Maracana Fraud

Blanke, Steven Michael

Mr. Mitchell

History as Fiction

11 May 2020

Maracana Fraud

5 June 1978 - London

In all my time working for National Public Radio, I have not enjoyed any assignment greater than my time covering Great Britain. My time here has helped me rediscover my love of Great Britain and all of its intricacies, which I originally acquired in my high school years when my parents took a sabbatical and moved my brother and me to Britain with them for a semester. I have even been able to go to Stamford Bridge and watch Chelsea play for the first time in twenty years. It is a damn shame they don’t show football on television in America. A few days ago, I was in Southampton, I went to visit my old friend and high school headmaster, George Reader, at his home in Southampton. I am writing this story in my personal diary because it is not my story to tell to the public. It is a story that has been weighing on me, mainly because of my love of the game of football, but also because it has tainted my memory of my old friend more than I would like. George Reader is a good man, and I can not judge him for his beliefs, even though ethically, taking on the role that he did was wrong. I will not betray his actions to the general public since George has always treated me like a father. He also appears to be about to die, and creating a posthumous scandal is not something I mean to create. I will never know whether or not George wanted this story public, but I can only assume that for his best interests, it will remain off the books and in my personal library. In order to keep it so that people do not take the story seriously in the event that this story is found, I have maintained my anonymity, so that people would view George’s story as a conspiracy theory… as if something so outlandish could ever occur. Here is what happened that day:

I leave the hotel where I was spending the night after covering a major story for NPR. I think of home. Houston is a long way away from here and I miss the kindness, characteristic of people living in the city. Back instead were the middle fingers of angry, drunk, football fans. It didn’t bother me. Passion drives people to do regrettable things. But Mr. Reader had taught me that the lifestyle was not the way of many Brits. I get in my Ford, pull out of the hotel parking lot. The driving in Southampton is pleasant; far from the hustle and bustle of London. I relish it, because I know that I will be going home soon. Indeed, I was promoted to a job back in the states. I knew that it would likely be the last time I saw the old man. Not only did I see him as a mentor to me, but as a father figure. I remember all the good times I spent learning from his teachings. I pass the University of Southampton and Spitfire, still much the same as ever.  Finally, I arrive at his home. I park the car in the driveway of his large country home, and walk up to his door. Knowing I was arriving soon, his nurse quickly opens the door for me and takes me to his bedroom. I walk into his room, and am taken aback by how old and frail he looks. He sits on his couch, watching his television. He turns his head and sees me. His nurse fusses a bit over him, but he quickly waves her away, and waves me into the large armchair next to him. We settle into a soccer match playing on the television. Italy and France are playing and the score is tied at one. 

“Back in my day England would have whooped these boys. Our gits couldn’t even make it to the world cup this year. It’s a damn shame. My old ass thought that I would get to see the boys bring the trophy home at some point again before I die,” George says. I am surprised about how lively he is in contrast to his initial appearance.

“Well, we’ve barely ever been to the world cup. Hey! Remember when we beat England?” I respond.

“Piss off,” he says and the two of us laugh. 

“At least you all won the world cup,” I say and we return to watching the match. 

After sitting in silence for a few more minutes, the referee blows his whistle and halftime ensues. George’s nurse walks in and helps him relieve himself. When he returns, he sits down, a little more serious looking. “Damn good that Paolo Rossi is. He’s so good he barely had to touch the ball for it to go in.” 

We laugh, and soon the substitute Renato Zaccarelli scores for Italy. Italy begins to dominate, and I know that my time to leave George’s house for the last time is coming soon. The game ends and Italy wins two to one. I get up and head for the door, but George interjects “I must insist that you stay for some tea. This old man won’t get to see you again.” 

I return my coat to its hanger and have a seat. George calls for his nurse, and she brings us tea.  

“Remember the tragedy of the maracana?” George asks.

“Of course. You refereed it,” I say as if it wasn’t that big of a deal. 

