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Journalism of Courage
It was a birthday gift from the gods 8212; a fifth-row seat from which to watch Brazil finally turn on the style, against Japan, and enter the knockout round with some fanfare. The worm8217;s eye view allowed for some ideas to be formed, some to be confirmed and some still to be fully explored.
First, Ronaldinho. The man is all about speed, which TV or the distance of the 45th row doesn8217;t do full justice to. The speed of his foot movement: The way he steps over a ball, pauses with his foot poised above it, then drags it back, all in a split second. They ought to check his shoes for some sort of magnet.
Behind that bug-eyed, smiling face, behind that slightly loopy, goofy exterior, lies a brain that is constantly ticking. Conjuring up the next move, deciding, perhaps, which way to pass the ball or move with it; from the outside of his foot, with his head, his thigh, his heel, dinking or scooping it up.
Around him, the support cast. Ronaldo, the fattest footballer I8217;ve seen in two World Cups. Back home in Kolkata, he8217;d be kicked out of a para team for his girth. But size isn8217;t everything; like most large people, he is surprisingly light on his feet and capable of the most delicate touch.
Take his second goal: a one-two with Ze Roberto, blue shirts buzzing all around him, a turn on a thread and a shot into the far corner. The fans loved him today, his was the only name they chanted, and with good reason; both his goals were vintage Ronaldo. After the first goal the entire bench gathered to embrace him; his reward for the second was to get the captain8217;s armband when Dida left the field.
This was the man whose head they were calling for?
It was also the day Brazil8217;s B team got into the act. Everyone had a point to prove. Kaka, a star in his own right but eclipsed by the radiance of Ronaldinho, was everywhere, passing, running, shooting. Robinho, eclipsed even at Real Madrid but today given the space for his dance steps. One exchange between the young princes early on: The ball coming in from the right, in front of the Japanese area. Robinho steps over; without looking, he knows Kaka is to his left. He keeps running and Kaka8217;s angled ball reaches his feet. He pulls the shot just wide.
That8217;s another thing about these players: They don8217;t waste time looking up, or around; they can sense who8217;s where. At least Kaka and Robinho are stars in waiting. What about Juninho, a star in any other international team and for his club, Lyon but a bit-part player here. Given a starting place, he pulled out every trick in his book. His goal was stunning 8212; this World Cup has had more than its share of long-range beauties 8212; and the Japanese could not have even sensed the danger when he got the ball 40 yards out. Next thing they knew, it was two yards in.
Brazil went into this match without Cafu, Roberto Carlos, Ze Roberto, Adriano and Emerson; they were much the better for the changes as Cicinho and Gilberto Silva, in particular, gave them a flexibility and youthfulness that allowed them to play three at the back and the rest playing just about anywhere they wanted. Yes, there are problems with this team, and not just the problem of plenty when it comes to taking a free-kick. They can be caught out at the back, and had Japan been blessed with more self-assurance and some more skills in the final third, there would have been more goals. Yet two thoughts come to the mind when seeing them play at such proximity. One, you appreciate the plight of rival coaches. What system do you adopt, what style do you play, against Brazil? Do you attack and risk being hit on the counter or do you sit back and allow them to control the play?
The other is this: The sheer daring of Carlos Alberto Parreira to dismantle the stifling 4-3-3 of his predecessor 8212; commercially successful in winning the World Cup four years ago but hated by the critics 8212; and replace it with, essentially, 3-2-5, with two holding midfielders behind the five freewheelers. There is much at stake here, even for a coach who won the tournament in 1994, and he is aware of the fallout of failure.
Right now, though, theirs is only one F-word that comes to mind: Fenomino.
