Flamengo v Vasco da Gama

All week before Sunday 22nd Rio had been buzzing in anticipation of the biggest football game of the year. The city's two most supported and successfull clubs, and also most hated rivals, Flamengo and Vasco da Gama were playing at the Maracana stadium (98,000 capacity). The two sides hadn't played for over 8 months in the Brazilian League, but this latest encounter would be for the Rio State Championship, a short tournament that takes place between National seasons and is taken equally as serious. Traditionally Vasco are the Potruguese colonial team and carry the red cross of the Portuguese Navy on their badge. Flamengo are known as 'the people's team' and have wide support in the favelas of Rio as well as all of Brazil. They are unofficially the most popular football club in the world with an estimated 50 million supporters (twice the population of Australia and about the same as England).

At the hostel, the receptionist, Rafa is a big Vasco fan and as I walk down to breakfast in my Flamengo shirt he whips of his jumper to reveal his white and black Vasco shirt and stares me down. "Filha da Puda" (son-of-a-bitch) he shouts, half joking and then grins, "we're going to kill you today, but really, be carefull with that shirt on. Don't hang around outside the stadium. Take care". Despite the rivalry, Rafa knows I'm not a real Flamengista and is keen to advise me on safety for the big game. If I'm not yet worried about the danger of enraged, booze-filled Vasco hooligans, I probably should be by the sounds eminating from the street outside. 'rat-tat-tat-tat'. "What was that Raf?"

"There's a gun-fight going on outside. The cops just called and told us not to let anyone out of the hostel"

"Shit! How long has it been going on?"

"About twenty minutes. They're targeting traficantes from the favela near-by".

After about half an hour of sitting it out and talking to Rafa about his predictions for the game, I decided to look out of the door and check out the situation. The gun-fire had stopped and I needed to walk the two blocks to the other hostel to meet the guys I was going to the game with. I could see people walking around outside and went for it. At the other hostel I met with my group of fellow 'Flamengistas' - really a camera clad crew of Americans, Aussies and English. New rules in Brazil, in preparation for the prospective 2018 World Cup they hope to stage, mean that drinking is now forbidden outside the stadium, so we hit the local bar for a few before heading to the metro. Our train station is only the second on the line and the train was relatively quite as we boarded, but at each station we were met by newcomers, both in red-and-black and in white, all going to the game in good spirits and with nothing more than a few glares at each other. Flamengistas were required by police to disembark at Sao Cristavo station, one before Maracana, so that they didn't cross paths with Vasco fans on the way to the ground. We did this and walked the several hundred metres among the hoards of fans, singing and beating their drums. Occasionally we saw the odd fan sprinting in a random direction or police on horseback gallopping after them. At one point, a huge roar went up from the walking mob and shouts and songs sprang up. On the other side of the huge, police lined highway, several thousand Vasco fans had turned a corner and were walking parallel to us. Both sides traded insults and strange hand gestures before they were forced to turn another corner and continue out of sight. The atmosphere was already brewing up nicely and there were far more people than at the other games I'd seen here. I couldn't wait to get into the stadium. Despite the large crowds, we got in through the big, efficient gates quite quickly and soon we were walking up the ramp towards an opening into the seats. This has always been the most magical moment of attending football matches for me. As you slowly approach the opening, the noise level rises and rises until you are hit, suddenly by the sounds and sight of the stadium at its glorious best - filled with passionate fans. Whether its an English 5th division game or a cup-final, this short, 5 second rush of sensations always takes my breath away as I try to savour the moment. Now, for the first time a new sensation greeted me as I walked out into the arena. The stands shook beneath me with the bouncing of 50,000 flag waving Flamengistas. On the opposite side of the ground, tightly packed into a smaller space than ours, were about 30,000 Vasco fans, a huge banner draped over half of them and screaming at the top of their voices "VASCO! VASCO! VASCO!" We took our seats and tried to appreciate the most intense atmosphere any of us had ever felt, as best we could and the game kicked off. Within 5 minutes the Flamengo left back had picked up two yellow cards and was sent off, sparking wild celebrations from the Vasco end. 10 minutes later, as if making up for his rash decision earlier, the referee sent of a Vasco player for and equally soft challenge the Mengo fans were happy again - for now. Half-time came 0-0 with few chances for either team and the rain now falling heavily. We scrambled for cover with the rest of the stadium, but with so many people there it was impossible for everyone to stay dry and soon people gave up and began dancing in the rain. The drums continued, even when Vasco went one-nil up shortly into the second half through a dodgy deflected rebound from an even dodgier free-kick. The roar from Vasco was probably the loadest noise I've ever heard in a football stadium. Soon after this, a Flamengo player sythed down an opponent and was shown a straight red card, much to the anger and disbelief of the Flamengistas and the joy of the Vasco fans. 5 minutes later it was two-nil to Vasco. A neat interchange of passes, hit Flamengo on the counter attack and a great finish sealed the win. There was no way back for Mengo now. The ref, determined to leave his mark on the game, proceeded to send of two more Vasco players (5 in total) and, though Flamengo created chances late on, there was never any hope of a comback. Dejected fans began to stream out of the stadium to the geers of the Vasco fans "MENGO, MENGO, ADEUS!!". The beaten Flamengistas responded by holding up big cardboard 2's, a reminder that come April, Vasco would be playing in the National Second Division following last season's relegation, and at full-time, half the stadium was empty. One half though was still packed and more noisy than ever, bouncing and waving flags, singing and taunting. For Vasco right then, relegation to the second division was a distant memory. They were experiencing the greatest feeling any football fan can - triumphing over your hated rivals and out-singing them. I've never seen fans celebrate a derby win like Vasco.

So we headed back to Copacabana and drank the night away with Vasco and Flamengo fans alike, talked about the controvesies of the match and all shook hands, but inside there were two very contrasting emotions that night. Those in the bar wearing white, also wore wide, genuine smiles. Those who now wore casual clothes, too ashamed to be still sport the red-and-black, wore noticably put-on, embarrassed smiles from the corners of their mouths. Its a bitter pill to swallow, but that's what make these games so special, the fact that you have to meet your enemies in the pub or at work or school the next day. Today as I'm writing this, 24 hours after the game, Rafa is standing at reception somwhere behind me, still shaking with excitement, whitling the Vasco anthem and grinning like a kid on Christmas day.


ps: We now know that the gun-battle that took place on the Sunday morning was one of a number of skirmishes between police and traficantes as part of increasing raids on the near-by favelas. Yesterday, Monday 23rd while I was at work, we heard sirens from all directions and for about 5 minutes there were machine gun exchanges at the top of our street. 30 or 40 police armed with assault rifles ran past the hostel yelling at us to get down and fired a few shots right in front of us. A couple of mates of mine had just popped out for food and about 5 minutes after the shooting stopped, they returned to tell us they had seen 3 dead bodies up the street. It turned out that the police killed 5 men, 3 of them under 18 years old.