“There’s something that I must tell you, which is why I wanted you to come. I do not trust many more than I trust you,” he says and I am increasingly taken aback. “It is something that I have had to live with for many years. I want to get it off my chest so this old man can die peacefully, enjoying football.” 

I am surprised, since George is one of the most straight up people I have ever known. I sip my tea and remember the match… It had been a very long time and I was very young at the time. I recalled the eerie silence in the Maracana Stadium after Uruguay scored the goal that would win the world cup. The complete and utter sadness shown by those at the matches completion… the utter dismay on the Brazilian players' faces and the triumph on the faces of the Uruguayan players.”

“I want to give you a first hand account of what actually happened that day,” says George. “It is more than you will ever believe, and in my shame, I have never told anyone before. I reckon I committed the ultimate sin in footballing.” 

I am struck by the seriousness that he shows. He is not bullshitting, and I know that whatever he was going to say could change the history of football altogether. I sit there and prepare myself for his story. I remain quiet as he tells it:

As you know, I was a referee for a very long time. I reckoned that it may protect me from military duty. I don’t know why I thought that now. I got lucky and wasn’t forced to go to war. I was always an intense pacifist, especially after the war. After seeing the events of world war 2, I became averse to anything resembling violence and so much so that I would do anything to prevent it. At the same time, I saw football as a method of channeling passion through a game. This is why I liked being around it. Football unites people. It is a religion. But you must understand that football is more of a religion in Brazil than it is in the rest of the world. Football was and still is a way of life. People’s mental health hinges on the success of the area’s football team and the National Team. In Brazil, a football match is an event that everyone comes out to watch.

When I arrived in Rio, I knew this. The people were festive. They were excited that the first world cup in many years had come to their city. But many young people were also extremely prone to partying, and even older people would come out if an event called on it. It came down to a few days before the world cup final. The people were intensely excited, and I had been in Rio for awhile since Fifa had informed me that I would be refereeing the world cup final. Obviously, I had toured Rio and I was enjoying myself. I even went to a few football matches. I saw the intense joy that came from the Brazilians winning a match.

It just so happened to be that the Rio government had noticed the joy as well, and feared for the city’s infrastructure. One day I was eating lunch in a little restaurant in Rio, when a police officer approached me, and told me that I was being summoned to see the mayor in private. He told me in a thick accent that he would meet for dinner at a little restaurant on the outskirts of Rio to welcome me. He had apparently done this with all of the referees, and it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

That evening, we met up. He introduced himself with surprisingly good English as Angelo Mendes de Morales.

“Welcome to Rio. How have you enjoyed your time here?” he asked.

“It’s been lovely,” I responded. After all, my time in Rio had been lovely.

After a while, he asked me not to tell people about this little meeting that we were having, and that he had money to silence me with. I thought it peculiar that he would offer me money to be silent. I told him that I didn’t need money.

After awhile, a second man, who introduced himself as Alfeo Brum came in. I was shocked. Mr. Brum was the vice President of Uruguay, an extremely wealthy man, and notorious football fan. I was now sitting at a table with the most important man in Rio and the second most important man in all of Uruguay. Both men were light and friendly with each other. After around 20 minutes I asked, “How the hell do you two know each other?”

Brum responded, “We both love our lands and we both love football.”

I was still very confused. What the hell was the vice president of Uruguay and the mayor of Rio doing eating supper together a few nights before Brazil and Uruguay’s big match? After supper, Angelo disclosed something to me that completely changed the way I viewed him: “I love football. I love Brazilian football. But do you know what I love even more? I love Rio even more. I am scared of my people’s love of football combined with my people’s love of partying. So I spoke with the police and they told me that they expected overwhelming partying and looting in the streets. What's more, the Maracana will be dangerous if we win. Do you know how many people have bought tickets to the match? What about how many people we expect in total? We have sold 160,000 tickets to the match already and 200,000 people are expected to show up in total. Imagine 200,000 crazed Brazilians. Our streets would be a mess, and everything we have done to improve Rio would be destroyed.  Much of our infrastructure would be rampaged on by crazed fans. We believe that this won’t happen, and that our citizens will merely be sad if we lose. We will pay you off if you want. My friend Alfeo has money. We want you to help us lose the match. “ 

I was shocked. Who in the world wants their own side to lose a football match. But my pacifist side came screaming to me. Immediately, I realized that I gave less of a shit about who won the football match, fair or not than preventing violence, which would surely follow a win. I responded, “I am a pacifist. Thanks for telling me this. What is it that I can do to prevent this?”

