J.J. Jenkins is a Cal Poly alumnus and former Mustang News editor-in-chief.
MOGI DAS CRUZES, Brazil — The man with a Neymar jersey is hunched over on his rickety wooden chair, his eyes closed and his leathery hands clutched together.
If he’s praying, I don’t know to whom.
He hasn’t cut his hair since a friend told him it looked like Brazilian left-back Marcelo’s. His wife grinned at me while she mocked torching it with a lit cigarette balanced between two boney fingers. But that was more than 40 minutes ago, when Brazil was knotted 1-1 with a feisty Chilean side midway through the second half. Back when a brick and mortar house with a tin roof ebbed and flowed with energy and food, so much food.
The game was just another World Cup checkup before things get serious — maybe in the semifinals. In the days leading up to the match, everyone had a prediction: 2-1, 2-0, 1-0, 3-2. Hardly anyone doubted that the Selecão would advance. As the man took pre-match bets on the score, he wouldn’t even write down his wife’s cheeky prediction, 2-1 Chile.
“Don’t waste your money,” he said in Portuguese.
Now — as the man’s hair droops over his face and the real Neymar steps to the penalty spot — a loss and a stunning early exit from the World Cup has become a distinct possibility.
The small farming town two hours outside of São Paulo where I’m watching the game has come to a complete standstill since starting at 1 o’clock. Outside the window, past the beer cans that litter the man’s lawn, the only sign of activity in the surrounding homes was the sound of firecrackers bursting when David Luiz scored in the 18th minute.
In the nearly two hours since, the man has danced to Michael Jackson, his baggy Adidas sweatpants doing their best to hide his lack of finesse. He’s tried a new, foreign beer — an IPA — brought as a gift for hosting us, but he abandoned the glass bottle for his preferred Brahma variety. He’s strummed guitar, beat on drums and sung with the other guests while waiting for extra time.
But now the world appears to be caving in around him. Well, at least the World Cup.
The referee’s whistle blows and Neymar jogs forward as the man looks up. Neymar stutters then plants and — GOOOOOOOAL. He slots it home, Brazil leads 3-2 on penalty kicks with one Chilean kick left. The room is almost too tired to cheer, the past two hours having taken their toll.
As Chile’s Gonzalo Jara prepares for his penalty, I stand up and lean against the wall and peer out the window again. Not a soul is outside.
Jara runs forward and shoots. Before I can process the ball deflecting off the post and out, the room is in an uproar. Firecrackers burst and the town is alive again. The man buries his head into my shoulder and hugs me. His hair, smelling of smoke and beer, cuts at my face, but this is no time to back away.
Brazil has survived for another day.