Join Our Newsletter
NFL
NBA
WNBA
Hockey
Soccer
Baseball
Other Sports
Videos
Features
Knuckleheads With Quentin Richardson and Darius Miles
Letter to My Younger Self
Mental Health
Photography
Behind the Scenes at AEW Dynamite
By The Players' Tribune
About
About
Athlete Application
Athlete Application
Careers
Careers
Privacy
Privacy
Terms
Terms
Join Our Newsletter
Read in English
Leia em português
Today is the longest day of my life.
Tim Clayton for the Players’ Tribune
I never really believed that it actually was going to be possible for me to win a Grand Slam or be world number one, because I’m not from a country with a long tradition of playing tennis.
Iga Świątek
“
I’m suffering from love, right? It can only be this. Love for football. For the National Team. For Brazil.
Richarlison
“
BRAZIL: A LOVE STORY
Richarlison
by
PHOTOS BY sam robles/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
Tottenham Hotspur F.C. | Brazil
June 16, 2023
Richarlison
The
Polish
Dream
Iga Świątek
by
PHOTOS BY SAM ROBLES/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
polski sen
After winning the U.S. Open, for the first time I felt like I could actually live in that moment a little bit. The main thought I had was, Okay, I did something amazing. I had this streak leading up to it, and I didn’t overanalyze it. I wasn’t thinking about the scale of what I was doing. I just played match by match.
Right now, starting this new season, I feel more confident because I already feel like I did something great. I already feel like in my country I make people proud, and I changed something.
And even though my dad’s not so active in my tennis career anymore, he’s still the reason why I do this. I look back, and I see all his sacrifices, how he believed in me, and I’m grateful.
Earlier this year, I went on a little vacation to Austria to see a Formula 1 race with him and my sister, and while I was there it really hit me how rare these opportunities are. I realized how special life is, and I could finally just enjoy it.
For once, I didn’t feel like I had any baggage on my shoulder. I was just proud of myself.
I feel every year, in a different way, how tough it is to be on tour. You have many obligations that you have to fulfill, and you have to learn how to balance that with the work you’re doing on court. You realize that your job is not simply to “put this ball in that square.” It gets a little bit more complicated the farther you go, and sometimes, a little bit less fun, truthfully. It’s hard to have that kid that you have in your head, or in your body, show up every time.
And there’s the expectations — having the feeling that you played so well and now you have to keep playing at that level, with no mistakes.
After I won Roland Garros again last year, I hoped I would be able to play without pressure. But in Toronto and Cincinnati, I realized how hard it is to be world number one when every player wants to beat you. They’re playing their best tennis against you.
I’ve always struggled with feeling like I have to do everything exactly right all the time. Even in everyday life, I feel like I have to do each task until the end, and very well. Like when I clean up the house, I feel myself wasting all this energy, but I can’t stop because I have to do it perfectly. In practice, I usually leave feeling like I haven’t done enough. I have to force myself sometimes to feel proud of myself. I have to force myself to do that.
But on the other hand, I know that the quality of having to do everything right is the thing that led me to this point in life, so it can be hard to work on it. And it can get really destructive.
For instance, I didn’t think I proved myself winning Roland Garros. I felt like it kind of happened by mistake, like I was in the right place at the right time, I played well, and it somehow happened. So going into the 2021 season, I felt like, Okay, now I have to prove myself. And it was mentally awful for me at first. I wanted to play the same way I did in Paris the year before, but the conditions were totally different. I hadn’t played in two months, and I wasn’t confident. I was also working with a big sponsor for the first time, and I felt this pressure, like if I didn’t achieve something, I’d be this huge disappointment. That was something I really had to work through.
Things turned around with the Australian, but then my biggest struggle happened that summer during the Tokyo Olympics. I cried on the court after I lost in straight sets, and I felt like people were judging me a little bit. Then, in Guadalajara, I was exhausted mentally and physically, and I didn’t really know what to do. I just felt helpless on the court, and I cried again. I was worried how people would see me. I was ashamed that I did that and thought it was not the way a champion should be.
I think in a way, that’s why hearing about Ash’s retirement brought up so many emotions in me.
There are these ideas that we have in ourselves as players that come from our parents and tennis and media and all this about how an athlete should be. But when I saw Ash, I was like, Wow, you can choose to do this differently. While you’re on this journey, striving for excellence, you can sometimes say, “Okay, that’s enough.” You’re in control, the whole way. No one else is driving the car.
And sometimes the best solution is not giving a sh*t, honestly. I am sorry to curse, but if there is some secret to my success in the last year, it’s giving myself that freedom to not care what people think.
That’s what led me to winning a Grand Slam. That’s what led me to No. 1. Letting go.
When I have moments now where I feel a little bit insecure, that’s what I remind myself of.
Poland doesn’t have that “system,” per se. The conditions aren’t as great for the athletes, the money’s not there, truthfully. Sometimes growing up I had nowhere to play, so my dad always had to adjust. And it wasn’t easy for him to put all that money into hiring a coach, and having a court to practice on.
That part is the hardest to think back on and share openly, but I want to be honest.
When I think about my dad, I remember how it wasn’t so “smooth” all the time. I think he tried really hard to protect me from reality outside of tennis. He used to be an Olympic rower, and I think his main goal from the beginning, when he first noticed me and my sister’s talent for sports, was to kind of make us better athletes than he was. He basically dedicated his whole life to helping us do that. He never said it, but I could see it.
He’s not really open with his emotions. I would say that’s also a Polish thing, for people from that generation not to open up a lot. I mean, it’s not easy to talk about. Especially, I think, when you’re a dad. You want to be strong and not show your kids that you’re worried about something. But the emotions are still there. At that time money was tight, so it couldn’t have been easy for him, I don’t think. It’s not like we had a kind of emotional conversation like you see in the movies, but I knew how he felt. I also knew how much he believed in me.
I remember calling my dad when I found out that Ash was retiring.
It was March. We had an apartment in Miami for the Open because I had been staying in hotels for the first few months of the year. So I was in the apartment, and I think I was watching Parks and Recreation or something when my psychologist, Daria, came in and said Ash announced her retirement. I didn’t understand at first. I was like, What? How is that possible?? And then I started crying.
There was some confusion about what was going to happen because I had only been world No. 2 for three days. So I called my dad, and it was the middle of the night in Poland. I never call him, we always text on Messenger or WhatsApp, so he thought something bad was happening. But I think he was so sleepy that he wasn’t really processing. He didn’t get it. He was just like, Yeah, okay great.
But I was sobbing. I couldn’t stop crying. Honestly, it didn’t really have that much to do with potentially moving up in the ranking. It might sound strange, but I was so confused and shocked that Ash was 25, and she was retiring.
I always had this image in my mind that you retire when you’re 32, and your body can’t cope anymore. I also felt like Ash has the best tennis out there, hands down. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I didn’t know if she was unhappy or something. But then I watched the video on Instagram, and I understood.
Right now, I understand it even more.
You might imagine that I stayed up all night as a kid dreaming about being a big tennis player, but no. To tell you the truth, at night, I dreamed about feeling a bit more natural in social situations.
There was a time in my life when I was so introverted I couldn’t talk to people. Until I was 17 or 18, I was scared to even look people in the eyes. I hated how hard it was for me. It felt really bad not being able to make connections. I tried, but I even had trouble with small talk. I don’t know if many teenagers have that growing up, but my mind was blank. I just didn’t know what to say. During the smallest interactions I’d think, Come on, Iga. You can do better than this.
My story isn’t like a lot of other athletes, and that’s okay.
Even on the court, I wasn’t that kind of kid who instantly fell in love with the racket. When I hear stories like that from other athletes, I think, Can a kid really feel it?? Because it wasn’t like that for me, not at six. I definitely liked playing a lot, but I didn’t dream of being a professional tennis player.
That was my dad’s dream. I remember when I was ten (and a little more extroverted), I’d want to stay after school and play football with the other kids rather than training tennis. My dad would come looking for me at school shouting, “Igaaaa, come here!!!”
There were many moments where I didn’t want to push myself at tennis, so he did. It wasn’t that he was super tough. But he was strict about practices in a way that, when I look back on it, I’m grateful for. My dad was that voice in my head that was always leading me the right way.
Especially if you’re an introvert, like me. Especially if you’re an introvert from Poland.
After Roland Garros, things had been pretty normal when I was in France. But when I got back to Poland? In Poland, it was really different.
My family was invited to an award ceremony at the presidential palace. This was three days after the finals. They were honoring me with a medal, and paparazzi followed us. I didn’t even know we had paparazzi in Poland. I live outside of Warsaw, and surprisingly, they were waiting in front of my house with cameras.
So it’s me, my dad, and a security officer in the car, and my dad’s driving. And it feels like we’re going really fast, flying past all these blurry stores. My dad’s checking the mirrors and turning onto side streets. It looked like a scene in an American movie — ha ha. It sounds scary, but we were having fun and laughing the whole way into the city.
Even now, something like that feels weird to talk about — it’s not really Polish culture to speak on your accomplishments in a flattering way, to be honest. But I think about that day a lot. In the moment, there was all this adrenaline.
Pure adrenaline — that’s the only way I can think to explain what it was like. Nothing could have prepared me for it. Winning my first Slam obviously changed everything for me, overnight. There are still many places in the world where for sure I’m not going to be recognized. If a random person looks at me, they’re not going to say, Oh, she’s an athlete, she plays tennis. But not in Poland. I’ve actually had some situations where people recognized me by my voice when I was ordering something to eat.
I’m grateful, but truthfully, sometimes it all feels strange and disorienting.
When I win, and I’m in that moment on court, or even just seeing a picture of me being on court, I feel so much emotion bubble up in me. But when I see my face on billboards, it’s like..... I’m looking at it, but I don’t feel anything. I don’t know. I still have a lot to process.
But it’s funny the way memories work, because when I think about winning Roland Garros that first time and driving into Warsaw three days later, I don’t really think about any of the craziness. Or the medal or the ceremony. Or even the chasing paparazzi. I just remember my dad driving the car. I remember looking over at him, and seeing a big grin on his face.
He always believed. Even before I did. Which either makes him a really great dad or really crazy — ha ha.
Nothing can prepare you for winning your first Grand Slam.
“Yo! I need some f***ing help!”
“I never really believed that it actually was going to be possible for me to win a Grand Slam or be world number one, because I’m Polish.”
Iga Świątek
Tottenham Hotspur F.C. | Brazil
Richarlison
June 16, 2023
Read in English
Leia em Portugues
I feel every year, in a different way, how tough it is to be on tour. You have many obligations that you have to fulfill, and you have to learn how to balance that with the work you’re doing on court. You realize that your job is not simply to “put this ball in that square.” It gets a little bit more complicated the farther you go, and sometimes, a little bit less fun, truthfully. It’s hard to have that kid that you have in your head, or in your body, show up every time.
And there’s the expectations — having the feeling that you played so well and now you have to keep playing at that level, with no mistakes.
