Garrincha’s my favourite footballer. I remember, when I was 18 and somewhat mentally ill, staying up all night, watching whatever crap was on TV. At about 3am, BBC Four stuck on a documentary (with sign language in the corner, if memory serves) about Pele and Garrincha – a player whose name I’d heard, but about whom I knew nothing. It was terrific. You know you’re watching something good when you don’t even mind a Garth Crooks narration.
Within a few weeks, I was wearing a Garrincha t-shirt everywhere. I was absolutely transfixed by this crooked-legged genius: ‘The Joy of the People’, one of the people, who played for love of the game, whereas Pele was the astute, PR-savvy capitalist who would never quite capture their imagination the same way. Sixty-one years after the pair took Brazil to World Cup glory for the first time, Pele is still here, a global brand. Garrincha is forgotten by all but the most devout football history nerds, dead some 36 years. After the most meteoric of rises, he experienced the steepest of declines, illustrated by that infamous film of him as an attraction on a carnival float, a living zombie. He was, by most accounts, a true innocent: an almost childlike man exploited by a rapacious, unforgiving world.
This book explodes that idea. Garrincha, who lost his virginity to a goat and barely stopped shagging from then on, was more a slave to his appetites, which seemed charming at 21 and killed him by 50. His alcoholism, which brought him so low, wasn’t some insular personal tragedy, it inevitably ruined the lives of those around him – while drink driving, he ran over his dad and was in an accident that killed his mother-in-law; he beat up at least two of his lovers. Exhaustively researched, the book debunks several of the most enduring and attractive myths about Garrincha, invented by his Boswell, Sandro Moreyra. That’s fairly impressive, if depressing, and to some degree the book captures the darkness, self-destructiveness and pain of the man, but it barely skirts the joy.
Perhaps that’s because it’s just so badly written. So is translator Andrew Downie’s recent biography of ‘80s Brazilian superstar Socrates, so perhaps that’s where the problem lies, or perhaps it’s the same in Castro’s original book. Whatever, this English version is stodgy and turgid, full of tortured syntax, laborious metaphors and abrupt changes in tone, mood and location. Ironic, given the subject, whose great virtue was his graceful fluidity. In a baffling omission, Castro and Downie barely attempt to articulate the wonder of seeing Garrincha play, and when they do it’s via dry play-by-play accounts or vague anecdotes. And weirdly, despite the vast number of interviews that Castro undertook, there are no direct quotes from any of them – is that a quirk of Brazilian journalism? It feels like a shortcoming.
You get the facts here, neatly established and marshalled into chronological order, but there’s no poetry. And since the sheer joy of Garrincha is absent – the transcendence he found on the field, the exultance he inspired – when the authors strip away the attendant myths, all that’s left is a selfish man (with a 10-inch penis), drinking himself to death.