Pelé called me his idol once. That was the day I played with him, the only time I did, and it was my most emotional moment with him. It was a benefit match at the Maracanã in April 1979, with 140,000 people there after flooding in Minas Gerais. Flamengo against Atlético Mineiro. “My idol!” he called me; that was him, that was his humour, his character, always embracing you. He played with us – Zico and I were in the Flamengo team – and playing with him was like a dream, especially when I played him a pass. I mean, caramba, I gave the ball to Pelé!
Pelé was the greatest for everyone from our generation. It’s hard to express what he meant to us. He had been the best for me from an early age, and thinking of him always brings to mind my grandmother. Santos used to play their big games at the Maracanã rather than in São Paulo: games against teams such as Garrincha’s Botafogo, or Milan.
But it was about Santos, Pelé. Whenever they came, whenever he did, my grandmother would take me. It was a party, a celebration, every time. I remember the Milan game especially. There used to be this doubt about whether he could do it against European defenders, like he had to prove something; people wondered whether he was really that good. And, yes, he was that good. He was, he was!
You see footage and see the pitches he played on. The boots. The balls. How heavy the shirts were. He did all that in those conditions. He had these legs … incredible. He could jump, you couldn’t knock him down. And you watch this old film and he’s 17. Then he goes to Mexico and wins the World Cup, playing like that.
I was 16 in 1970 and had already started playing professionally. What impressed me about Pelé then was his professionalism and willingness to sacrifice. He had eye problems, they said. Any other player would have struggled with that, but he was so strong mentally. And on the pitch, his was the happiest face in the world. There was a joy in him.
1970 was a difficult political period in Brazil but there was something in the national team that took people back to the essence of football where nothing else seemed to worry you. I watched that World Cup at a friend’s house in Copacabana. If I recall, his father worked at the United States embassy and they could afford a colour television set. There were 20 of us, all friends, gathered there watching it. Between us we bought an old car, a convertible, and we drove around celebrating. We couldn’t all fit in: 10 of us would squeeze into the car, the other 10 would run around alongside it, and then we would swap.
Some of those moments from Pelé, the ones that stand out, weren’t even goals. There was the header in the final against Italy but also the shot from within his own half against Czechoslovakia, his dribbling around the Uruguayan goalkeeper, or the header that Gordon Banks saved. That England game was probably the hardest and most beautiful Brazil played, and ends with the photograph of his embrace with Bobby Moore. Those are iconic images, a reflection of how art doesn’t always have to have a purpose. Which is something that is said about our team in 1982. But in the end, he who wins is right.
1970 is success and the aesthetic together, and that is the great objective of all coaches. We didn’t win. They did. Pelé did, three times at the World Cup. Our team, like theirs, was based on technique and talent. In Mexico, Mário Zagallo managed to bring together four No 10s in the same team, which was practically impossible. And then in 1982 we had a midfield of Falcão, Socrates and Zico, which was also very hard to do. There was a freedom. And maybe that’s why the 1982 team, despite not winning, left a legacy, a mark. Anyone who likes football can’t help but see good things in 1982.
The inspiration was there – is always there – from 1970. But you can’t really compare. Pelé did all he did in a different age, growing up and becoming a professional pre-television, without the communications there are now, without social media. You wonder how much bigger he might have been. And when people do compare our team with that: whoa, wait. 1982 was the Brazil of the 1970s … without Pelé. He was the special final touch. Rivelino, Tostão, Jairzinho, Gerson. And Pelé.
Later on I was lucky enough to be able to work with Pelé as a pundit on O Globo TV with Galvão Bueno, the famous Brazilian football commentator. What was it like to work with Pelé? Easy. He made it so. We didn’t call him Pelé; we called him Rei because he was the king. But he never, ever acted like that. Quite the opposite. He never put himself above anyone, he never looked down.
I got to know Pelé the man. He would spend so much time with people, sign so many autographs, be there for everyone. He had amazing patience. He had empathy, humility. He was warm, close.
I remember flying with him to the World Cup – 2010, I think it was – and he found out that Alcides Ghiggia was on board. Ghiggia was the Uruguayan who scored the goal in 1950 that defeated Brazil at the Maracanã, denying the hosts the World Cup, the great trauma of our sporting history. That goal had brought Pelé’s father, Dondinho, to tears and had made Pelé vow to him that he would win the World Cup back so that he would never have to cry again. Sixty years later, he hears that Ghiggia is on the plane. He gets up, goes and finds him and gives him a big hug.
Léo Júnior, the former Brazil international, was talking to Sid Lowe