A four-part FourFourTwo investigation into youth development starts in Brazil, where the nation’s cream is evaluated via a set of annual trials with a cast of thousands.
Dawn in Rio de Janeiro. The traffic that clogs the city’s wide thoroughfare, Avenida das Americas, each morning has not yet built up. Only the white VW coaches carrying poor domestic servants from the favelas in the north to their employers in the south can be seen chugging along. Otherwise this roaring city of over a million inhabitants is quiet.
It’s 6.55am when 19 freshly-groomed teenagers clamber onto a rented bus that will take them out into the Brazilian countryside. Some speak quietly to each other, but most sit nervously in silence.
“The first time is horrible. You’re tense. You’re not yourself. It never works. This is my fifth time. I know what it’s like.†Paulo Sergio da Souza is a pimply 16-year-old who has played with Flamengo’s youth team since he was 10. Yet every year, he is forced to endure what has become a nail-biting tradition for every ambitious Brazilian football player. It does not matter how well Paulo Sergio played last year. If he does not perform at this year’s peneira he will be forced to leave the club.
“Cafu went through 14 different peneiras before he got a spot,†he notes. “And look where he is today. You have to be stubborn.â€
The bus stops, but only so that more boys can jump aboard. One of the players falls asleep, his head nodding up and down in rhythm with the bus’s bumps. Some stare into space, others listen to their iPods. These are Brazil’s best-paid teenagers, youngsters who earn far more than the unfortunate teens who sell themselves to white tourists at the world-famous Copacabana beach. And they want it to stay that way.
The sun rises quickly above the green mountains. The thermometer already shows 28°C. Flamengo’s new training ground is in Vargem Grande, 30km outside Rio. The bus journey takes about an hour when the traffic is smooth. Otherwise it takes two.
Inside a fenced area, the youngsters get off and disappear into a narrow concrete dressing room. South America’s biggest club has called in 50 players aged 15 to 16 for the first peneira of the year. The majority are from the club’s U15 squad, but a third come from other clubs. All will be tested to see if they have what it takes to play with the U17s.
Elton is 16 and comes from Natal in the north-east of Brazil. He has travelled for three days just to be here. Last year, he was one of only two players from a group of 40 to come through a peneira at Nova Iguaçu FC, one of several feeder clubs in the Rio suburbs. Now, Elton’s agent has arranged a trial in Brazil’s most popular peneira.
“If I come through this, I’m safe. I’ll move here. My mother has a friend of a friend who I’m sure I can live with,†says Elton, tying the shoelaces of a brand new pair of Nike Total 90s, a Christmas gift from his agent. He slowly jogs towards the training facilities together with his competitors. Behind them comes the kit man, followed by the physio, the assistant physio, the masseur, the doctor, the goalkeeping coach, the assistant manager and the head coach. Each of Flamengo’s eight youth teams is coached and supervised by an eight-strong staff.
Anthony Santoro, the U17 head coach, is last onto the ground. He finds a spot in the shade under a tree. “Look,†says the 36-year-old, pointing a finger towards the 50 sweating teenagers who are running around in the heat like a bunch of scared army recruits. “On Friday there will only be 20.â€
Brazil is the fifth largest country in the world, has the 11th strongest economy and is the world’s biggest exporter of iron ore, soya beans, sugar, frozen meat and orange concentrate. Last year, Brazil’s exports were worth more than US$100bn [$122bn].
Yet the money is not trickling down. Of Brazil’s 184 million inhabitants, half live in poverty. They work on the streets, with no steady income and no accommodation, polishing shoes, selling peanuts, juggling oranges, washing other people’s clothes – anything to earn a crust. The majority survive on less than three dollars a day.
Brazil’s social classes have never been so divided. Ten percent of the country’s population controls almost everything. In the UN’s most recent annual report on income, only diamond-rich Sierra Leone and Central African Republic had a wider gap between rich and poor. According to the IBGE, Brazil’s institute of statistics, wealth distribution also follows racial patterns: 86 percent of the country’s richest 10 percent are white, 12.6 percent are mixed race and only 1.4 percent are black, even though almost half of Brazilians are black.