After I won Roland Garros again last year, I hoped I would be able to play without pressure. But in Toronto and Cincinnati, I realized how hard it is to be world number one when every player wants to beat you. They’re playing their best tennis against you.
I’ve always struggled with feeling like I have to do everything exactly right all the time. Even in everyday life, I feel like I have to do each task until the end, and very well. Like when I clean up the house, I feel myself wasting all this energy, but I can’t stop because I have to do it perfectly. In practice, I usually leave feeling like I haven’t done enough. I have to force myself sometimes to feel proud of myself. I have to force myself to do that.
But on the other hand, I know that the quality of having to do everything right is the thing that led me to this point in life, so it can be hard to work on it. And it can get really destructive.
For instance, I didn’t think I proved myself winning Roland Garros. I felt like it kind of happened by mistake, like I was in the right place at the right time, I played well, and it somehow happened. So going into the 2021 season, I felt like, Okay, now I have to prove myself. And it was mentally awful for me at first. I wanted to play the same way I did in Paris the year before, but the conditions were totally different. I hadn’t played in two months, and I wasn’t confident. I was also working with a big sponsor for the first time, and I felt this pressure, like if I didn’t achieve something, I’d be this huge disappointment. That was something I really had to work through.
Things turned around with the Australian, but then my biggest struggle happened that summer during the Tokyo Olympics. I cried on the court after I lost in straight sets, and I felt like people were judging me a little bit. Then, in Guadalajara, I was exhausted mentally and physically, and I didn’t really know what to do. I just felt helpless on the court, and I cried again. I was worried how people would see me. I was ashamed that I did that and thought it was not the way a champion should be.
I think in a way, that’s why hearing about Ash’s retirement brought up so many emotions in me.
There are these ideas that we have in ourselves as players that come from our parents and tennis and media and all this about how an athlete should be. But when I saw Ash, I was like, Wow, you can choose to do this differently. While you’re on this journey, striving for excellence, you can sometimes say, “Okay, that’s enough.” You’re in control, the whole way. No one else is driving the car.
And sometimes the best solution is not giving a sh*t, honestly. I am sorry to curse, but if there is some secret to my success in the last year, it’s giving myself that freedom to not care what people think.
That’s what led me to winning a Grand Slam. That’s what led me to No. 1. Letting go.
When I have moments now where I feel a little bit insecure, that’s what I remind myself of.
Iga Świątek
About
Athlete application
Careers
Privacy
Terms
Join Our Newsletter
I’m lying alone on this bed in the physio room, and I don’t even know where all this pain comes from.My body is tense, and my head is spinning. Where is everybody? I’ve never seen our training ground so empty.
The doctors walk back and forth in the hallway, and none of them come to talk to me. The wait is unbearable. They told me the MRI results would be ready in four hours. So I thought it was best to wait here at Tottenham’s training ground. I was hoping to talk to my teammates to make time run faster. But there's nobody here.
Two hours since the scan. It seems like a year has passed. And this absurd pain is only increasing.
“Is anyone there? Where are you, guys?”
I’m really alone.
I’m praying, “God, give us a light. Light it up, man.”
I try to breathe and think calmly. What’s hurting? My calf? It was the calf that took me out of the match against Everton and got me into this trouble. But it’s not the calf that hurts the most. I think it’s my chest.
F***. I’m going to cry again.
There is only one month left until the World Cup. My first World Cup. I am panicking that I will miss it. That’s where this pain comes from in my chest. It started small and spread all over. Now I’m almost paralysed. It feels like I’ve been given some kind of reverse anesthesia which increases the pain instead of taking it away. Everything hurts, but the heart, head and eyes hurt most.
Not playing the World Cup?! Damn, brother! It’s impossible.
How do we live after losing a great love? How do you absorb the setback and move on? I mean, move on to where? What comes after a World Cup? You have to wait four more years. Maybe it will never come again.
I keep praying, “Help me, God. Help me, please.”
The scan result has yet to arrive. If only I could fall asleep….
Why is it so unbearable? I’m still young, my career is going well, I play for a huge club in the world’s top football league. I have more than I’ve ever dreamed of. But if the World Cup is missing, everything will be missing. This is how it is for Brazilians. The Seleçao! I remember that in my first call-up, for two friendly matches against the United States and El Salvador, I wore the number 9. The same number as Ronaldo, Careca, Reinaldo, Tostão... A huge responsibility and a tremendous joy. A crazy feeling. Then, right when it was my turn to be Brazil’s 9 in a World Cup… bam! I’m here in this situation, and it’s fucking cold.
Am I crying again? Shit!
“Doc, are you there? Lucas? Harry? Sonny? Anybody?”
And then ….
WTF?!!
I’m hallucinating, I swear. The lonely room in the training ground suddenly turns into Nova Venécia, my hometown. Everything looks more colorful, bright and warm. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep, and it’s all a dream. A mist transports me somewhere far away. What is going on, man? The pain has even gone away. And now there’s this good feeling — a feeling of home. I feel comfortable for the first time on this shitty day. It’s as if my anguish had opened up a little space for relief, a certainty: I’m suffering from love, right? It can only be this. Love for football. For the National Team. For Brazil.
I see the kids hiding drugs in my backyard. Through a crack in the door, I watch them digging in the dirt to store those little bags. One time, I even held a bundle of drug money in my own hands. Remember the smell of the money? For a kid who sometimes has no rice at home, resisting that smell was difficult. I had nothing — the most I could get was a R$ 5 bill for renting my uncle’s bike. All I had to do was open that door. It was so simple. All I had to do was shout to the gang, “Hey, I want to be in on this with you.”
But there was football. Thank God, there was football.
I would train three times a week at the football school, and Mr. Fidel, the coach/policeman, would come to my house every single day to check that I wasn’t getting into trouble!
One time, it was late at night, around 11 pm. My friends and I were returning from a football court in a nearby neighborhood. Each of us had a popsicle in one hand. I was carrying the ball under my arm. We sat in the corner to finish our popsicles, and two crazy guys came by, one of them already putting a gun to my head. It was cold and silver, shining like a diamond under the streetlight. The guy holding the gun said, “Listen, if I catch you selling stuff here in our area, things will get ugly, you understand?”
I was feeling dizzy, thinking I was going to die. But with my eyes closed I somehow managed to explain to him: “Come on, man! We’re not dealers. We just play football.” The crazy guy put the gun away, and they left without a word. The message was given.
Around that time, I nearly quit football.
When I was 16, my parents were already separated, and my mother met another husband and she moved into his house, but the guy wouldn’t accept me. He didn’t want me to live with them. So suddenly, I was alone, with nowhere to go. There was my father, yes, but he lived far from the city in the countryside, and staying there with him meant giving up football. Because of the distance, I couldn’t attend the football school anymore.
It was then that I made the choice that defined my life.
Flash forward.
Qatar. November 24th, 2022, Lusail Stadium.
Come inside my head with me for a moment.
Ney and Vini are playing a one-two on the left side. Here at the edge of the box, I’m thinking of a way to get these two Serbian defenders away from me. The guys are tall and strong as fuck! Jeez! Vini speeds up. Let’s go, let’s go!! He crosses the ball with the outside of the boot. So smooth. What a cheeky little bastard! I’m by the penalty spot. I will try to control the ball and hit as I do in training. Help me, God. Shit, the ball slightly hits the defender’s thigh and changes its path, so my control isn’t perfect. It escapes from me. It goes up in the air. Wait, come here! Don’t run away, my love! I’ll reach you as high as you are, turning around, that’s the way. Swoosh! Wow! Pooom!
What????
It’s a goal! A fucking goal!
A goooool.
Oh, my God! I scored a goal like this in the World Cup!
My God! My God!!!!
Me, Richarlison, from Nova Venécia. Richarlison from upstate Espírito Santo. Richarlison who sold popsicles. Richarlison from Brazil!
I can’t cry with all these people looking at me. Where is my father? I want to hug my father. I want to thank him for that day in the square when he explained what a World Cup meant. Where are you, Pai? I can’t find him in the crowd, but that’s okay. Amid lots of hugs from my teammates, I sense the hugs from my father, from Letícia, from my grandfather, my uncle, Mr. Fidel, my friends, and also from Ronaldo, Careca, Reinaldo, and Tostão.
I LOVE BRAZIL! I LOVE BEING A BRAZILIAN!!!
It’s amazing how so many things go through your head in an emotional moment like that. From the time I scored the goal until the end of the match, I thought about several things besides my father. I remembered that, not long before, when I still wasn’t a professional footballer, I had cut my hair in a mohawk style like Neymar, and I would never take off my Santos shirt, not even to sleep. I remembered when I would go to the internet cafe and hand over that crumpled R$ 5 bill I had earned renting a bike just to watch videos of Ronaldo.
I recalled that in July 2021, I was with the national team playing in the Copa América, Jardine, the Olympic team coach, called me and said: “Do you want to play in the Olympics too?”
Well, of course I wanted to. You never say no to Brazil. I knew it would be hard to play in the Olympics immediately after the Copa América. I was going to skip my vacation time. And between one thing and another, it was an intense season with Everton, my team at the time.
We were at risk of relegation. I was exhausted. I lost weight, and I could barely play an entire game. I had been injured in the Olympics, and I was injured again at the club. My body was asking me to stop.
But it was simple: I had to help save the club. Everton do not belong in the Championship. Can you imagine? We had no choice. We had to stay up. To concentrate on helping the team, I did a two-month fast on my cell phone. I completely turned off my apps and social media. I only used the alarm clock app to wake up in the morning.
Before the match against Crystal Palace, I was destroyed. I knew this was going to be my last game of the season.
I thought, We need to save ourselves now at Goodison Park, because the final round is against Arsenal away.
I took some medicine and an injection and got down on my knees to pray. I refused to take a medical exam, because I knew that if I did it, they wouldn’t let me play. I had to sweat blood that day. When we scored the third goal, you can see that I had nothing left to give. I hit the ground with my head and said to the coach in tears: “I’m done”. It was my last breath, my last sacrifice, my last game as an Evertonian. A moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life, because I loved playing for this club.
In the end, we stayed up. Where the club belongs. And I’m very proud of the sacrifice I made that year.
Giving my best every day in every training session and every match — this is how I show love. It’s like my way of shouting, “Hey guys, thanks for following along and making a difference in my life.” Times are not always easy, and you’re crazy if you think you can do it all alone in this life. You can’t. That’s why I give my best when I’m on the pitch. It’s to honour the people who always have my back.
That became clear to me after that second goal against Serbia at the World Cup. There was too much love there. The Brazilian national team, the World Cup, wearing the number 9… The things I love most in life were all coming towards me, and I wanted to run fully towards that hug.
After the bliss came the heartbreak.
When we were knocked out of the World Cup by Croatia, it was hard not to let the sadness overcome me. But life without defeats is for the privileged few. And, like most Brazilians, I’m a specialist in getting up from falls. I knew I wouldn’t be able to play in the semifinal even if we had won that penalty shootout. Five minutes into the match, I felt a pain in my thigh, and they asked from our bench if I wanted to be subbed off. You already know my answer. “No! No way!”
