

  The first five minutes of the game were not dissimilar to the other games of beach football that Jamie had watched over the last couple of days: small dribbles through the sand, chips to teammates, acrobatic headers and volleys. And lots of smiles.

  Then, with almost no warning, Mestre did something that seemed to turn the whole of football on its head. Literally.

  In the middle of the game, with the ball at his feet, Mestre flicked it up from the ground on to his head. He then proceeded to run past every single member of the opposition team whilst bouncing the ball on top of his forehead.

  When he got to the goal, he let the ball drop from his head and volleyed it home.

  All of the players in the game and Jamie and Rafael, watching from the sidelines, stood and clapped. It was both the most daring and effective bit of skill that Jamie had ever seen.

  “What was that?” shouted Jamie. “He just dribbled the whole pitch with the ball on his head!”

  “Yup,” smiled Rafael, excitedly opening his notepad to start drawing. “And because the ball was on his head, no one could tackle him.”

  While Rafael was working, Jamie stood up and did the only thing in the world he could possibly think of doing now. He tried to replicate the skill he had just witnessed.