The rich-poor divide is so entrenched that Brazil has become one of the toughest countries to grow up in. If you are born poor it is almost certain that you will die poor. The fastest way out is through talent: singing, dancing, acting or football. And of the boys, the majority choose football.
The first obstacle for these millions of potential footballers is the peneira, which means “strainer†in Portuguese. All the nation’s talents are thrown in, and out come the very best the world’s greatest football country can offer. Meanwhile, the unwanted, weak elements are left behind. It’s survival of the fittest; Darwinism applied to football.
The first peneira was held shortly after British visitors brought football to Brazil late in the 19th Century. Today, it is an industry in Brazil, with many clubs charging young hopefuls for the privilege of taking part.
The Sao Cristovao club in Rio arranges one of the most popular peneiras. At the steel gate that leads to the bumpy, worn pitch, graffiti reads: Aqui naceu o Fenomeno – “The Phenomenon was born here.â€
Ronaldo had only been playing for a couple of years when, aged 13, he made it through Sao Cristovao’s peneira. Two years later, encouraged by his father who had always been a Flamenguista, he attended a trial at Flamengo. The youth coach didn’t spot his talent. Others did. Two years on, Ronaldo made his debut in the national U17 team.
Flamengo have learned from their costly mistake. Today they do not miss a thing. They would rather test 1000 hopeless cases than let slip one potential superstar.
Flamengo’s headquarters are located in the shady district of Gavea in southern Rio. Every day from 9am to 5pm, guided tours visit the facilities. The colours on the walls have begun to come off and weeds have spread so far over the paths that you can’t see where you are walking. The rubble of a demolished building lies where it fell. It was thought that the club would build a gym there, but somehow the money disappeared.
Most visitors are domestic tourists from one of the country’s 27 states. Flamengo is the only club in Brazil with supporters all over the country. It does not matter where Flamengo are playing, it always feels as if they are playing at home. It is claimed that they have 25.6 million supporters in the country, almost twice as many as the other Rio clubs put together. The fans call their club Maçao Rubro-Negro: “The red and black nation.â€
A famous expression is painted on the wall that surrounds one of the pitches inside Gavea: Craque, o Flamengo faze m casa – “Flamengo raises the real players.†This cocky phrase was coined in 1981 when a Zico-inspired Flamengo won the Intercontinental Cup with seven of the starting 11 homegrown. Twenty-five years on, Flamengo wants to return to those days. That is why the club has established one of the continent’s largest player factories.
The key man is Tito Araujo, the 52-year-old chief of the club’s recruitment office. He decides which boys will be part of one of the five classes in the education programme: Pre-Mirim (under-11), Mirim (under-13), Infantil (under-15), Juvenil (under-17) and Juniores (under-20). Araujo works from an office behind the training ground’s enormous concrete stand, sitting straight-backed at a desk that has seen better days. Two years ago, he returned from Qatar, where he had been a physio for five years. Tacky pennants and team photos are stuck to the wall. In between them, patches of mould have created their own continents. The air conditioning rumbles noisily.
In front of Araujo are two mobile phones. One of them vibrates.
“Futebol,†he answers, and leans back on his chair. His questions come automatically.
“Has he played for a club before? Which club? What position? All right, take him to a clinic, do an ECG and a regular medical. Send the papers to me by FedEx. You know the address. Write my name on the top and the papers will be sent to me directly.â€
For the last couple of weeks, says Araujo, the phones have barely stopped ringing. “Most of the time it is the mothers,†he admits. “They say their son is the best in their neighbourhood. What do we know? Flamengo cannot afford to miss out so we invite him for a trial. Behind a simple call like this, there might be a gold nugget.â€
He pulls out his top drawer and throws some membership cards on the desk. The first shows a skinny eight-year-old: Adriano Leite Ribeiro, member number 24,047.