But I knew it had gone bad. During the break, the doctor bandaged me up, gave me four pills, and I went back for the second half. I lasted until the 70th minute, I think. I gave two good passes to Ney, but it wasn’t enough. We were out.
It took me about 30 days to get well again. Physically and mentally, I was struggling.
Once again, just like when I was on the stretcher at Tottenham’s training ground one month before the World Cup, I was in so much pain. And just like on that terribly long and delirious day, my chest was hurting more than the injury itself.
I cannot lie to you. This winter has been very difficult. I was knocked down, and in my lowest moment, my mind transported me home again. My friends from Nova Venécia came to help me, and eventually I got up. I woke up from this nightmare.
Gradually, that feeling of love came back to my heart. And now I’m here, in June, craving that moment when I will walk into the Brazilian dressing room again for this international break. When I see my number 9 shirt hanging in the closet, it’s always such a big emotion for me. I look at the yellow jersey, caress its five stars, smell the badge, and feel embraced by that mist that takes me back home.
During the most difficult times, it is always the warmth of home that gives me the strength to keep fighting.
Every time I see the shirt, I want to scream out….
É NÓIS, BRASIL! LET’S FIGHT AGAIN!
That calf won’t be able to deprive me of the most loving hug ever, for God’s sake. The mist takes me to Letícia's gate, our neighbour in Nova Venécia when I was a child. Immediately, a smile comes to my face.
Here comes Letícia. Letícia is the perfect face of Brazil, a fundamental element in my life. Like everyone else in our neighbourhood, she doesn’t have much. She is poor and lives in a wooden house like ours. But Letícia would always share what little she had with my family, because we often had to choose between buying rice and paying the rent. She would notice the suffering and embrace us. (Thank you, Letícia! I have never forgotten you. You are the GOAT!!)
I have no idea how I’ve left the misery of the training ground and arrived in my hometown. But I’m enjoying this trip. It’s good to be home. I feel less alone now. Nova Venécia still has no mall and no McDonald’s. The people are humble and hardworking. They find happiness by helping others, extending a hand, as Letícia would do. Everyone hugs me when I return, and I’m happy.
Don’t get me wrong – if I turned on the TV in this dream and watched the news, the joy would fade. The realities of Brazil would hit me in the face. As much as I love my country, sometimes I get pissed at it. I think every Brazilian is a little like that. It’s hard to explain the joy and pain of being a Brazilian. I didn’t know what to do with these feelings some time ago. I didn’t even know I could do anything. But then I started to get involved. I began to speak, position myself, use my voice, and not accept the absurdities in silence.
There are so many people in need in Brazil, yet they experience the World Cup as if it was a romantic movie. Football is crazy and magical, man. But imagine if nobody in Brazil went hungry, if nobody died for lack of vaccines, if nobody had to sleep on the street, if all the children were in school, if they didn’t set fire to the Pantanal wetland and the Amazon forests, if the native people were not killed by gold mining on their lands. Whoa, just imagine it!!
I’ve reached a point where I feel compelled to do something. To speak. To get involved. I need to repay the generosity that brought me here. I need to remember Letícia — and the millions of people just like her — to return the hugs they give me when I come home, and, if I’m lucky, inspire other people to believe too. Believe that we can change things.
“Take me, mist. Take me.” I want to live in this mist.
I am transported again. I fly to the square where my father explains to me for the first time why the World Cup is so special. It looks bigger from up here.
“Son, it’s during the World Cup that all the people get together to decorate the streets and paint the walls. In this moment, the differences between rich and poor are reduced, and everyone believes in a better country. It is the most important moment in life. And it only happens every four years.”
I’m only 9 years old, and it’s like he’s describing a magic world.
“Winning a World Cup? It’s like a passport for us to keep dreaming. Losing one? Son, it’s like spending four years trying to wake up from a nightmare. When you grow up, you will understand it better.”
This is 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. At this time, I’m helping my grandfather in the coffee fields. The mist takes me there next. I see myself selling popsicles to the workers, playing marbles with my friends, and bathing in that river over there. My friends and I liked it when it rained, because the current was strong, and we’d go floating down the river on a truck tyre. There was that time when my brother started to drown, and I swam to help him. When I arrived, he kept pulling me down to get up and breathe, and then I would lean on him to breathe too. The two of us tangled up, sinking. Until I gave him a push with my foot, and, with that push, he managed to grab onto a rock. It was the first time I used my foot to do something good. What agony! But I saved the kid’s life.
A few years later, someone saved my life too. The truth is that in Nova Venécia, not everything is color, warmth and hugs. There are a lot of shadows too, and some of my friends who stepped over to the dark side haven’t come back. They are still my friends, because I’ve learnt that we should never turn our backs on a friend, especially on those who need a kick to keep from drowning. But reality hurts. I was lucky to have started at the football school at ten, and the coach was a policeman.
Now the mists take me to the darkness.
I thought to myself: Fuck no! I’m going to fight for that love. I knocked on my uncle’s door: “Hey, uncle, would you allow me to stay at your house for a while? You don’t need to feed me. I just need a little place to sleep.”
My uncle took me in. He didn’t have much either, but he shared the little he had with me. That’s why it hurts me so much to see this side of Brazil when I come home — this side of my country that has people so desperate that they must pick up leftover food in the trash or scavenge bones in the dumpster. I get very angry. And a little bit angrier when I remember that some people don’t get angry. They just look and say, “Oh, Brazil is just like that.”
At my uncle’s house, I would sleep on a mattress this thin [ ]. I would imagine what fate awaited me the following day. I couldn’t think any further than that. At 16, I had already passed the age for football school, which only went up to the under-11s, so I couldn’t play matches, only train with the little kids. I have a photo of those days saved on my mobile phone. It travels the world with me, and I’m always looking at it: in it, I’m already grown up, and the boys are all so small.
At that moment, after my uncle welcomed me and I lived with him for a whole month, my life began to change. One morning, the coach at the football school came to tell me that an opportunity had arisen for me to have a trial at América Mineiro. If I wanted, he would help me go. I traveled to Belo Horizonte. I trained hard and got so many scrapes on those dirt pitches.
In the end, it all worked out. I joined the team for the under-17 state finals. I scored the winning goal in the final against Atlético, and we were champions. Then came Fluminense, and suddenly, almost in the blink of an eye, I was on the other side of the world, playing for Wotford, standing in the tunnel of the Etihad Stadium, side by side with Kun Agüero and Kevin De Bruyne, the guys I used to see on TV and control in video games.
Then … hey, what? The mist goes away.
“What? Who is it? Huh?”
“Wake up, Richy. Hey, wake up. The MRI is done.”
Damn, it’s the doctor!
“What's up, Doc? Is it serious? Say it now, please!! Will I miss the World Cup?”
“Just two weeks of recovery, and you will be in one piece for the Cup.”
“Do you swear!?!”
People in England are all serious and formal, you know? But if I could’ve stopped crying for a moment, I would have kissed the doctor. Hahaha!
It’s amazing how so many things go through your head in an emotional moment like that. From the time I scored the goal until the end of the match, I thought about several things besides my father. I remembered that, not long before, when I still wasn’t a professional footballer, I had cut my hair in a mohawk style like Neymar, and I would never take off my Santos shirt, not even to sleep. I remembered when I would go to the internet cafe and hand over that crumpled R$ 5 bill I had earned renting a bike just to watch videos of Ronaldo.
I recalled that in July 2021, I was with the national team playing in the Copa América, Jardine, the Olympic team coach, called me and said: “Do you want to play in the Olympics too?”
Well, of course I wanted to. You never say no to Brazil. I knew it would be hard to play in the Olympics immediately after the Copa América. I was going to skip my vacation time. And between one thing and another, it was an intense season with Everton, my team at the time.
We were at risk of relegation. I was exhausted. I lost weight, and I could barely play an entire game. I had been injured in the Olympics, and I was injured again at the club. My body was asking me to stop.
But it was simple: I had to help save the club. Everton do not belong in the Championship. Can you imagine? We had no choice. We had to stay up. To concentrate on helping the team, I did a two-month fast on my cell phone. I completely turned off my apps and social media. I only used the alarm clock app to wake up in the morning.
Before the match against Crystal Palace, I was destroyed. I knew this was going to be my last game of the season.
I thought, We need to save ourselves now at Goodison Park, because the final round is against Arsenal away.
I took some medicine and an injection and got down on my knees to pray. I refused to take a medical exam, because I knew that if I did it, they wouldn’t let me play. I had to sweat blood that day. When we scored the third goal, you can see that I had nothing left to give. I hit the ground with my head and said to the coach in tears: “I’m done”. It was my last breath, my last sacrifice, my last game as an Evertonian. A moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life, because I loved playing for this club.
In the end, we stayed up. Where the club belongs. And I’m very proud of the sacrifice I made that year.
Giving my best every day in every training session and every match — this is how I show love. It’s like my way of shouting, “Hey guys, thanks for following along and making a difference in my life.” Times are not always easy, and you’re crazy if you think you can do it all alone in this life. You can’t. That’s why I give my best when I’m on the pitch. It’s to honour the people who always have my back.
That became clear to me after that second goal against Serbia at the World Cup. There was too much love there. The Brazilian national team, the World Cup, wearing the number 9… The things I love most in life were all coming towards me, and I wanted to run fully towards that hug.
After this bliss came the heartbreak.
by
Today is the longest day of my life.
About
Athlete application
Careers
Privacy
Terms
Join Our Newsletter
Uma História de Amor
Richarlison
por
PHOTOS BY sam robles/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
Hoje é o dia mais longo da minha vida.
About
About
Athlete Application
Athlete Application
Careers
Careers
Privacy
Privacy
Terms
Terms
Join Our Newsletter
“All I had to do was shout to the gang, ‘Hey, I want to be in on this with you.’
But there was football. Thank God, there was football.”
Tim Clayton for the Players’ Tribune
I never really believed that it actually was going to be possible for me to win a Grand Slam or be world number one, because I’m not from a country with a long tradition of playing tennis.
Iga Świątek
“
Eu tô sofrendo de amor, né? Só pode ser isso. Amor pelo futebol. Pela Seleção. Amor pelo Brasil.
Richarlison
“
“Pra eu abrir a porta e gritar pros moleques ‘Aí, quero entrar nessa parada aí também’ era pá-pum.
Só que, pra minha sorte, tinha o futebol.”
Eu via os moleques escondendo droga no meu quintal. Eu espiava pela fresta da porta e eles lá cavando a terra pra guardar a sacolinha. Cheguei a segurar bolo de dinheiro na mão. Prum moleque que às vezes não tinha arroz em casa, resistir ao cheiro daquele bolo de dinheiro foi difícil. Grana de droga que meus amigos conseguiam. Eu não tinha nada, no máximo conseguia uma nota de cinco reais alugando a bike do meu tio. Então, pra eu abrir a porta e gritar pros moleques “Aí, quero entrar nessa parada aí também” era pá-pum. Só que tinha o futebol. Eu treinava três vezes por semana na escolinha e o treinador policial, o Fidel, passava todo santo dia lá em casa pra saber se eu não tava me metendo em coisa errada.
