The tearing down of the Råsunda Stadium in Stockholm and renovations of the Maracanã Stadium in Rio de Janeiro mark the end of an era for Brazilian football. The style of play that led Brazil to win the World Cup 5 times emphasized flair, finesse and freedom on the field and reflected the social dynamics of Brazil at the time. However, the game and Brazilian society have both evolved, prioritizing physicality over artistic flair. While Brazil remains a footballing power, the golden generation of midfield magicians and forwards is gone, signaling the end of the romantic "joga bonito" era that defined Brazilian football for decades.

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FOOTBALL
Two symbols of Brazil’s dominance, the
Råsunda and Maracanã, have changed
forever. And gone with them is the
Bohemian football that defined the ’50s
and ’60s—the flair, frolic and finesse
By Leslie Xavier
ENDOFTHE
BRAZILIAN
RHAPSODY
HIGHFIVE
From Stockholm to
Yokohama, from 1958
to 2002, the boys from
Brazil in their famous
blue and yellow have
not just dominated the
decades and the world, but
captured the hearts of
even rival fans with their
“Dionysian dance”—the
Seleção are the only team
to have won the FIFA World
Cup trophy a record five
times (clockwise from top
left)—1958, 1962, 1994,
1970 and 2002.
T
he Nobel Museum, the Gamla stan, the
palace of the King of Sweden, Central town
and the Kungsträdgården… One by one,
I was crossing off the touristy places on
my Stockholm map. I would have almost
missed one—an important landmark in Solna, in the
north of the Swedish capital—but for an invite from a
newfound friend. “ARE YOU INTERESTED IN JOINING US AT
THE RÅSUNDA ON SUNDAY,” my phone suddenly beeped.
The Råsunda Stadium!
No sports fan needs a second invite to visit the
place from where Brazil began their world domina-
tion of football—it was at the Råsunda that the na-
tion won its first World Cup in 1958. In the years that
followed, the Samba boys became the owners of the
Jules Rimet Trophy, and, with five triumphs, are the
most successful national side in football.
The “Sunday” was historic too. A swanky new sta-
dium, the Friends Arena, a few blocks away from the
old ground, was replacing the Råsunda as the home
of the Swedish national team and the Stockholm-
CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT AFP PHOTO(PELÉ, 1958
WORLD CUP); AFP PHOTO (PELÉ, 1970 WORLD CUP);
DANIEL GARCIA/AFP (ROMARIO, 1994 WORLD CUP);
AFP PHOTO (JAIRZINHO, 1970 WORLD CUP); ANTONIO
SCORZA/AFP (CAFU, 2002 WORLD CUP)
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FOOTBALL
based Allsvenskan (the country’s premier
league) club, Allmänna Idrottsklubben or
AIK. On the afternoon of April 7, the club’s
fans, led by the Ultras, dressed and paint-
ed in their traditional yellow and black,
took out a symbolic procession with the
team bus from the Råsunda to the Friends
Arena for the opening match of AIK in
their new home. Smoke from red and yel-
low flares blocked out the early-spring sun,
as fans, waving banners and flags, some
even in tears, sang anthems, bidding adieu
to their “second home”.
Twenty days later, on April 27, a similar
scene played out in Rio de Janeiro, across
the Atlantic. Brazilian World Cup winners
Ronaldo and Bebeto led two sides in an
exhibition match staged at the reshaped
Estádio do Maracanã, with close to 30,000
spectators, mostly construction workers
and their families, in attendance. It was
the first match in the renovated stadium,
which is getting ready for the 2014 World
Cup and the 2016 Olympic Games, and it
was played as a thanksgiving to the people
One of the fans, 28-year-old Alexander
Wåland, captured the mood when he said,
“No matter where we go, what we do, how
old we become, we always knew we could
come back to the stadium and things will
be okay. Things will be the same. We are
losing that. We are losing our soul. Real es-
tate developers are involved here. Corrup-
tion too. But that’s how the world is now.”
I, on the other hand, was blue for a dif-
ferent reason. The 75-year-old stadium was
witness to the beginning of an era in foot-
ball, and one couldn’t help but wonder if
its tearing down was pointing to the end
of an illustrious school of football. And, as
if to hammer in the point, the Maracanã,
the biggest symbol of the Samba game, will
never be the same again.
T
hey say that the whole of Maracanã—
close to 200,000 Brazilian fans—went
silent that day; after 11 Uruguayans
GONEARETHEDAYSWHENBRAZILHADA
LIMITLESSPOOLOFMIDFIELDGENIUSESAND
FORWARDSTOGETTHESELEÇÃORIGHT
involved in its re-design.
What happened in Stockholm and Rio
are not just two random incidents reiterat-
ing people’s affection for football and their
reverence towards the modern-day cathe-
drals in which the game is played, rather,
worshipped. The Råsunda and the Ma-
racanã represent an important era in the
ever-evolving world of the beautiful game.