“Look at this! His mother called. We signed him straight after the first trial. He got money for the bus and free healthcare. Check out the autograph. Cute, isn’t it?â€
Every year, Araujo scours the country for new talent. In Rio alone, Flamengo have 23 football academies, with another 27 across Brazil. Then there’s Araujo’s team of olheiros [eyes] who visit every pitch in the city’s narrow suburbs. The club has daily contact with feeder clubs who frequently send their best players. Those who believe that playful football on the beaches explains why Brazil has exported 3087 professional players in the last four years might like to reconsider. In fact, it is the result of hard work and a military discipline that cannot be found anywhere else in the world.
“I get upset at those who believe that players grow on trees here,†says Araujo. “We have advantages, like a climate that makes it possible to play all year around and a history that appeals to younger boys. But really, it is our consistent work with the children that makes it possible.â€
He leans over his desk. “Take any player in the national team. Everyone has started in a football academy. As eight-year-olds. They are professional even before they become teenagers.â€
The other mobile phone on the desk vibrates. “Futebol,†he answers, straightening his back. He listens carefully and takes some notes. One of his olheiros has spotted a nine-year-old in the province of Espirito Santo, an eight-hour bus journey from Rio. “When he calls, things are looking good,†he smiles. “We’ve had many good boys from there.â€
He walks towards a wall covered in pictures of the players in the Pre-Mirim. “If I only can get two or three players to go all the way to the first team or to Europe,†he sighs, “it will pay for all our work.â€
The route to professional football in Brazil begins with futsal, a Brazilian/Uruguayan invention that spread across the continent during the 1930s and which is mainly played indoors on basketball courts, with four players and a goalkeeper in each team. In Brazil the youngest futsal category is chupetinha, “the dummyâ€, for those precocious boys under seven.
River FC is one of Rio’s most successful futsal clubs, the place where Zico, Flamengo’s greatest ever player, began. Today, the club’s 39-year-old youth trainer Racinha is directing his seven-year-olds.
It is 9am. The boys are flying across the shiny wooden floor, attacking the goal constantly. This is not for fun; they are following a method. They already know the basic strategy of football – they even kiss their badges when they score. “It’s never too early to begin,†laughs Racinha.
The indoor hall is a two-level concrete building from the 1960s that must have impressed people back then. Lamps in the ceiling cast a sterile light over the mothers and fathers who lean over the barriers, cheering for their kids.
River FC was founded in 1914 by a group of students who thought that Rio sounded cooler in English. For several decades the club played in Rio’s Carioca Championship, but now River only play futsal. It became too expensive to maintain a grass pitch. Boys begin here at six or seven years old, and it’s not until they have been taught all the technical aspects of the game that they are released onto the grass.
“I can’t understand what you’re doing in Europe,†says Racinha, shaking his head. “You’re developing marathon runners. Your enormous pitches are breaking down the boys – there is no joy. Football should begin with a lot of ball contact and technique, in small areas. Look at Zico or Ronaldinho. Amazing players! Ronaldo, Robinho, Adriano: they all began with futsal. The entire ‘Magic Quartet’ was formed here.â€
He points towards the seven-year-olds hurtling around the 25m by 18m floor. “Look at the pace! This is the secret of Brazilian football’s wonder.â€
When the dummy class has finished, it’s time for the fraldinha [diapers]. “Look at Lenny,†Racinha says. “The guy with the long hair. Fluminense have already offered him a contract. Don’t you think he’s special?â€
Football comes easily to Lenny. He finds the best passes and controls the ball impressively. But whether he is a future pro… well, that’s another thing entirely.
River has 30 players in every group and a third of them will be approached by one of Rio’s three big clubs before they have turned 10. Earlier this year, Vasco da Gama and Flamengo had a dispute over an eight-year-old called Fabinho from Pavuna, a miserable suburb up north. Vasco offered the kid’s father 500 reais [$300] per month – more than a federal minimum wage and easily enough to rent a three-room apartment in the suburb. Flamengo, who already had him in their academy, offered free education, health care and dental care if he stayed. Fabinho’s unemployed father thought for a while and made a decision. A lifelong Flamenguista, he declined the cash.