Teve uma vez, já era tarde da noite, umas 23h, eu e meus amigos voltávamos da quadra que ficava no bairro vizinho. Cada um com um geladinho na mão e eu com a bola debaixo do braço. A gente sentou na esquina pra terminar os geladinhos e chegaram dois malucos, um deles já encostando a arma na minha cabeça. Era uma arma prateada, fria e, debaixo da luz do poste, ela brilhava que nem diamante. O moleque que segurava o ferro falou: “Ó, se eu pegar vocês vendendo coisa aqui no nosso ponto o bagulho vai ficar louco, hein?”. Nessa hora eu tava tonto, pensando que ia morrer, mas de olhos fechados consegui explicar pra ele: “Que é isso, tio?! Nós não mexe com essas coisas. A gente só joga futebol mesmo”. O maluco guardou a arma e eles saíram fora sem dizer mais nada. O recado tava dado. O meu recado praqueles malucos, pros meus amigos, pra mim mesmo, pro mundo: Eu só jogo futebol mesmo.
Só que mais ou menos nessa época o futebol quase me largou. E eu entendi que não basta amar uma coisa, às vezes a gente tem que lutar por esse amor. Meus pais já estavam separados, minha mãe arrumou um outro marido, se mudou pra casa dele e esse cara não me aceitava. Não queria que eu morasse com eles. Eu tinha 16 anos e, de um dia pro outro, fiquei sozinho, sem ter pra onde ir. Tinha o meu pai, mas ele morava longe da cidade, na zona rural, e ficar lá com ele significava abandonar o futebol. Por causa da distância, não daria mais pra ir na escolinha.
Eu pensei comigo: Nem fudendo! Eu vou brigar por esse amor aí. Bati na porta do meu tio: “Ô, tio, o senhor permite que eu fique na sua casa por uns tempos? Não precisa me dar de comer não, só um cantinho pra dormir”. O meu tio me acolheu. Ele também não tinha muito, mas dividiu comigo. É por isso que me dói tanto esse Brasil que deixa as pessoas pegarem resto de comida no lixo, revirar caçamba de osso. Eu fico muito revoltado. E um pouco mais revoltado de pensar que tem gente que não se revolta, que olha e diz: “Ah, o Brasil é assim mesmo”. Porra, irmão!
Na casa do meu tio eu dormia num colchão dessa finurinha [ ] e ficava imaginando o que ia ser de mim na manhã seguinte. Nem dava pra pensar mais longe que isso. Com 16 anos eu já tinha estourado a idade da escolinha, que ia só até o sub-11, então não podia jogar, só treinar no meio dos molequinhos. Tenho foto desses dias guardada no celular. Ela viaja o mundo comigo e eu tô sempre olhando pra ela: eu já grandão e os garotos todos menorzinhos.
Foi naquele momento, depois da acolhida do meu tio, eu morei um mês certinho com ele, que a minha vida começou a mudar. Um dia de manhã, o treinador da escolinha veio me dizer que tinha aparecido uma oportunidade pra eu fazer um teste no América Mineiro. Se eu quisesse, ele me ajudava a ir. Viajei pra Belo Horizonte, treinei tanto, me ralei tanto naqueles campos de terra… Eu queria mostrar serviço, o amor tava ali me esperando e eu precisava corresponder. Deu certo. Entrei no time pros jogos finais do Estadual sub-17, fiz o gol da virada na decisão contra o Atlético e nós fomos campeões. Aí veio o Fluminense, depois o Watford e de repente eu tava do outro lado do mundo, no túnel do Etihad Stadium, lado a lado com Agüero e De Bruyne, os caras que eu via na TV e controlava no videogame. Que loucura!
Opa… “O quê? Quem é? Hein?”
— Acorda, Richarlison. Ei, acorda. Chegou o resultado da ressonância.
Caraca, é o médico!
— E aí, doutor? É grave? Fala logo. Vou perder a Copa do Mundo?
— Só duas semanas de recuperação e você vai estar inteiro pra Copa.
— O senhor jura?
O pessoal na Inglaterra é todo sério, formalzão, né? Mas se eu conseguisse parar de chorar eu dava um beijo nesse médico. Hahaha!
Corta.
Catar, 24 de novembro de 2022, Lusail Stadium.
O Ney e o Vini trocam passes lá do lado esquerdo. Aqui na cabeça da área, eu penso num jeito de tirar esses dois zagueiros sérvios de perto de mim. Os caras são altos e fortes pacarai. Eita! O Vini acelera. Vamo, vamo, vamo!! Meteu uma trivela nela. Ah moleque enjoado! Tô na marca do pênalti. Vou dominar e bater igual eu faço no treino, seja o que Deus quiser. Putz, deu uma desviadinha na coxa do zagueiro, atrapalhou meu domínio. Escapou. Subiu. Péra, vem cá. Foge não, meu amor. Vou pegar ela lá em cima, virando, é o jeito. Pá! Pow! Toma!
É gol! Gol, porra!
Gol.
Meu Deus do céu! Eu fiz um gol desse em Copa do Mundo!
Meu Deus! Meu Deus!!!!
Eu, Richarlison de Nova Venécia. O Richarlison lá do interior do Espírito Santo. O Richarlison que vendia picolé. O Richarlison do Brasil!
Não posso chorar com todo esse povo me olhando. Cadê meu pai? Eu quero abraçar meu pai. Quero agradecer por aquele dia na praça em que ele me explicou o que era uma Copa do Mundo. Cadê você, pai? Não achei ele ali, no meio da multidão, mas tudo bem. Nessa montanha de abraços dos meus companheiros estão os abraços do meu pai, da Letícia, do meu avô, do meu tio, do Fidel, dos meus amigos, do Ronaldo, do Careca, do Reinaldo, do Tostão.
EU AMO O BRASIL! EU AMO SER BRASILEIRO!!!
É incrível como passa tanta coisa na nossa cabeça num momento de emoção como esse. Do gol até o fim do jogo, além do meu pai, eu pensei em várias coisas. Lembrei que nem fazia tanto tempo assim, eu ainda não era jogador profissional, cortei o cabelo moicano que nem o Neymar e não tirava a camisa do Santos nem pra dormir. Lembrei de quando eu ia na lan house e entregava aquela nota amassada de cinco conto do aluguel da bike só para ver vídeos do Ronaldo.
Lembrei que em julho de 2021 eu tava com a Seleção disputando a Copa América e o Jardine, treinador da seleção olímpica, me ligou: “Você quer jogar a Olimpíada também?”. Pô, é lógico que eu quero. Na minha cabeça não se diz não pro Brasil. Eu sabia que ia ser pesado emendar Olimpíada depois de Copa América. Não ia ter férias. E entre uma coisa e outra, a temporada pelo meu time na época, o Everton, tava pesada, porque a gente corria risco de rebaixamento.
Eu tava exausto. Perdi peso, mal conseguia jogar uma partida inteira. Tinha me machucado na Olimpíada, me machuquei de novo no clube, meu corpo pedia socorro.
Na penúltima rodada da Premier League, contra o Crystal Palace, eu tava arrebentado. Tomei remédio, injeção, botei meu joelho no chão pra orar e me recusei a fazer exame, porque eu sabia que, se fizesse, não iam me deixar jogar. No fim a gente não foi rebaixado e eu sinto muito orgulho do sacrifício que fiz naquele ano. Acho que dar tudo de mim, me dedicar ao máximo, me entregar nos treinos e nos jogos, também eh um jeito de amar. Um jeito meu de gritar: “Ei, pessoal, obrigado por vocês me acompanharem, entrarem no meu caminho e fazerem diferença na minha vida.” É besteira a gente achar que se vira sozinho nessa vida. Não se vira. Pode ter o dinheiro que for, mas não se vira. Por isso que dou tudo quando tô em campo. É pra honrar a galera que não me deixa andar só.
Isso ficou bem claro pra mim depois daquele segundo gol contra a Sérvia. Era amor demais ali. Seleção Brasileira, Copa do Mundo, camisa 9… Os grandes amores da minha vida vinham na minha direção e eu queria correr inteiro praquele abraço.
Depois veio a eliminação pra Croácia e nessas horas é difícil não se deixar tomar pela tristeza. Mas a derrota também faz parte. A vida sem derrotas é para poucos privilegiados e eu, como a maioria do povo brasileiro, sou especialista em levantar dos tombos. Eu inclusive sabia que não jogaria a semifinal se a gente tivesse vencido aquela disputa de pênaltis. Com cinco minutos de partida, eu senti a coxa e no nosso banco perguntaram se eu queria sair. “Não! Nem pensar!” Mas eu sabia que tinha dado ruim. No intervalo o doutor me enfaixou, me deu uns quatro comprimidos e voltei pro segundo tempo. Aguentei até os 70 minutos, acho. Dei dois passes bons pro Ney, mas não foi suficiente. A gente tava fora da Copa.
Eu levei uns 30 dias pra ficar bem de novo. Mais uma vez, como na maca no CT do Tottenham a um mês da Copa naquele dia terrivelmente longo e delirante, o peito me doía mais do que a lesão.
Fiquei derrubado, não queria sair de casa. Meus amigos de Nova Venécia vieram pra me dar uma força e eu fui me levantando, acordando do pesadelo. Aos poucos aquele sentimento de amor foi voltando pro meu coração. E agora eu tô aqui morrendo de saudade desse momento de chegar no vestiário da Seleção Brasileira e ver a minha camisa 9 pendurada ali no armário. É sempre uma emoção tão grande pra mim, tão grande, que eu sei que ela não é só minha. Eu olho pra amarelinha, faço carinho nas cinco estrelinhas, sinto o cheiro do escudo e me sinto abraçado por aquela névoa que me leva de volta pra casa.
Nessa hora, dá uma puta vontade de gritar:
É NÓIS, BRASIL! VAMO PRA LUTA DE NOVO!
Futebol.
Seleção.
Copa.
Brasil.
Essa panturrilha não pode me tirar o abraço mais amoroso de todos. Pelamordedeus.
Uma hora e meia pra chegar o resultado da ressonância. Com menos dor, agora me sinto leve. A névoa me leva pro portão da Letícia, a nossa vizinha em Nova Venécia, e eu tô é dando risada dessa parada.
O que é que tá rolando?, eu me pergunto, sem entender nada.
Lá vem a Letícia. Ela tem o rosto do amor que ao mesmo tempo dói e me cura. A Letícia é o Brasil, fundamental na minha vida. Como todo mundo no bairro, ela não tem muito. É pobre e mora em casa de madeira também. Mas o pouco que tinha a Letícia dividia com a minha família, porque virava e mexia a gente precisava escolher entre comprar arroz e pagar o aluguel. Ela percebia o sofrimento e abraçava a gente. Valeu, Letícia! Eu nunca te esqueci. Tmj!!
