Skills from Brazil Page 9

  “Don’t worry,” said Mestre, walking past Jamie back to his seat. The beach football game had just finished and Jamie had failed to do the skill – for the twentieth time. In each attempt, he had managed to get the ball on his head, but it fell off as soon as he tried to walk with it, let alone run.

  “You will not be able to do it,” stated Mestre. He was speaking as a matter of fact rather than as a boast. “All my pupils have tried to do it – even Arnaldo – but no one is able. That is why I call it A Mágica.”

  “But I want to do it!” said Jamie. “It’s amazing; impossible to defend against. Please teach me!”

  Mestre shook his head. “It’s impossible,” he said. “It takes so much more time and we have none.”

  Jamie felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around. He was surprised to see that Bernard had come to pick him and Rafael up. They were flying home later that evening – perhaps he wanted to save on time.

  Mestre smiled and nodded to Bernard. They said a few words to each other that Jamie could not understand and then Mestre gave Bernard a hug.

  Now Mestre held out his strong hand for Jamie to shake.

  “Good luck,” he said. “You have learned the skills of the beach well. One day, if you come back, perhaps I can teach you A Mágica. Otherwise, it is impossible.”

  Jamie smiled and shook Mestre’s hand firmly. It was strange; when he had first arrived at the beach, Jamie had thought that Mestre was the complete opposite of Mike, and yet now, somehow, he reminded Jamie of his granddad … perhaps just the Brazilian version.

  “Thank you, Mestre,” Jamie said. “I will remember and practise everything you’ve taught me.”

  And it was true. Although he had only had a few days learning from Mestre, the skills that he learnt on that beach – how to use every part of his body, how to play with rhythm and imagination – would stay with Jamie for ever.

  But you’re wrong about one thing, Jamie thought as the football computer in his head replayed the magical skill that Mestre had just shown him. Nothing’s impossible…

  A New Brazil

  Bernard, Jamie and Rafael arrived outside a brand new building.

  Bernard and Rafael took a deep breath as they looked at the construction.

  “Are you ready?” Bernard asked, taking Rafael’s hand in his.

  Rafael nodded his head.

  Then they began to walk.

  When he’d picked the boys up from the beach, Bernard had explained to Jamie that, before they flew home, there was something they had to do, somewhere they had to go… That it was the reason that he and Rafael had had to come back to Brazil this week.

  “But I thought you came back home to watch the Palmeiras match?” Jamie had said.

  “No,” said Bernard, shaking his head. “We are home for something different. It has taken time to build it, but now we can show you.”

  As they opened the doors, Jamie thought he saw Rafael and Bernard’s eyes glisten with emotion. Then all three of them walked inside.

  As soon as they entered, Jamie realized that this was not just any old building. It was a gym, housing a completely new football court. The floor was so clean, it was evident that no one had ever played on it.

  After a few minutes, streams of people began to arrive. Each one of them came to give both Rafael and Bernard a hug and then take their place, standing all around the football court.

  Soon, the hall was almost entirely full, and it included all the faces that Jamie had seen during his time in Brazil – even the kids from the street were there.

  It was strange because it looked as if this was some kind of celebration … and yet not one person was smiling. In Brazil, as Jamie was beginning to find out, this was highly unusual.

  It was only when Rafael strode forward into the centre of the court that Jamie began to have some idea what this was all about.

  Rafael’s hand was visibly trembling as he pulled the cord to separate the drapes which were covering a plaque that had been set into the wall.

  Even though he didn’t understand all the words, Jamie caught his breath as he read what had been engraved on the plaque.

  Para Stephania da Cruz

  Ela acreditava que o esporte pode

  construir um novo Brasil

  De Bernard E Rafael

  After he had unveiled the plaque, Rafael took out a piece of paper, cleared his throat and began reading. Or at least he tried. His stutter was so bad and he was so emotional that after a few seconds, Bernard went to join him and together they began speaking, Bernard pausing each time his son stuttered so that they could complete the words in unison.

  Jamie felt as though he might cry. He could see how upset Rafael was. Then he felt someone’s presence next to him. It was Rosária. She and Mestre had just arrived.

  “They are talking about Rafael’s mum,” she explained. “She was a psychologist and she worked with lots of children all around our city. Rich and poor kids. Everyone. She always said that sport was a way to heal the mind and she believed that all the kids should have somewhere to play together and so … that is what Bernard and Rafael have built. This is for her. This was her dream.”

  Jamie nodded. He looked at Rafael and Bernard, who were standing next to each other, holding each other’s hands, bravely fighting back the tears.

  Jamie felt a tear of his own run down his cheek. He remembered how one day Rafael had tried to describe to him how it felt to have a stutter.

  When you stutter, trying to get the word out is like reaching for something that is always out of your grasp, he’d said. It seemed to Jamie that the saddest part of all was that Stephania da Cruz could not help the one boy who really needed her most.

  Jamie wiped away the tear and tried to reach for a smile.

  “What does the sign say?” he asked Rosária.

  “In English, it says For Stephania da Cruz – She believed sport could build a new Brazil…”

  Caneta

  Jamie looked at the small, thin boy with something between anger and respect.

