Just saying the man’s name evokes an elegance and an imagination particular to Latin America: Sócrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira. It has a lyricism and a power to it that we can’t replicate in the western world. Names like these adorning men like him belong in the pages of fantastical short stories by Garcia Marquez or sonnets by Neruda, not in box scores. These are the old men who sprout wings from their shoulders as if it were nothing; they are the ones who define the beautiful game and who sing with their feet. With Socrates passing at the age of 57, a style of football and perhaps a way of life has gone as well.
He Just Looks Like He Should Have Been Named Socrates, Doesn't He?
Very few of those in the America outside of an isolated cult of soccer devotees had ever heard of Socrates and, thus, his death has created only the faintest of waves in our media. However, to those unfamiliar with the man, all they have to do is read his obituary to realize that there has never been anyone like him in the entirety of American sport. While playing in provincial clubs as a twenty-something, Socrates earned his nickname, “Doctor.” You would be forgiven for thinking that the moniker was derived from the surgical precision with which he handled the ball, and in part it was. However, the predominant impetus for Doctor Socrates came from the fact that the man earned his medical degree at the age of 24 and would go on to practice medicine after his career had ended. I am hard pressed to think of many other men who wore cleats and a stethoscope1. When he wasn’t on the pitch or in the consulting room, Socrates was out advocating for his fellow soccer players and Brazillians, being a key member in the nation’s Pro-Democracy movement. Oh, and he also wrote newspaper columns, coached, painted and basically tried every artistic pursuit short of conducting. I’m sure Terry Bradshaw spends his time away from the FOX NFL Sunday set writing novels and leading grassroots political organizations too2.
He looked just like his ancient, aristocratic name would suggest. At 6′ 4” his lanky frame lent a grace to his movements that only accentuated the artistic, playful style of the teams he captained. Running down the field he looked someone more at home in the plains of the Serengeti than on a soccer pitch, unlike his contemporary Diego Maradona, who somehow evoked the same beauty while storming thorough opposing back lines with a gait that suggested a freight train more than it did a gazelle.
Just look at this film of Socrates’ equalizing goal in Brazil’s second round loss to Italy in the 1982 World Cup. He takes the throw in and saunters downfield, sending a precision pass to Zico on the right flank. As Zico switches field back towards the eighteen, losing his man in the process, Socrates races past him on a run into the box and receives a gentle leading pass with just enough pace to set him up against the goalie. Then, instead of crossing it, Socrates sends the ball into the back of the net through the two foot gap between the keeper and the near post. That’s what our verbose announcing friends across the pond like to call “Fluid Football.” They take the most difficult and precise movements and make them look effortless. You could watch every single US Mens National Team game for a year and never see a goal remotely like that. And that’s not to pick on the Americans, who have improved so much as to become a legitimate international threat over the past decade. But, our game, a long with plenty of other nations, often involves winning ugly: muscling in headers off of set pieces, tapping in errant deflections and the old American stand-by of “Let’s kick he ball 80 yards down the field and hop one of our guys gets it.” It doesn’t matter how we win just so long as we do.
Earlier this year, American football legend Al Davis passed away. It was in his Machiavellian mantra “Just win, baby” that is the prevailing ethos of the western world and its sports teams. More than almost anyone in modern sport, Socrates rebelled against that notion. For him, and the Brazilian style of play that, if we are to believe Socrates himself, has been lost, it is the process that matters more than the outcome. If given the choice, Socrates would have rather lost beautifully than won blandly3, which is exactly what he did.
1. The only person that comes to mind, and I’m sure there are more, is former Cleveland Browns quarterback Frank Ryan, who earned a Ph.D in mathematics from Rice University in 1965, a year after leading the Browns to their last NFL Championship. Ryan has has considerably more success than his former team since, being appointed Director of Information Services for the House of Representatives in the 1970s and then the Athletic Director at Yale. The Browns have yet to win a title since ’64 and have had their team pack up and leave in the interim. Someone needs to get Colt McCoy’s ass in a graduate program fast. What’s that? He majored in Sports Management? Can you get a doctorate in that? Seriously? You can be a Dr. of Sports Management? God help us.
2. In Terry’s defense he spent a lot of his time since retiring in films starring Burt Reynolds or hosting his own short lived TV talk show, Home Team with Terry Bradshaw. At least he never played Matthew McConaughey’s dad in a romantic comedy. What was that? He did? And he had a nude scene in the movie? Great.
3. College football this year is a perfect example of this. In January, LSU and Alabama will face off in the BCS National Championship game, creating the re-match of the 9-6 brawl that LSU won earlier this year. No one outside of the Deep South wants this game. We all want to see Oklahoma State play LSU and a large part of it has to do with the fact that OSU’s team plays with an abandon that is a joy to watch. Oklahoma State coach Mike Gundy said it best after they throttled Oklahoma in Bedlam last weekend: If people are going to see someone lose to LSU, they’d sure as hell want to see the team that’s going to lose 52-45 and not the one who’s going to lose 9-6.