Não faço a menor ideia de como saí do CT e cheguei na minha terra. Mas tô curtindo essa viagem. É bom estar em casa. Me sinto menos sozinho agora. Nova Venécia continua sem shopping e sem McDonalds. O povo é humilde, trabalhador, sofrido e encontra felicidade ajudando os outros, estendendo a mão, como a Letícia. Todo mundo me abraça quando eu volto e eu fico feliz com o Brasil.
Mas dali a pouco eu assisto às notícias no jornal e fico puto com o Brasil. Acho que todo brasileiro é um pouco assim. A alegria e a dor de ser brasileiro é um negócio difícil de explicar. Antes eu não sabia o que fazer com essas sensações. Nem sabia que eu podia fazer alguma coisa. Mas aí eu comecei a me meter. Comecei a falar, a me posicionar, a querer ajudar, a não deixar os absurdos passarem batido.
Eu penso sempre no seguinte: tanta gente precisada no Brasil e ainda assim o povo vive uma Copa do Mundo como se fosse um filme de amor. O futebol é maluco e mágico, cara. Imagina como a gente torceria pela Seleção se ninguém no Brasil passasse fome, ninguém morresse por falta de vacina, se ninguém tivesse que dormir na rua, se todas as crianças estivessem na escola, se não botassem fogo no Pantanal e na Amazônia, se os indígenas não fossem mortos pelo garimpo dentro de suas terras. Pô, imagina!!
Cheguei num ponto em que eu me sinto na obrigação de fazer alguma coisa. De falar. De me meter. Eu preciso retribuir a generosidade que me trouxe até aqui, preciso lembrar da Letícia, devolver os abraços que me dão quando eu volto pra casa e, se der sorte, inspirar a galera a acreditar também, transformar.
“Me leva, névoa. Me leva.” Quero morar nessa névoa.
Olha a pracinha onde meu pai me explicou pela primeira vez porque uma Copa do Mundo é especial. Ela parece maior daqui de cima.
“Meu filho, é na Copa do Mundo que o povo se junta, enfeita as ruas, pinta os muros. É na Copa que as diferenças diminuem, que todo mundo acredita num país melhor. É o momento mais importante da vida. E ele só acontece de quatro em quatro anos, por isso a gente fica nessa animação e nessa esperança quando tem Copa. Ganhar uma Copa é um passaporte pra gente continuar sonhando. Perder, é passar quatro anos tentando acordar do pesadelo. Quando crescer você vai entender melhor”, foi o que o meu pai disse.
Eu tinha só nove anos e não sei se captei tudo o que ele falou. Mas senti uma coisa forte, como se meu destino estivesse naquelas palavras dele. Algo dentro de mim me avisava que futebol, Seleção e Copa eram o meu caminho.
Isso foi em 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. Na época, eu ajudava meu avô na roça de café, vendia picolé, jogava bolinha de gude e tomava banho naquele rio ali, ó… Eu e meus amigos gostávamos quando chovia: a correnteza ficava forte e nós descíamos em boia de pneu de caminhão. Uma vez meu irmão começou a se afogar e eu nadei pra socorrer ele. Quando cheguei, ele me puxava pra baixo pra conseguir subir e respirar, aí eu apoiava nele pra respirar também. Nós dois enroscados, afundando. Até que eu dei um empurrão nele com o pé e, com esse impulso, ele conseguiu agarrar numa pedra. Foi a primeira vez que eu usei meu pé pra fazer uma coisa boa. Que sufoco. Salvei a vida do moleque.
Uns anos depois alguém salvou a minha vida também. É que em Nova Venécia nem tudo é cor, calor e abraço. Tem muita sombra também, e alguns dos meus amigos que entraram na escuridão não voltaram mais. Eles continuam meus amigos, porque são meus amigos e eu aprendi que a gente não vira as costas pra amigo, sobretudo pros que precisam de um pontapé pra não se afogar. Mas a realidade dói. A minha sorte foi que aos dez anos eu comecei na escolinha de futebol e o treinador era um policial.
Eu tô aqui deitado nessa maca, sozinho e nem sei de onde vem tanta dor. Meu corpo está tenso, minha cabeça a milhão. Cadê todo mundo? Pô, nunca vi esse CT tão vazio.
“Ei, tem alguém? Ô, galera, aparece aí, vai. Cês tão aí?”
Os médicos passando no corredor pra lá e pra cá e nenhum deles vem falar comigo. Tá osso essa espera. Na clínica disseram que o resultado da ressonância estaria pronto em quatro horas. Achei melhor vir pro nosso CT, o CT do Tottenham, na esperança de encontrar o pessoal e esse tempo passar mais rápido. Mas não tem ninguém.
Duas horas e quinze desde o exame. Na última vez que olhei no relógio fazia duas horas e treze. Parece que passou um ano. E essa dor absurda só aumenta.
“Tem alguém aí? Onde cês tão, moçada? Que sacanagem.”
Tô sozinho mesmo. Sozinho e dolorido.
“Dá uma luz pra nós, Deus. Ilumina aí, fera.”
Mas péra!
Não posso me desesperar. Deixa eu respirar e tentar pensar com calma. O que é que tá doendo? A panturrilha? É por causa dela que eu tô aqui. Foi ela que me tirou do jogo contra meu ex-time, o Everton, na rodada passada, e me jogou dentro dessa aflição. Mas não é a panturrilha que me dói mais. Acho que é o peito.
Lá vou eu chorar de novo.
Falta só um mês pra Copa do Mundo, a minha primeira Copa do Mundo, e eu tô achando que vou ficar de fora. A dor vem daí. Com certeza vem daí. Chegou pequena e se esparramou toda. Tô quase paralisado, como se tivessem me dado uma anestesia ao contrário, que, em vez de tirar a dor, aumenta. Dói tudo, mas doem mais o coração, a cabeça e os olhos.
Deixar de ir pra Copa?! Porra, velho! Não pode ser verdade.
Como é que a gente vive depois de perder um grande amor? Como absorve o tranco e segue em frente? Que frente, né?, se no horizonte não vai ter Copa pra mim?
“Ajuda, Deus. Me ajuda, por favor.”
Esse resultado do exame que não chega. Se pelo menos eu conseguisse tirar um cochilo…
Tá bom, já sei que a dor vem da possibilidade de não jogar a Copa. Ok. Mas por que isso me dói desse jeito? Por que é tão insuportável? Eu ainda sou jovem, minha carreira tá legal, defendo um time imenso, jogo na principal liga do futebol mundial, tenho tudo o que eu quero e até mais do que sonhei. Mas se faltar a Copa vai ficar faltando tudo. É Copa, irmão. Seleção Brasileira! Lembro que na minha primeira convocação, pra dois amistosos contra Estados Unidos e El Salvador, eu usei a 9. A 9 do Ronaldo, do Careca, do Reinaldo, do Tostão. Responsa e alegria demais, séloko. Aí, bem na minha vez de ser o 9 do Brasil numa Copa… pimba! Tô aqui nessa situação, nesse puta frio.
Pô, mas eu tô chorando de novo? O que tá acontecendo comigo?
“Doutor, o senhor taí? Lucas? Kane? Son? Alguém?”
WTF, my friend?!! Por que de repente essa sala solitária do CT virou Nova Venécia, a minha cidade, e agora tudo está mais colorido, iluminado e quente? Cês tão me zoando? Eita! Agora uma névoa me pega pela mão. Que negócio é esse? Rapaz! A dor até diminuiu. E agora tem essa sensação boa, hein! Sinto conforto pela primeira vez nesse dia de m****. É como se a angústia em mim tivesse aberto um espacinho pro alívio, uma certeza: eu tô sofrendo de amor, né? Só pode ser isso. Amor pelo futebol. Pela Seleção. Amor pelo Brasil.
Tottenham Hotspur F.C. | Brazil
June 16, 2023
Richarlison
Those six words
changed my life.
JOHN WALL
“Yo! I need some f***ing help!”
I’m suffering from love, right? It can only be this. Love for football. For the National Team. For Brazil.
Richarlison
Tottenham Hotspur F.C. | Brazil
Richarlison
June 16, 2023
“All I had to do was shout to the gang, ‘Hey, I want to be in on this with you.’
But there was football. Thank God, there was football.”
RICHARLISON
“
It’s amazing how so many things go through your head in an emotional moment like that. From the time I scored the goal until the end of the match, I thought about several things besides my father. I remembered that, not long before, when I still wasn’t a professional footballer, I had cut my hair in a mohawk style like Neymar, and I would never take off my Santos shirt, not even to sleep. I remembered when I would go to the internet cafe and hand over that crumpled R$ 5 bill I had earned renting a bike just to watch videos of Ronaldo.
I recalled that in July 2021, I was with the national team playing in the Copa América, Jardine, the Olympic team coach, called me and said: “Do you want to play in the Olympics too?”
Well, of course I wanted to. You never say no to Brazil. I knew it would be hard to play in the Olympics immediately after the Copa América. I was going to skip my vacation time. And between one thing and another, it was an intense season with Everton, my team at the time.
We were at risk of relegation. I was exhausted. I lost weight, and I could barely play an entire game. I had been injured in the Olympics, and I was injured again at the club. My body was asking me to stop.
But it was simple: I had to help save the club. Everton do not belong in the Championship. Can you imagine? We had no choice. We had to stay up. To concentrate on helping the team, I did a two-month fast on my cell phone. I completely turned off my apps and social media. I only used the alarm clock app to wake up in the morning.
Before the match against Crystal Palace, I was destroyed. I knew this was going to be my last game of the season.
I thought, We need to save ourselves now at Goodison Park, because the final round is against Arsenal away.
I took some medicine and an injection and got down on my knees to pray. I refused to take a medical exam, because I knew that if I did it, they wouldn’t let me play. I had to sweat blood that day. When we scored the third goal, you can see that I had nothing left to give. I hit the ground with my head and said to the coach in tears: “I’m done”. It was my last breath, my last sacrifice, my last game as an Evertonian. A moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life, because I loved playing for this club.
In the end, we stayed up. Where the club belongs. And I’m very proud of the sacrifice I made that year.
Giving my best every day in every training session and every match — this is how I show love. It’s like my way of shouting, “Hey guys, thanks for following along and making a difference in my life.” Times are not always easy, and you’re crazy if you think you can do it all alone in this life. You can’t. That’s why I give my best when I’m on the pitch. It’s to honour the people who always have my back.
That became clear to me after that second goal against Serbia at the World Cup. There was too much love there. The Brazilian national team, the World Cup, wearing the number 9… The things I love most in life were all coming towards me, and I wanted to run fully towards that hug.
After this bliss came the heartbreak.
When we were knocked out of the World Cup by Croatia, it was hard not to let the sadness overcome me. But life without defeats is for the privileged few. And, like most Brazilians, I’m a specialist in getting up from falls. I knew I wouldn’t be able to play in the semifinal even if we had won that penalty shootout. Five minutes into the match, I felt a pain in my thigh, and they asked from our bench if I wanted to be subbed off. You already know my answer. “No! No way!”