“We want you to help Uruguay win the match, if possible.” said Alfeo. “It would be such a joy to my people, and we do not worry about riots.”

I sat there, conflicted. I knew my values, but I also knew that football was a wonderful thing. Then and there, I joined their fold. They informed me that they would be speaking to me through messengers. I reckoned it was so that people didn’t get suspicious of the mayor. 

For the next few days, I went back to my daily activity of exploring Rio, sipping cold beer, and visiting the club in the evening. The day before the match, a messenger finally came to me. I was to meet with the mayor outside of Rio.  So I packed up my bags and headed out. He insisted on taking a short hike. So after a few kilometers, we stopped and he pulled out some coxinha, and we ate. Outside of the confines of the cameras and press, we could speak in private. 

“There will be 200,000 people at the match,” he began. “And we were able to get three players on board. There are now six people in this group. Your job is to call a fair match, unless Brazil is tied or winning in the final ten minutes. You are aware that for us to win, we must at least draw the match.” I nodded and he continued. “There are 2 scenarios. If at any point of the match, you are to call anything close to offside on us offside. Not so absurd that you are obvious. Just anything that is close. Secondly, if it is necessary for Uruguay to win the match, you must call as many penalty kicks as needed in the last ten minutes. There are three Brazilian players in the fold: Augusto, Juvenal, and Danilo. Obviously, Augusto and Juvenal are defenders and Danilo is our defensive midfielder. If Uruguay is up, Danilo will become a horrible player, stalling our effectiveness. If we are losing, either Augusto or Juvenal will make a rash challenge to give away a shot from the penalty spot. It is your job to make sure that these penalties are called.”

“How do we know that these players will follow orders and not tell Fifa about you?” I asked 

“We have paid them $500,000 in American money to keep their silence and they will receive $2 million in American money once Uruguay wins.” I was shocked. The mayor and vice president had been at least slightly thorough. Even so, they were paying these players a lot of money. I was sure though that the money that they were paying the players was much less than they would pay if the city was ransacked by partying fans.

Well the day of the match came. I don’t know if the players knew that I was on board with the plan or not. It was likely best if the three players did not know. The match began. The crowd was so loud and great and I began to understand Angelo’s fears. Of course, Brazil scored first, and all 200,000 people in the crowd went crazy. I was scared. I was all too happy to play up the complaints brought by the Uruguayan captain. I didn’t understand what he was saying, so I asked for a translator to come onto the field. Normally, I would have just said no, and let the match resume. But this time, I nearly blew my cover by playing this whole thing up.

I am glad to say though that I never had to truly rig the match. Luckily, Uruguay won the match fair and square if you understood that Danilo played  poorly in the last few moments of the match under pressure and fatigued. And so Uruguay won. 

But I was wrong. The entire fold was wrong. Brazil losing watch wasn’t only good for Rio. Many people had committed suicide because of the loss. Others had quit their jobs in denial. I felt bad, but to keep my reputation up, I made sure to never tell this story. Let this be my final lesson to you: Messing with something that doesn’t need messing with is an awful idea.

George looks up at me. I sit back in my chair, my mind blown. The tragedy of the Maracana had been fixed… by my old friend. I didn’t know what to think. I thank him, get up, and give him a hug. “Goodbye old friend,” I say as I leave the house.” He waves, and I get in the Ford, and drive away. I know my mindset has changed forever.