They, in one way, are symbols of the foot-
ball equivalent of the renaissance age, the
period of the romantics… The golden age of
the Brazilian game—which is history now
like the Råsunda and the old Maracanã—
has passed on.
Standing in front of the Råsunda that
Sunday, joining hands with the AIK hard-
cores, I couldn’t ignore the enormity of the
occasion. The tearing down of the stadium
symbolises progress, but for the AIK fans
it was time to mourn the death of the only
thing in their lives “that was a constant”.
CLOCKWISEFROMTOPLEFTGETTYIMAGES;CLIVEBRUNSKILL/ALLSPORT(ZIDANE);COURTESYOFAIK
SAMBABLUES
The tearing down of
the Råsunda, which
was given a tearful
sendoff by AIK fans
(below), symbolises
the failure of the
Seleção’s philosophy
to ensure wins: their
“best” have failed—
more notably to a
Paolo Rossi-led Italy
(left), who muscled
them out of the 1982
World Cup, and to
Zinedine Zidane and
Co. at France ’98.
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3. broke their hearts with a 2–1 victory in the
1950 World Cup final. The pre-tournament
favourites had fallen. A familiar story for
the Seleção faithful back then who were
used to seeing their side dominate, provide
the “oohs” and “aahs” of the World Cups,
and then make tearful exits. But Brazilian
footballers and fans alike were also in the
game for the little joys from the intangibles
on field, the deft passes and back-heels and
the runs with gay abandon, as much as for
the Jules Rimet. They, and South America
in general, brought in and established the
Bohemian culture in football we are all
in awe of.
Eight years after the heartbreak at the
Maracanã, those intangibles, the way of
the el joga bonito, as well as the victory
were Brazil’s, when they beat hosts Swe-
den in the final of the 1958 World Cup at
the Råsunda. The South Americans, led
by seniors Didi, Bellini and Nilton Santos
and pushed by a very talented bunch—
Vavá, Garrincha, Mario Zagallo and a
17-year-old prodigy named Pelé—proved
that their version of football was capa-
ble of winning not only hearts but also
trophies. Pelé became a household name
at the Råsunda after his hattrick during
Brazil’s 5–2 semifinal win over France,
and the two classic goals he scored
against Sweden for the Cup.
The Råsunda is no more! And the Ma-
racanã, Rio de Janeiro’s answer to Rome’s
Colosseum, is altered by the winds of
change. And world football… Well, Charles
Darwin was right when it came to the
beautiful game too. Science says noth-
ing is immune to evolution, and football
changed with time—the Brazilian game no
longer holds the surprise to rip apart the
most structured of opposition defences.
Their last golden generation—the Zico–
Socrates gang—was awe-inspiring no
doubt, but was prone too, as we all know.
The Dutch, for a brief while, reshaped
the joga bonito, marrying flair with the
workman approach. The Italians, French
and the Germans sharpened their meas-
ured game with added flair from mid-field
geniuses, and, in between, Diego Mara-
dona Gambetta-ed his way to become El
Diego, and God to many. Brazil returned
with the Ronaldos, Ronaldinhos and the
Rivaldos, and a little less beautiful, but ef-
fective, style. Now, Spain has taken up the
mantle, spearheading the sport into the
new century, with their Catalan-engined,
possession-centric football, where flair
bursts forth between patient build-ups.
The transition in the game has been
distinct and sharp but logical and progres-
sive at the same time, following a grand
design which even FIFA boss Sepp Blat-
ter or UEFA head Michel Platini, the two
most powerful men in world football to-
day, could not have imagined. Luckily, the
evolution is happening on the field, and not
in the FIFA or UEFA boardrooms. Not all
sports can boast of that. The envelope in
football is stretched by zealous football-
ers and focused teams, just like in the old
days, and it has always been in the pursuit
of the hallowed grails in the sport—be it
the World Cup or the other coveted prizes.
The ultimate prize is returning to the
new-look Maracanã next year, where
78,000 fans, much less than the original
and rather insane 200,000, will cheer on
the local stars in their quest for a sixth
World Cup and the first title at home.
But Brazil are no longer the pre-tour-
nament favourites, and not just because
JONATHANNACKSTRAND/AFP
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of their recent form. The Brazilians now
seem to have reached a dead end after rein-
venting their game to meet the present-day
demands of world football. Proof of that is
glaring when we take a look at the current
crop of footballers.
The midfield and forwards, the maestros
whom we associate with the country, are
becoming fewer. The Brazilians playing in
Europe are more in the mould of Roberto
Carlos, Felipe Melo, Gilberto Silva, Thiago
Silva—muscular, robust midfield stop-
pers or defenders—than, say, Ronaldinho.
No denying the presence of the Kakas or
the Robinhos, and young guns like Oscar
(Chelsea) and trump card Neymar, who,
some say, plays a stifled game for the na-
tional side.