But I knew it had gone bad. During the break, the doctor bandaged me up, gave me four pills, and I went back for the second half. I lasted until the 70th minute, I think. I gave two good passes to Ney, but it wasn’t enough. We were out.
It took me about 30 days to get well again. Physically and mentally, I was struggling.
Once again, just like when I was on the stretcher at Tottenham’s training ground one month before the World Cup, I was in so much pain. And just like on that terribly long and delirious day, my chest was hurting more than the injury itself.
I cannot lie to you. This winter has been very difficult. I was knocked down, and in my lowest moment, my mind transported me home again. My friends from Nova Venécia came to help me, and eventually I got up. I woke up from this nightmare.
Gradually, that feeling of love came back to my heart. And now I’m here, in March, craving that moment when I will walk into the Brazilian dressing room again for this international break. When I see my number 9 shirt hanging in the closet, it’s always such a big emotion for me. I look at the yellow jersey, caress its five stars, smell the badge, and feel embraced by that mist that takes me back home.
During the most difficult times, it is always the warmth of home that gives me the strength to keep fighting.
Every time I see the shirt, I want to scream out….
É NÓIS, BRASIL! LET’S FIGHT AGAIN!
Flash forward.
Qatar. November 24th, 2022, Lusail Stadium.
Come inside my head with me for a moment.
Ney and Vini are playing a one-two on the left side. Here at the edge of the box, I’m thinking of a way to get these two Serbian defenders away from me. The guys are tall and strong as fuck! Jeez! Vini speeds up. Let’s go, let’s go!! He crosses the ball with the outside of the boot. So smooth. What a cheeky little bastard! I’m by the penalty spot. I will try to control the ball and hit as I do in training. Help me, God. Shit, the ball slightly hits the defender’s thigh and changes its path, so my control isn’t perfect. It escapes from me. It goes up in the air. Wait, come here! Don’t run away, my love! I’ll reach you as high as you are, turning around, that’s the way. Swoosh! Wow! Pooom!
What????
It’s a goal! A fucking goal!
A goooool.
Oh, my God! I scored a goal like this in the World Cup!
My God! My God!!!!
Me, Richarlison, from Nova Venécia. Richarlison from upstate Espírito Santo. Richarlison who sold popsicles. Richarlison from Brazil!
I can’t cry with all these people looking at me. Where is my father? I want to hug my father. I want to thank him for that day in the square when he explained what a World Cup meant. Where are you, Pai? I can’t find him in the crowd, but that’s okay. Amid lots of hugs from my teammates, I sense the hugs from my father, from Letícia, from my grandfather, my uncle, Mr. Fidel, my friends, and also from Ronaldo, Careca, Reinaldo, and Tostão.
I LOVE BRAZIL! I LOVE BEING A BRAZILIAN!!!
I thought to myself: Fuck no! I’m going to fight for that love. I knocked on my uncle’s door: “Hey, uncle, would you allow me to stay at your house for a while? You don’t need to feed me. I just need a little place to sleep.”
My uncle took me in. He didn’t have much either, but he shared the little he had with me. That’s why it hurts me so much to see this side of Brazil when I come home — this side of my country that has people so desperate that they must pick up leftover food in the trash or scavenge bones in the dumpster. I get very angry. And a little bit angrier when I remember that some people don’t get angry. They just look and say, “Oh, Brazil is just like that.”
At my uncle’s house, I would sleep on a mattress this thin [ ]. I would imagine what fate awaited me the following day. I couldn’t think any further than that. At 16, I had already passed the age for football school, which only went up to the under-11s, so I couldn’t play matches, only train with the little kids. I have a photo of those days saved on my mobile phone. It travels the world with me, and I’m always looking at it: in it, I’m already grown up, and the boys are all so small.
At that moment, after my uncle welcomed me and I lived with him for a whole month, my life began to change. One morning, the coach at the football school came to tell me that an opportunity had arisen for me to have a trial at América Mineiro. If I wanted, he would help me go. I traveled to Belo Horizonte. I trained hard and got so many scrapes on those dirt pitches.
In the end, it all worked out. I joined the team for the under-17 state finals. I scored the winning goal in the final against Atlético, and we were champions. Then came Fluminense, and suddenly, almost in the blink of an eye, I was on the other side of the world, playing for Wotford, standing in the tunnel of the Etihad Stadium, side by side with Kun Agüero and Kevin De Bruyne, the guys I used to see on TV and control in video games.
Then … hey, what? The mist goes away.
“What? Who is it? Huh?”
“Wake up, Richy. Hey, wake up. The MRI is done.”
Damn, it’s the doctor!
“What's up, Doc? Is it serious? Say it now, please!! Will I miss the World Cup?”
“Just two weeks of recovery, and you will be in one piece for the Cup.”
“Do you swear!?!”
People in England are all serious and formal, you know? But if I could’ve stopped crying for a moment, I would have kissed the doctor. Hahaha!
I see the kids hiding drugs in my backyard. Through a crack in the door, I watch them digging in the dirt to store those little bags. One time, I even held a bundle of drug money in my own hands. Remember the smell of the money? For a kid who sometimes has no rice at home, resisting that smell was difficult. I had nothing — the most I could get was a R$ 5 bill for renting my uncle’s bike. All I had to do was open that door. It was so simple. All I had to do was shout to the gang, “Hey, I want to be in on this with you.”
But there was football. Thank God, there was football.
I would train three times a week at the football school, and Mr. Fidel, the coach/policeman, would come to my house every single day to check that I wasn’t getting into trouble!
One time, it was late at night, around 11 pm. My friends and I were returning from a football court in a nearby neighborhood. Each of us had a popsicle in one hand. I was carrying the ball under my arm. We sat in the corner to finish our popsicles, and two crazy guys came by, one of them already putting a gun to my head. It was cold and silver, shining like a diamond under the streetlight. The guy holding the gun said, “Listen, if I catch you selling stuff here in our area, things will get ugly, you understand?”
I was feeling dizzy, thinking I was going to die. But with my eyes closed I somehow managed to explain to him: “Come on, man! We’re not dealers. We just play football.” The crazy guy put the gun away, and they left without a word. The message was given.
Around that time, I nearly quit football.
When I was 16, my parents were already separated, and my mother met another husband and she moved into his house, but the guy wouldn’t accept me. He didn’t want me to live with them. So suddenly, I was alone, with nowhere to go. There was my father, yes, but he lived far from the city in the countryside, and staying there with him meant giving up football. Because of the distance, I couldn’t attend the football school anymore.
It was then that I made the choice that defined my life.
That calf won’t be able to deprive me of the most loving hug ever, for God’s sake. The mist takes me to Letícia's gate, our neighbour in Nova Venécia when I was a child. Immediately, a smile comes to my face.
Here comes Letícia. Letícia is the perfect face of Brazil, a fundamental element in my life. Like everyone else in our neighbourhood, she doesn’t have much. She is poor and lives in a wooden house like ours. But Letícia would always share what little she had with my family, because we often had to choose between buying rice and paying the rent. She would notice the suffering and embrace us. (Thank you, Letícia! I have never forgotten you. You are the GOAT!!)
I have no idea how I’ve left the misery of the training ground and arrived in my hometown. But I’m enjoying this trip. It’s good to be home. I feel less alone now. Nova Venécia still has no mall and no McDonald’s. The people are humble and hardworking. They find happiness by helping others, extending a hand, as Letícia would do. Everyone hugs me when I return, and I’m happy.
Don’t get me wrong – if I turned on the TV in this dream and watched the news, the joy would fade. The realities of Brazil would hit me in the face. As much as I love my country, sometimes I get pissed at it. I think every Brazilian is a little like that. It’s hard to explain the joy and pain of being a Brazilian. I didn’t know what to do with these feelings some time ago. I didn’t even know I could do anything. But then I started to get involved. I began to speak, position myself, use my voice, and not accept the absurdities in silence.
There are so many people in need in Brazil, yet they experience the World Cup as if it was a romantic movie. Football is crazy and magical, man. But imagine if nobody in Brazil went hungry, if nobody died for lack of vaccines, if nobody had to sleep on the street, if all the children were in school, if they didn’t set fire to the Pantanal wetland and the Amazon forests, if the native people were not killed by gold mining on their lands. Whoa, just imagine it!!
I’ve reached a point where I feel compelled to do something. To speak. To get involved. I need to repay the generosity that brought me here. I need to remember Letícia — and the millions of people just like her — to return the hugs they give me when I come home, and, if I’m lucky, inspire other people to believe too. Believe that we can change things.
“Take me, mist. Take me.” I want to live in this mist.
I am transported again. I fly to the square where my father explains to me for the first time why the World Cup is so special. It looks bigger from up here.
“Son, it’s during the World Cup that all the people get together to decorate the streets and paint the walls. In this moment, the differences between rich and poor are reduced, and everyone believes in a better country. It is the most important moment in life. And it only happens every four years.”
I’m only 9 years old, and it’s like he’s describing a magic world.
“Winning a World Cup? It’s like a passport for us to keep dreaming. Losing one? Son, it’s like spending four years trying to wake up from a nightmare. When you grow up, you will understand it better.”
This is 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. At this time, I’m helping my grandfather in the coffee fields. The mist takes me there next. I see myself selling popsicles to the workers, playing marbles with my friends, and bathing in that river over there. My friends and I liked it when it rained, because the current was strong, and we’d go floating down the river on a truck tyre. There was that time when my brother started to drown, and I swam to help him. When I arrived, he kept pulling me down to get up and breathe, and then I would lean on him to breathe too. The two of us tangled up, sinking. Until I gave him a push with my foot, and, with that push, he managed to grab onto a rock. It was the first time I used my foot to do something good. What agony! But I saved the kid’s life.
A few years later, someone saved my life too. The truth is that in Nova Venécia, not everything is color, warmth and hugs. There are a lot of shadows too, and some of my friends who stepped over to the dark side haven’t come back. They are still my friends, because I’ve learnt that we should never turn our backs on a friend, especially on those who need a kick to keep from drowning. But reality hurts. I was lucky to have started at the football school at ten, and the coach was a policeman.
Now the mists take me to the darkness.
I’m lying alone on this bed in the physio room, and I don’t even know where all this pain comes from. My body is tense, and my head is spinning. Where is everybody? I’ve never seen our training ground so empty.
The doctors walk back and forth in the hallway, and none of them come to talk to me. The wait is unbearable. They told me the MRI results would be ready in four hours. So I thought it was best to wait here at Tottenham’s training ground. I was hoping to talk to my teammates to make time run faster. But there's nobody here.
Two hours since the scan. It seems like a year has passed. And this absurd pain is only increasing.
“Is anyone there? Where are you, guys?”
I’m really alone.
I’m praying, “God, give us a light. Light it up, man.”
I try to breathe and think calmly. What’s hurting? My calf? It was the calf that took me out of the match against Everton and got me into this trouble. But it’s not the calf that hurts the most. I think it’s my chest.