  This small, thin boy was the same kid, wearing the old, faded Brazil top, that Jamie had seen playing in the slums every day … and always wearing that same top.

  Now they were playing against one another in the first-ever game of futsal in the new Stephania da Cruz gym.

  After Bernard made his own speech and the gym was officially opened, all of the kids present – some from the beach, some from the slums and some from the richer suburbs – were invited to take part.

  And it had just so happened that Jamie had the misfortune to have been placed on the other side to the boy in the Brazil top … because that boy had nutmegged him, on purpose, three times already during the game.

  Now, he was standing, looking at Jamie, with the cheekiest, most mischievous grin possible.

  Not that the kid was Jamie’s only problem. This was futsal, not football, and even though Mike’s booklet had told him about the smaller ball and goal, it hadn’t prepared him for the level of speed and skill this game was played at. Everything seemed to be happening at a hundred miles an hour. Jamie felt dizzy with the intensity of the action.

  Time and again, when he had the ball, he was taking too long and being caught in possession. Then, when the other team launched their rapid counter-attacks, Jamie was either out of the game or, worse still, nutmegged by the little boy from the streets.

  Finally, to make Jamie’s embarrassment complete, not only was he playing on the same side as Rosária – and feeling thoroughly frustrated by his inability to impress her – but he was also aware that Mestre was among the big crowd of Brazilian people watching the game.

  Seeing Mestre had given Jamie an idea, though. Perhaps there was one way he could show the people watching how good he was.

  “Sim!” Jamie shouted, remembering Mike’s piece of advice t
o him in his booklet.

  Rosária had just collected the ball and turned past a player to get herself an inch of space. Without looking up, Rosária knew it was Jamie’s shout and provided him with an instant pass.

  Controlling the ball on his thigh, Jamie knew this was the moment to try it. He flicked the ball into the air and began attempting to softly head the ball to himself as he ran forward.

  It was a brave move.

  And Jamie’s attempted A Mágica was over after approximately a second.

  He tripped himself up and fell flat on his face, allowing the opposition to score straight away.

  The crowd on the touchline could not help but laugh and point at Mestre. They all knew A Mágica was his trademark move and that no one else could replicate it.

  Jamie sat, embarrassed, on the floor of the gym. But he was no quitter; he accepted Rosária’s firm hand of support and got back up to his feet.

  As he jogged into his position waiting for the game to restart, Jamie ran past Mestre. He couldn’t help but notice that Mestre was staring straight at him with the exact same look that he had given Jamie on that first morning at the beach. He was focusing angrily at Jamie’s trainers.

  Jamie could almost hear Mestre talking to him.

  You must touch the ball with your feet… Football … starts with the foot…

  Hurriedly, Jamie took off his trainers and his socks to reveal his bare feet. Then he looked again at Mestre.

  Mestre was now smiling … and so was Rosária.

  Just as when they had danced at the beach, it was Rosária who was about to lead Jamie … to show him the way. Except this time she used her skill.

  With the ball back in play and with Rosária in possession, one of the opposition players approached her to try and make a tackle. Rosária drew him towards her, dragging the ball back towards her own body using the sole of her foot – and then, as soon as the player got too close, she flicked the ball up and over his head, dancing around the other side, to meet the ball on the drop with a spellbinding volley, which dipped right into the top corner of the goal.

  The skill was mesmerizing, and Jamie could not help but applaud. He was in awe of Rosária. He wanted to play like that.

  “We are inside but we can still play as if we are by the sea,” she said, giving Jamie a high five. “No matter where you are or who you play against, you can still play with the rhythm and the joy. It’s time for you to bring the beach skills back … OK?”

  Time to Dance

  With Rosária’s words still ringing in his ear, Jamie closed his eyes. For just one second, he had to shut off everything else in the world. He had to find the beat inside him.

  He felt his heart pumping and he listened to its rhythm. Jamie’s heart beat for football.

  The next time he received the ball, Jamie produced a double drag-back with his first two touches.

  “Olé!” the crowd shouted.

  Then Jamie nutmegged his very next opponent.

  “Caneta!” “Ginga!” the spectators clapped.

  Jamie could feel his cheeks burning with pride. He had produced a caneta, in Brazil, and, even better, he realized that the player he had nutmegged had been the cheeky little boy with the Brazilian top!

  Jamie had nutmegged the tiny prince of the nutmegs!

  Now Jamie was starting to get respect. All of his different attributes as a footballer were starting to come to the fore. He had the sure touch from the beach … he had the extra fitness that running on the sand every day had given him … he was picking up futsal’s quickness of movement and cheeky flicks … and on top of that, he still retained what he had always had – his trademark rocket-like pace and a fiery determination to never give up, to keep going for every second of the game.

  It was a unique combination and, when all of these qualities came together, it meant that Jamie was almost impossible to stop.

  “Ginga!” the crowd shouted again and again as Jamie began beating players at will. The more they shouted, the more confident he became. They were shouting another word at him too. It began with F and seemed to end with O. Jamie could not quite make it out… But he didn’t care. They could shout whatever they wanted. Right now, it was all about the game.