But gone are the days when Brazil had
a limitless pool of attack-minded midfield
geniuses and forwards to get the Seleção
right. Brazil’s likely midfield rangers for
the World Cup—Lazio’s Hernanes and
Chelsea’s Ramires—good as they are, don’t
have the same flair as Clodoaldo and Ger-
son of the Class of 1970.
T
he trend points to a shift in the foot-
ball philosophy of the country, which
has always been a reflection of its so-
cial dynamics. In 1959, Brazilian sociologist
Gilberto Freyre (1900–1987) had written
about how the country’s football players took
to the field as though they were
entering a dance floor.
This was the general phi-
losophy of the common man
in Brazil, who danced and
enjoyed life, even amidst pov-
erty. That philosophy had its
foundations in the time when
football came out of the in-
stitutionalised Anglo set-up
in the country, and onto the
feet of the common Brazilian.
The style was also a symbol
of the attempt by a coun-
try to break free from the
colonial influence.
Of course, the multi-cultural caul-
dron in Brazil, the “racial democracy”
from the mixing of cultures from Eu-
rope, Africa and the Americas, created
a unique platform from which arose,
as Freyre philosophically termed it, the
“Dionysian dance”.
“Afro-Brazilian football is a form of a
Dionysian dance,” he had written once,
terming the Seleção style as Dionysian
(impulsive and emotional), while the Eu-
ropean was “Apollonian style (formal
and rational)”.
That quest for freedom was evident in
the World Cups right from the start, and in
1958 the Brazilians got a big reason to stick
to the Dionysian dance—the World Cup
was theirs and they got it in some style.
Aficionados hailed the 1958 team for its
exuberance, one even comparing its play to
a hit “jazz band” in concert. By 1970, the
whole world was dancing to the tunes of
that jazz band, their latest hit conducted by
skipper Carlos Alberto. That, perhaps, was
the zenith of the Brazilian football philoso-
phy, after which it was put to the test, when
the game evolved and became faster and
less appreciative of flair, ruthless towards
it, in fact. Socrates or Zico, or the team of
1982 could tell you more of how they were
muscled out by Italy during their second-
round group-stage match. Brazil failed to
reach the semifinals, losing the 1982 Cup,
which many believed was theirs.
Of course, Maradona’s Argentina could
be considered an aberration in this evolu-
tionary cycle. Or were they? The 1986 Ar-
gentine team was built around Maradona,
with an army of strong players—Jorge
Valdano, Jorge Burruchaga, Héctor En-
rique, Sergio Batista and the like—whose
job was to protect and give their prized
asset space. It was a cross between flair
and muscle, which Brazil employed very
well in 2002.
Between 1970 and 2002, Brazilian soci-
ety was changing too, just like the rest of
the globalised world. But football was still
the primary engine of upliftment for 90
percent of the population who took up the
sport not just for fun like in the old days,
but to eye the golden shores of Europe.
Brazil had to get ready for the physical re-
alities of the modern game, and they did.
In that phase of transition, when a World
Cup win became paramount to bring the
Brazilian way of football back to the fore,
the Seleção managed to forsake and almost
bury it.
Freyre had addressed the topic of “mix-
ing of the races” which facilitated a “racial
democracy” in his book, Casa-Grande e
Senzala [The Masters and the Slaves], pub-
lished in 1933. He had argued that the
mixing would result in the forming of a
more unified and robust populace. Brazil-
ian demography has since changed, and, as
was the case in the early 20th century, the
society has played a major role in defining
its footballing priorities even now, though
the economics of the game is a bigger fac-
tor now than it was then.
The Cup is returning to the Maracanã
next year and the Samba boys are strug-
gling to find an identity for which they
could fight. Or is this a period of transition
for Brazil, a shift from one philosophy to
another, triggered by social changes and
economic demands?
Beautiful or functional, or a mix of both,
football is as open as the world is now.
And that world is not looking at Brazil for
answers, or even questions. Instead, the
world is waiting to see whether the rest
have deciphered Spain, or, as a long shot,
whether Argentina would build a game
around Spain-moulded Lionel Messi, who
will be the same age as Maradona was
when he lifted the Cup in 1986.
By the time you read this, the Råsunda
would have been grounded, the new Ma-
racanã would have witnessed its first in-
ternational fixture on May 15—a friendly
between the Seleção and England.
And Brazilian football?
Coach Luiz Felipe Scolari has a little
over a year to figure out how to approach
the most important challenge of his life—
to lead the side to not just victory, but also
to make the journey a true reflection of
early 21st-century Brazilian society. He
should probably just let it flow. ±
OLDBOYS’CLUB
The surviving
members of the
Brazilian and Swedish
national sides who
took part in the
1958 World Cup
final pose at the
Råsunda on Aug. 14,
2012, a day before
the last international
match was played
at the stadium in
Stockholm—a friendly
between the current
teams from the two
countries.
PELÉBECAMEAHOUSEHOLDNAMEAT
THERÅSUNDAAFTERHISTWOCLASSIC
GOALSAGAINSTSWEDENFORTHECUP
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