F***. I’m going to cry again.
There is only one month left until the World Cup. My first World Cup. I am panicking that I will miss it. That’s where this pain comes from in my chest. It started small and spread all over. Now I’m almost paralysed. It feels like I’ve been given some kind of reverse anesthesia which increases the pain instead of taking it away. Everything hurts, but the heart, head and eyes hurt most.
Not playing the World Cup?! Damn, brother! It’s impossible.
How do we live after losing a great love? How do you absorb the setback and move on? I mean, move on to where? What comes after a World Cup? You have to wait four more years. Maybe it will never come again.
I keep praying, “Help me, God. Help me, please.”
The scan result has yet to arrive. If only I could fall asleep….
Why is it so unbearable? I’m still young, my career is going well, I play for a huge club in the world’s top football league. I have more than I’ve ever dreamed of. But if the World Cup is missing, everything will be missing. This is how it is for Brazilians. The Seleçao! I remember that in my first call-up, for two friendly matches against the United States and El Salvador, I wore the number 9. The same number as Ronaldo, Careca, Reinaldo, Tostão... A huge responsibility and a tremendous joy. A crazy feeling. Then, right when it was my turn to be Brazil’s 9 in a World Cup… bam! I’m here in this situation, and it’s fucking cold.
Am I crying again? Shit!
“Doc, are you there? Lucas? Harry? Sonny? Anybody?”
And then ….
WTF?!!
I’m hallucinating, I swear. The lonely room in the training ground suddenly turns into Nova Venécia, my hometown. Everything looks more colorful, bright and warm. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep, and it’s all a dream. A mist transports me somewhere far away. What is going on, man? The pain has even gone away. And now there’s this good feeling — a feeling of home. I feel comfortable for the first time on this shitty day. It’s as if my anguish had opened up a little space for relief, a certainty: I’m suffering from love, right? It can only be this. Love for football. For the National Team. For Brazil.
I am transported again. I fly to the square where my father explains to me for the first time why the World Cup is so special. It looks bigger from up here.
“Son, it’s during the World Cup that all the people get together to decorate the streets and paint the walls. In this moment, the differences between rich and poor are reduced, and everyone believes in a better country. It is the most important moment in life. And it only happens every four years.”
I’m only 9 years old, and it’s like he’s describing a magic world.
“Winning a World Cup? It’s like a passport for us to keep dreaming. Losing one? Son, it’s like spending four years trying to wake up from a nightmare. When you grow up, you will understand it better.”
This is 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. At this time, I’m helping my grandfather in the coffee fields. The mist takes me there next. I see myself selling popsicles to the workers, playing marbles with my friends, and bathing in that river over there. My friends and I liked it when it rained, because the current was strong, and we’d go floating down the river on a truck tyre. There was that time when my brother started to drown, and I swam to help him. When I arrived, he kept pulling me down to get up and breathe, and then I would lean on him to breathe too. The two of us tangled up, sinking. Until I gave him a push with my foot, and, with that push, he managed to grab onto a rock. It was the first time I used my foot to do something good. What agony! But I saved the kid’s life.
A few years later, someone saved my life too. The truth is that in Nova Venécia, not everything is color, warmth and hugs. There are a lot of shadows too, and some of my friends who stepped over to the dark side haven’t come back. They are still my friends, because I’ve learnt that we should never turn our backs on a friend, especially on those who need a kick to keep from drowning. But reality hurts. I was lucky to have started at the football school at ten, and the coach was a policeman.
Now the mists take me to the darkness.
As much as I love my country, sometimes I get pissed at it. I think every Brazilian is a little like that. It’s hard to explain the joy and pain of being a Brazilian.
RICHARLISON
You can’t even enjoy the fleeting happy moments in your life, because they exist in a reality where that person isn’t there anymore.
Mikaela Shiffrin
“
That calf won’t be able to deprive me of the most loving hug ever, for God’s sake. The mist takes me to Letícia's gate, our neighbour in Nova Venécia when I was a child. Immediately, a smile comes to my face.
Here comes Letícia. Letícia is the perfect face of Brazil, a fundamental element in my life. Like everyone else in our neighbourhood, she doesn’t have much. She is poor and lives in a wooden house like ours. But Letícia would always share what little she had with my family, because we often had to choose between buying rice and paying the rent. She would notice the suffering and embrace us. (Thank you, Letícia! I have never forgotten you. You are the GOAT!!)
I have no idea how I’ve left the misery of the training ground and arrived in my hometown. But I’m enjoying this trip. It’s good to be home. I feel less alone now. Nova Venécia still has no mall and no McDonald’s. The people are humble and hardworking. They find happiness by helping others, extending a hand, as Letícia would do. Everyone hugs me when I return, and I’m happy.
Don’t get me wrong – if I turned on the TV in this dream and watched the news, the joy would fade. The realities of Brazil would hit me in the face. As much as I love my country, sometimes I get pissed at it. I think every Brazilian is a little like that. It’s hard to explain the joy and pain of being a Brazilian. I didn’t know what to do with these feelings some time ago. I didn’t even know I could do anything. But then I started to get involved. I began to speak, position myself, use my voice, and not accept the absurdities in silence.
There are so many people in need in Brazil, yet they experience the World Cup as if it was a romantic movie. Football is crazy and magical, man. But imagine if nobody in Brazil went hungry, if nobody died for lack of vaccines, if nobody had to sleep on the street, if all the children were in school, if they didn’t set fire to the Pantanal wetland and the Amazon forests, if the native people were not killed by gold mining on their lands. Whoa, just imagine it!!
I’ve reached a point where I feel compelled to do something. To speak. To get involved. I need to repay the generosity that brought me here. I need to remember Letícia — and the millions of people just like her — to return the hugs they give me when I come home, and, if I’m lucky, inspire other people to believe too. Believe that we can change things.
“Take me, mist. Take me.” I want to live in this mist.
I am transported again. I fly to the square where my father explains to me for the first time why the World Cup is so special. It looks bigger from up here.
“Son, it’s during the World Cup that all the people get together to decorate the streets and paint the walls. In this moment, the differences between rich and poor are reduced, and everyone believes in a better country. It is the most important moment in life. And it only happens every four years.”
I’m only 9 years old, and it’s like he’s describing a magic world.
“Winning a World Cup? It’s like a passport for us to keep dreaming. Losing one? Son, it’s like spending four years trying to wake up from a nightmare. When you grow up, you will understand it better.”
This is 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. At this time, I’m helping my grandfather in the coffee fields. The mist takes me there next. I see myself selling popsicles to the workers, playing marbles with my friends, and bathing in that river over there. My friends and I liked it when it rained, because the current was strong, and we’d go floating down the river on a truck tyre. There was that time when my brother started to drown, and I swam to help him. When I arrived, he kept pulling me down to get up and breathe, and then I would lean on him to breathe too. The two of us tangled up, sinking. Until I gave him a push with my foot, and, with that push, he managed to grab onto a rock. It was the first time I used my foot to do something good. What agony! But I saved the kid’s life.
A few years later, someone saved my life too. The truth is that in Nova Venécia, not everything is color, warmth and hugs. There are a lot of shadows too, and some of my friends who stepped over to the dark side haven’t come back. They are still my friends, because I’ve learnt that we should never turn our backs on a friend, especially on those who need a kick to keep from drowning. But reality hurts. I was lucky to have started at the football school at ten, and the coach was a policeman.
Now the mists take me to the darkness.
As much as I love my country, sometimes I get pissed at it. I think every Brazilian is a little like that. It’s hard to explain the joy and pain of being a Brazilian.
RICHARLISON
“
Às vezes eu fico puto com o Brasil. Acho que todo brasileiro é um pouco assim. A alegria e a dor de ser brasileiro é um negócio difícil de explicar.
RICHARLISON
“
At that moment, after my uncle welcomed me and I lived with him for a whole month, my life began to change. One morning, the coach at the football school came to tell me that an opportunity had arisen for me to have a trial at América Mineiro. If I wanted, he would help me go. I traveled to Belo Horizonte. I trained hard and got so many scrapes on those dirt pitches.
In the end, it all worked out. I joined the team for the under-17 state finals. I scored the winning goal in the final against Atlético, and we were champions. Then came Fluminense, and suddenly, almost in the blink of an eye, I was on the other side of the world, playing for Watford, standing in the tunnel of the Etihad Stadium, side by side with Kun Agüero and Kevin De Bruyne, the guys I used to see on TV and control in video games.
Then … hey, what? The mist goes away.
“What? Who is it? Huh?”
“Wake up, Richy. Hey, wake up. The MRI is done.”
Damn, it’s the doctor!
“What's up, Doc? Is it serious? Say it now, please!! Will I miss the World Cup?”
“Just two weeks of recovery, and you will be in one piece for the Cup.”
“Do you swear!?!”
People in England are all serious and formal, you know? But if I could’ve stopped crying for a moment, I would have kissed the doctor. Hahaha!
I thought to myself: Fuck no! I’m going to fight for that love. I knocked on my uncle’s door: “Hey, uncle, would you allow me to stay at your house for a while? You don’t need to feed me. I just need a little place to sleep.”
My uncle took me in. He didn’t have much either, but he shared the little he had with me. That’s why it hurts me so much to see this side of Brazil when I come home — this side of my country that has people so desperate that they must pick up leftover food in the trash or scavenge bones in the dumpster. I get very angry. And a little bit angrier when I remember that some people don’t get angry. They just look and say, “Oh, Brazil is just like that.”
At my uncle’s house, I would sleep on a mattress this thin [ ]. I would imagine what fate awaited me the following day. I couldn’t think any further than that. At 16, I had already passed the age for football school, which only went up to the under-11s, so I couldn’t play matches, only train with the little kids. I have a photo of those days saved on my mobile phone. It travels the world with me, and I’m always looking at it: in it, I’m already grown up, and the boys are all so small.
At that moment, after my uncle welcomed me and I lived with him for a whole month, my life began to change. One morning, the coach at the football school came to tell me that an opportunity had arisen for me to have a trial at América Mineiro. If I wanted, he would help me go. I traveled to Belo Horizonte. I trained hard and got so many scrapes on those dirt pitches.
In the end, it all worked out. I joined the team for the under-17 state finals. I scored the winning goal in the final against Atlético, and we were champions. Then came Fluminense, and suddenly, almost in the blink of an eye, I was on the other side of the world, playing for Wotford, standing in the tunnel of the Etihad Stadium, side by side with Kun Agüero and Kevin De Bruyne, the guys I used to see on TV and control in video games.
Then … hey, what? The mist goes away.
“What? Who is it? Huh?”
“Wake up, Richy. Hey, wake up. The MRI is done.”
Damn, it’s the doctor!
“What's up, Doc? Is it serious? Say it now, please!! Will I miss the World Cup?”
“Just two weeks of recovery, and you will be in one piece for the Cup.”
“Do you swear!?!”
People in England are all serious and formal, you know? But if I could’ve stopped crying for a moment, I would have kissed the doctor. Hahaha!