  Starting to believe that they quite possibly had a very special player on their side, all of his teammates began giving the ball to Jamie whenever they could … and now he could see Rosária preparing to flick another pass his way.

  Instantly, Jamie controlled the ball on his chest, deftly flicked it past a player using his thigh, and then knocked it down the line to use his pace.

  He scorched past the defender and, from a wide angle, took on an audacious curling shot. However, rather than using his instep, Jamie went with the outside of his bare left foot, aiming to curl the ball towards the far corner. The ball started off way outside the line of the far post but, with the amount of extra spin he had been able to generate on the ball by using the outside of his foot, it started to come back in, curling more and more the longer it spent in the air.

  The goalkeeper dived high and wide, using all his elasticity to reach the ball, but there was never going be any chance … Jamie’s shot had been destined to nestle in the top corner of the net from the moment he had struck it.

  It flew in. Gooooooool! Jamie shouted wildly in his head.

  It was a phenomenal strike and Jamie raised his hands in the air to take the applause. He even produced something that resembled a little Brazilian samba dance!

  Again the crowd clapped; again they shouted that strange word beginning with F at Jamie. Now it seemed everyone was talking about the pale British boy with the colourful Brazilian skills.

  In the middle of the spectators, even Mestre was impressed by what he had seen.

  He put his hand on Rafael’s shoulder, wagged his finger and said with a coach’s pride:

  “I knew the boy was ready.”

  At the end of the game, Jamie shook hands with every player on the court. He even got a hug and two kisses on the cheek from Rosária, who actually seemed sad that he was leaving.

  Jamie was still pinching himself when the thin boy in the Brazilian shirt came up to him. During the game, he and Jamie had had a titanic battle of nutmegs. He’d done Jamie five times and Jamie had done him twice – and all the while the boy had never stopped smiling.

  They did a high five, and although language was a problem, their mutual respect of each other’s talent broke through the barrier.

  Then the boy began tugging at Jamie’s shirt again. Just as he had on Jamie’s first day in Brazil.

  Jamie looked down at his Hawkstone shirt. He thought long and hard. Then he had an idea.

  Jamie pointed to boy’s Brazil top. The top was tiny, faded, tattered and ripped … but it was a Brazil football shirt … from the streets of Brazil.

  There and then, both boys took off their shirts and swapped. As he handed over his Hawkstone top, for a second Jamie wondered whether Mike would mind – it had been his birthday present, after all – but somewhere in his head he could see Mike smiling proudly. He had a warm feeling in his stomach that told him he was doing exactly the right thing.

  Although it was extremely tight on him, Jamie put on his Brazil shirt and walked off the brand new futsal court. He cast his mind forward and imagined the future. Instead of having to play in the stony, dusty, dirty streets, every one of the kids from around the neighbourhood – rich and poor – would all be able to play here, whenever they wanted.

  Jamie hoped that, looking down from somewhere, Stephania da Cruz would be very proud.

  Fire in Your Feet

  Jamie slid down the window and breathed in the smooth Brazilian night air. Would he ever come back? Would anyone here remember the British boy who came over to play with the Brazilians? Certainly, Jamie would never forget them.

  “Hey!” sa
id Jamie, suddenly remembering what he’d been meaning to ask since the game earlier. “You know when we were playing? Every time I got the ball and went on a dribble, all the people watching started shouting something – I think it began with F. Do you know what it was?”

  “Foguinho is what they were calling you,” Bernard answered from the driver’s seat. “It is their nickname for you.”

  For a second the car went silent. The bright lights of the airport loomed into sight just ahead of them. And then it clicked for Jamie.

  “What? You mean I have a Brazilian nickname?!” he shouted at such volume that Bernard almost crashed the car. “I have a Brazilian nickname! Me, Jamie Johnson, has a Brazilian nickname! Oh my God! That’s amazing!! Wait till I tell Mike and Jack! Foguinho … Foguinho!! I love it!! Hi, I’m Jamie Johnson … but you can call me Foguinho!”

  “D-d-on’t you w-want to know what it means?” asked Rafael, looking at his friend, who appeared to have gone slightly mad, just repeating the word Foguinho over and over again.

  “It means something too?!” yelled Jamie. “Oh, that’s even better. This just keeps getting better!! Yes, please tell me! What does my nickname mean?”

  “It m-means L-Little Fire.”

  “Little Fire!! How cool is that? Little Fire – I love it! Is that because I’m small and fast and I burn past the defenders?” asked Jamie.

  “Y-y-y-es, p-p-robably,” smiled Rafael, who was laughing now. “And m-m-aybe also b-b-because of this!”

  Rafael pointed to Jamie’s bright red hair.

  “Y-y-ou h-have f-f-fire in your f-f-eet, f-f-ire in your heart and f-f-ire on your head!”

  “Yeah,” laughed Jamie. “Fair point!”

  Then, with his excitement at its peak, and, despite the fact that he had never done it before in his life, Jamie suddenly burst into a rap.