Santos F.C v Plymouth Argyle - Pelé becomes an adjective
Like many old leftists, I have a blind spot when it comes to football, and somehow manage to leave to one side my critique of capitalist excess, corruption, and the exploitation of fans. There was a period in the 1980s when to be a fan was particularly problematic. The violence, the racism and misogyny made liking football tantamount to being counter revolutionary. It didn’t help that at that point in my life I was working in a self-management architects’ and builders’ collective, was squatting in ‘right-on’ Islington, going on Miners’ and Troops Out marches, and joining picket lines whenever the opportunity arose. Football wasn’t really on the agenda, apart from my lifelong commitment to Plymouth Argyle, my family’s home club. In 2002 I was staying in Manaus, one of the most insufferably humid places I have ever visited. Constantly wet, through sweat or torrential rain, and dodging mosquitoes the size of my fist, I was in an Internet café waiting for news of Argyle’s promotion to the second division. I ran frenzied up and down the street, perhaps not surprisingly, unable to find fellow members of the Green Army. Fast forward to 2023 and I was shouting from my flat in São Vicente, Santos. Argyle were champions again on 101 points. But this tenuous personal link is not the only connection between Santos and Plymouth. Keen to exploit the King’s pulling power, Santos F.C toured all over the place in the early 1970s and were rewarded with a game at Home Park. They refused to enter the pitch until they were given more money. Whether the cold affected their game plan or they were simply tired, the King and his men fell to a legendary 3-2 defeat. It has gone down in Argyle’s history as one of the club’s greatest moments. Although he was born in Minas Gerais, he will always be associated with Santos where he spent most of his career. I didn’t join the queues to see his coffin lying in state in the Belmiro, Santos’s home ground, but stood in the crowds on the seafront as the funeral cortege trundled past, a spectacular festa of chanting drums and black and white regalia. I have racked my depleted memory but I can’t remember anyone else whose name has become a synonym of the superlative. He has now been immortalised in the Portuguese language and entered into the Dicionário Michaelis as an adjective denoting something that is other worldly in its utter brilliance. A mate in Scotland suggested that we buy a barrel of vintage Lagavulin and rename it in the King’s honour. I think this could be a runner, the Pelé of malt whisky.