Olha a pracinha onde meu pai me explicou pela primeira vez porque uma Copa do Mundo é especial. Ela parece maior daqui de cima.
“Meu filho, é na Copa do Mundo que o povo se junta, enfeita as ruas, pinta os muros. É na Copa que as diferenças diminuem, que todo mundo acredita num país melhor. É o momento mais importante da vida. E ele só acontece de quatro em quatro anos, por isso a gente fica nessa animação e nessa esperança quando tem Copa. Ganhar uma Copa é um passaporte pra gente continuar sonhando. Perder, é passar quatro anos tentando acordar do pesadelo. Quando crescer você vai entender melhor”, foi o que o meu pai disse.
Eu tinha só nove anos e não sei se captei tudo o que ele falou. Mas senti uma coisa forte, como se meu destino estivesse naquelas palavras dele. Algo dentro de mim me avisava que futebol, Seleção e Copa eram o meu caminho.
Isso foi em 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. Na época, eu ajudava meu avô na roça de café, vendia picolé, jogava bolinha de gude e tomava banho naquele rio ali, ó… Eu e meus amigos gostávamos quando chovia: a correnteza ficava forte e nós descíamos em boia de pneu de caminhão. Uma vez meu irmão começou a se afogar e eu nadei pra socorrer ele. Quando cheguei, ele me puxava pra baixo pra conseguir subir e respirar, aí eu apoiava nele pra respirar também. Nós dois enroscados, afundando. Até que eu dei um empurrão nele com o pé e, com esse impulso, ele conseguiu agarrar numa pedra. Foi a primeira vez que eu usei meu pé pra fazer uma coisa boa. Que sufoco. Salvei a vida do moleque.
Uns anos depois alguém salvou a minha vida também. É que em Nova Venécia nem tudo é cor, calor e abraço. Tem muita sombra também, e alguns dos meus amigos que entraram na escuridão não voltaram mais. Eles continuam meus amigos, porque são meus amigos e eu aprendi que a gente não vira as costas pra amigo, sobretudo pros que precisam de um pontapé pra não se afogar. Mas a realidade dói. A minha sorte foi que aos dez anos eu comecei na escolinha de futebol e o treinador era um policial.
Richarlison
Foi naquele momento, depois da acolhida do meu tio, eu morei um mês certinho com ele, que a minha vida começou a mudar. Um dia de manhã, o treinador da escolinha veio me dizer que tinha aparecido uma oportunidade pra eu fazer um teste no América Mineiro. Se eu quisesse, ele me ajudava a ir. Viajei pra Belo Horizonte, treinei tanto, me ralei tanto naqueles campos de terra… Eu queria mostrar serviço, o amor tava ali me esperando e eu precisava corresponder. Deu certo. Entrei no time pros jogos finais do Estadual sub-17, fiz o gol da virada na decisão contra o Atlético e nós fomos campeões. Aí veio o Fluminense, depois o Watford e de repente eu tava do outro lado do mundo, no túnel do Etihad Stadium, lado a lado com Agüero e De Bruyne, os caras que eu via na TV e controlava no videogame. Que loucura!
Opa… “O quê? Quem é? Hein?”
— Acorda, Richarlison. Ei, acorda. Chegou o resultado da ressonância.
Caraca, é o médico!
— E aí, doutor? É grave? Fala logo. Vou perder a Copa do Mundo?
— Só duas semanas de recuperação e você vai estar inteiro pra Copa.
— O senhor jura?
O pessoal na Inglaterra é todo sério, formalzão, né? Mas se eu conseguisse parar de chorar eu dava um beijo nesse médico. Hahaha!
Richarlison
Futebol.
Seleção.
Copa.
Brasil.
Essa panturrilha não pode me tirar o abraço mais amoroso de todos. Pelamordedeus.
Uma hora e meia pra chegar o resultado da ressonância. Com menos dor, agora me sinto leve. A névoa me leva pro portão da Letícia, a nossa vizinha em Nova Venécia, e eu tô é dando risada dessa parada.
O que é que tá rolando?, eu me pergunto, sem entender nada.
Lá vem a Letícia. Ela tem o rosto do amor que ao mesmo tempo dói e me cura. A Letícia é o Brasil, fundamental na minha vida. Como todo mundo no bairro, ela não tem muito. É pobre e mora em casa de madeira também. Mas o pouco que tinha a Letícia dividia com a minha família, porque virava e mexia a gente precisava escolher entre comprar arroz e pagar o aluguel. Ela percebia o sofrimento e abraçava a gente. Valeu, Letícia! Eu nunca te esqueci. Tmj!!
Não faço a menor ideia de como saí do CT e cheguei na minha terra. Mas tô curtindo essa viagem. É bom estar em casa. Me sinto menos sozinho agora. Nova Venécia continua sem shopping e sem McDonalds. O povo é humilde, trabalhador, sofrido e encontra felicidade ajudando os outros, estendendo a mão, como a Letícia. Todo mundo me abraça quando eu volto e eu fico feliz com o Brasil.
Mas dali a pouco eu assisto às notícias no jornal e fico puto com o Brasil. Acho que todo brasileiro é um pouco assim. A alegria e a dor de ser brasileiro é um negócio difícil de explicar. Antes eu não sabia o que fazer com essas sensações. Nem sabia que eu podia fazer alguma coisa. Mas aí eu comecei a me meter. Comecei a falar, a me posicionar, a querer ajudar, a não deixar os absurdos passarem batido.
Eu penso sempre no seguinte: tanta gente precisada no Brasil e ainda assim o povo vive uma Copa do Mundo como se fosse um filme de amor. O futebol é maluco e mágico, cara. Imagina como a gente torceria pela Seleção se ninguém no Brasil passasse fome, ninguém morresse por falta de vacina, se ninguém tivesse que dormir na rua, se todas as crianças estivessem na escola, se não botassem fogo no Pantanal e na Amazônia, se os indígenas não fossem mortos pelo garimpo dentro de suas terras. Pô, imagina!!
Cheguei num ponto em que eu me sinto na obrigação de fazer alguma coisa. De falar. De me meter. Eu preciso retribuir a generosidade que me trouxe até aqui, preciso lembrar da Letícia, devolver os abraços que me dão quando eu volto pra casa e, se der sorte, inspirar a galera a acreditar também, transformar.
“Me leva, névoa. Me leva.” Quero morar nessa névoa.
Olha a pracinha onde meu pai me explicou pela primeira vez porque uma Copa do Mundo é especial. Ela parece maior daqui de cima.
“Meu filho, é na Copa do Mundo que o povo se junta, enfeita as ruas, pinta os muros. É na Copa que as diferenças diminuem, que todo mundo acredita num país melhor. É o momento mais importante da vida. E ele só acontece de quatro em quatro anos, por isso a gente fica nessa animação e nessa esperança quando tem Copa. Ganhar uma Copa é um passaporte pra gente continuar sonhando. Perder, é passar quatro anos tentando acordar do pesadelo. Quando crescer você vai entender melhor”, foi o que o meu pai disse.
Eu tinha só nove anos e não sei se captei tudo o que ele falou. Mas senti uma coisa forte, como se meu destino estivesse naquelas palavras dele. Algo dentro de mim me avisava que futebol, Seleção e Copa eram o meu caminho.
Isso foi em 2006. Ronaldo, Kaká, Adriano, Ronaldinho. Na época, eu ajudava meu avô na roça de café, vendia picolé, jogava bolinha de gude e tomava banho naquele rio ali, ó… Eu e meus amigos gostávamos quando chovia: a correnteza ficava forte e nós descíamos em boia de pneu de caminhão. Uma vez meu irmão começou a se afogar e eu nadei pra socorrer ele. Quando cheguei, ele me puxava pra baixo pra conseguir subir e respirar, aí eu apoiava nele pra respirar também. Nós dois enroscados, afundando. Até que eu dei um empurrão nele com o pé e, com esse impulso, ele conseguiu agarrar numa pedra. Foi a primeira vez que eu usei meu pé pra fazer uma coisa boa. Que sufoco. Salvei a vida do moleque.
Uns anos depois alguém salvou a minha vida também. É que em Nova Venécia nem tudo é cor, calor e abraço. Tem muita sombra também, e alguns dos meus amigos que entraram na escuridão não voltaram mais. Eles continuam meus amigos, porque são meus amigos e eu aprendi que a gente não vira as costas pra amigo, sobretudo pros que precisam de um pontapé pra não se afogar. Mas a realidade dói. A minha sorte foi que aos dez anos eu comecei na escolinha de futebol e o treinador era um policial.
Eu pensei comigo: Nem fudendo! Eu vou brigar por esse amor aí. Bati na porta do meu tio: “Ô, tio, o senhor permite que eu fique na sua casa por uns tempos? Não precisa me dar de comer não, só um cantinho pra dormir”. O meu tio me acolheu. Ele também não tinha muito, mas dividiu comigo. É por isso que me dói tanto esse Brasil que deixa as pessoas pegarem resto de comida no lixo, revirar caçamba de osso. Eu fico muito revoltado. E um pouco mais revoltado de pensar que tem gente que não se revolta, que olha e diz: “Ah, o Brasil é assim mesmo”. Porra, irmão!
Na casa do meu tio eu dormia num colchão dessa finurinha [ ] e ficava imaginando o que ia ser de mim na manhã seguinte. Nem dava pra pensar mais longe que isso. Com 16 anos eu já tinha estourado a idade da escolinha, que ia só até o sub-11, então não podia jogar, só treinar no meio dos molequinhos. Tenho foto desses dias guardada no celular. Ela viaja o mundo comigo e eu tô sempre olhando pra ela: eu já grandão e os garotos todos menorzinhos.
Foi naquele momento, depois da acolhida do meu tio, eu morei um mês certinho com ele, que a minha vida começou a mudar. Um dia de manhã, o treinador da escolinha veio me dizer que tinha aparecido uma oportunidade pra eu fazer um teste no América Mineiro. Se eu quisesse, ele me ajudava a ir. Viajei pra Belo Horizonte, treinei tanto, me ralei tanto naqueles campos de terra… Eu queria mostrar serviço, o amor tava ali me esperando e eu precisava corresponder. Deu certo. Entrei no time pros jogos finais do Estadual sub-17, fiz o gol da virada na decisão contra o Atlético e nós fomos campeões. Aí veio o Fluminense, depois o Watford e de repente eu tava do outro lado do mundo, no túnel do Etihad Stadium, lado a lado com Agüero e De Bruyne, os caras que eu via na TV e controlava no videogame. Que loucura!
Opa… “O quê? Quem é? Hein?”
— Acorda, Richarlison. Ei, acorda. Chegou o resultado da ressonância.
Caraca, é o médico!
— E aí, doutor? É grave? Fala logo. Vou perder a Copa do Mundo?
— Só duas semanas de recuperação e você vai estar inteiro pra Copa.
— O senhor jura?
O pessoal na Inglaterra é todo sério, formalzão, né? Mas se eu conseguisse parar de chorar eu dava um beijo nesse médico. Hahaha!