Soccer in the Favela By Bill Hinchberger Skinny youths clad in flimsy blue and red jerseys scamper after a cheap soccer ball on a dusty dirt field. Beyond looms not a grandstand but a steep hill thickly covered by brick shanties. The simple act of hauling a refrigerator up the steep rise and through the maze of makeshift pedestrian pathways would seem a Sisyphian task for residents. Down below, at midfield, stands Mirandinha. Twenty-four years ago, fans cheered as he charged onto the field in Munich's Olympic Stadium to defend Brazil in the World Cup. Today he and Deodoro, another former soccer standout, serve as coaches, referees, de facto psychologists and surrogate fathers for scores of poor kids in a São Paulo favela (shantytown) called Jardim Ibirapuera. No cheering fans line the field in Jardim Ibirapuera. There's not a single soccer mom in sight. The parents of the young players left home at dawn for a marathon of bus and train rides to menial jobs that may pay as little as the Brazilian minimum wage, about $130 a month. Mom and dad often shuffle in the front door after dark. Ask 17 year-old Eduardo what his parents do. "My father is in jail. My mother is unemployed," he answers. His buddies take the response in stride. The kids look up to Mirandinha and Deodoro. The pair emerged from modest, though not destitute, backgrounds into the limelight of Brazil's national pastime. Mirandinha starred with Corinthians and São Paulo, two of Brazil's most popular teams, and the Tampa Bay Rowdies of the now defunct North American Soccer League. He retired in 1983. Deodoro played for top Brazilian clubs like Portuguesa and Vasco da Gama before hanging up his cleats in 1986. After dabbling in coaching, the pair received invitations to help staff a São Paulo state government soccer program for favela youths in the early 1990s. By 1994, the state program encompassed 204 shantytown communities, with an estimated 110,000 youths scampering after cheap balls on dusty fields. On the field, ex-players taught soccer skills and teamwork. During time outs, they encouraged kids to stay in school and away from omnipresent drugs and crime. The program organized an all-star team of favela youths to barnstorm Japan. At that point, Coach Mirandinha tried to establish some unprecedented order. "That was really a job," he recalled. "We had to teach them how to sit down to eat at a table. We had to teach them etiquette. And they had to eat Japanese food. Soccer was the easy part." A year later, a new governor took office. Worried about fragile state finances, he slashed non-essential programs - including favela soccer. Kids and coaches were cut adrift. "I was really disappointed," said Deodoro. "Kids would call my house and ask what happened." When Oscar Schmidt, Brazil's all-time greatest basketball player, took over as São Paulo municipal sports secretary last year under a new mayor, he relaunched a scaled down version of the program within the city limits of the state capital. (Like New York, New York, the city goes by the same name as the state.) Called Soccer in the Favela, the municipal scheme serves six communities and boasts over 5,000 sign-ups, including nearly 1,000 in Jardim Ibirapuera. Every week, on the appointed Wednesdays and Thursdays, at least 600 can be counted on to show up. The boys, ages 8-17, rotate on the sole neighborhood field between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. Times are staggered to accommodate the standard half-day class schedules at the nearby public school. Most of the aspiring athletes study, a notable phenomenon in a country where just 39% of youths between the ages of 12 and 17 attend school. Eduardo laments his position among Brazil's unenrolled adolescent majority. The over-crowded, under-funded local school turned him away because all its slots were filled, he explained. In contrast, Soccer in the Favela takes all comers. Like most of his friends, Eduardo dreams of playing pro ball. All soccer crazed Brazilians can tell you how Romário escaped poverty in Rio de Janeiro to become a star striker and lead the national team to victory in the 1994 World Cup. They recount stories about how he would choose between a snack and bus fare, between hunger and a long hike home, after practice. Eduardo got a tryout with a local club. No offer, but he refuses to give up. His dreams are fueled by the presence of ex-stars Mirandinha and Deodoro. "They only way to attract these kids to the field is with ex-players," said Carlos Alberto Gonçalves, supervisor of sports schools for the city, who also headed the old statewide program. The kids may be too young to have seen them in action, but their fathers, uncles and grandfathers remember. "When we tried a physical education teacher, attendance went way down. The kids brag at school about how Mirandinha and Deodoro are their coaches," said Gonçalves. Along with five other ex-players on contract with the city, Mirandinha and Deodoro work the professional soccer network to channel talented favela kids to youth teams run by top clubs like Corinthians. Soccer in the Favela counts 16 alumni on club youth teams. Not surprisingly, disadvantaged kids sometimes struggle to keep up. "Today's soccer demands physical conditioning," said Deodoro. "The kids here are usually at about 40-50% of capacity. They have to be really good to make it." Like most kids, regardless of social class, few of these will realize their dreams of playing before throngs of cheering fans. But their presence in the program and in school alone deserves applause. "They need to study," noted Mirandinha. Even neighborhood junk dealers, who commonly use makeshift horse drawn carriages on collection runs, will need a diploma, he joked. "The horse is going to turn around and ask if you have a diploma." Peers outside the program are more fully exposed to the temptations of crime and drugs. In Rio de Janeiro last year, some 300 children under the age of 13 were arrested for serious crimes like assault, drug use and trafficking, theft and homicide. Even if they refrain from active participation, the lives of favela children are surrounded by violence. In a single January weekend, police registered 53 intentional homicides in the city of São Paulo, many in poor neighborhoods. In one favela, local gang members arrived at a community meeting to discuss the soccer program armed with machine guns, recalled Gonçalves. "The kids hang out here for 4 or 5 hours after their turn on the field," said Deodoro. "During that time, they don't think about getting involved in other things." To give participants a social leg up, Soccer in the Favela includes a series of talks about topics like personal hygiene and AIDS. Beginning in May, post-game snacks will be served. Some kids are so hungry that they'll come just for the snack, predicted Gonçalves. Exposed to this novel reality, the ex-players claim that they benefit as much or more than the kids do. "It really opens up your eyes. I'm learning everyday," said Mirandinha. "When you only work in a club, you see things differently. Here we become attached to the kids more easily." Deodoro's prized pupil is not a budding star, but an 11 year-old who suffered anoxia at birth that left him with motor coordination and verbal learning problems. Luis was shy and withdrawn, accustomed to ridicule from other boys. Deodoro used his prestige to integrate Luis into the group. "A while back, he made a goal. He was so happy, he yelled so loudly, I thought he'd have a heart attack," said the ex-player. "Since he began playing, he's loosened up. His parents are ecstatic." Gonçalves hopes to expand the program, not only to help more kids, but also to offer opportunities to more former athletes. Customarily forced into retirement in their mid-30s, ex-stars are rarely prepared to embark on new careers in middle age - especially when the unemployment rate in the São Paulo metropolitan region hovers over 16%. "This program addresses the needs of both groups - the children and the ex-players," noted Gonçalves. Given tight public budgets, city officials are soliciting corporate sponsorships to fund expansion. Mirandinha and Deodoro can't figure out why business people aren't more generous - if only out of self-interest. "They can't say it is not their problem," said Deodoro. "These kids could become criminals. The business people would be investing in their own security and that of their grandchildren." Visions magazine Spring 1998