This situation should not exist. One of few things Pelé achieved as Sport Minister in the late-’90s was a piece of legislation prohibiting so-called “slavery†within Brazilian football. Previously, clubs did not have to pay anything to their younger players and owned the player’s registration as soon as he signed for the club. But in March 1998, “Pelé’s law†stated that all players should be free until they turned 16. The problem is that smaller clubs who develop a player from the age of eight risk losing out financially if the player changes club as a junior. And instead of being tied to their clubs, players are now firmly tied to their agents.
Two sexagenarians, Olivia and Ney, watch from the side. They run a photo agency, and are working for Rio’s futsal association.
“Do the clubs pay the boys? Damn right they do,†snorts Olivia. “Not serious clubs like Flamengo and Fluminense, but agents and other clubs pay. They write contracts with parents and tie boys to their clubs.â€
Isn’t that forbidden? Olivia leans forward. “Look,†she shrugs, “this is Brazil. Here anything is possible. There are agents and clubs that pay 1000 reais [$600] per month. That’s a lot of money for a 10-year-old, more than a nurse makes. This hunt for talent has become absolutely crazy. The agents are fighting each other. If they can strike a deal and export one of their players, they’ll make 100 times more than their expenses accounts.
“I’m upset with the parents,†she says. “What happens if the boy stops developing? If he doesn’t make it through the next peneira? What will the parents then do then? They are depending on their son’s wages. That’s a burden that no young boy should have.â€
Back in Vargem Grande, Flamengo’s legendary youth trainer, 62-year-old Liminha, is yelling at the under-20 players. With a crew cut that has turned grey, he looks like an old captain in the US Army.
“Lads!†he yells. “I don’t want to see you running around outside the dressing room in sandals with your shirt outside your shorts. You’re not boys any more. You are Flamengos! You’re here to work. Understood?â€
Flamengo’s training ground is built on land bought by the club’s president in 1981. Apart from a sentry box, the ground was unused for over 20 years until the president decided to build his player factory.
The plans feature a restaurant, a hotel, a swimming pool, a small stadium and five pitches – one for each youth category. So far, only the U20 and U17 pitches are covered in grass. Two others await their turf while the first-team pitch is just a big hole. When it’s finished it will be next to the swimming pool, which has not been started.
“Flamengo is short of money,†says Tito Araujo. “At the moment, we are 213 million reais [$125.5m] in debt. We cannot make it if we don’t get a foreign investor.â€
Somehow the club has contrived to lose all of the US$40m [$48.5m] that Swiss-based investor ISL provided four years ago. That the money did not reach Flamengo is obvious when you look at their facilities and recent league positions.
“We must pull off this project if we are to get back on track,†says Araujo, pointing to the pitches. “The U11 pitch will be here and the other pitches will come right after that. We want the players to have goals. They start here, and go further up as they develop. Furthest up, the first team will train here. It’s good for motivation. The younger guys will see that it is possible to reach their target, while the professionals will see that younger guys are ready to take their place if they don’t perform.â€
The sun is boiling. We are standing under some trees by the U17 pitch where Anthony Santoro is busy with his 50 trialists. So far, no one has been rejected. “I want to give them an honest chance,†he says. “On Friday I will make up my mind. Time will tell.â€
A traditional peneira consists of six teams, all playing against each other until the coach has an opinion. Then the selection begins. The coach switches players about with no explanation. Everyone knows he is trying to form the best team, but whether it is the team in the yellow vests, in the green, the blue, or in Flamengo’s red-and-black jersey, only the coach knows.
The selection of the U17 team is the toughest of all. Because they train as much as the U20s and the first team, Pele’s law forces the clubs to offer them real contracts. Thus Flamengo must pay wages, health care and holiday compensation – and they will only do this if they believe they can get something in return.
Santoro calls out the names of the players in the first two teams. The physio and the assistant coach hand out some vests. Elton, the 16-year-old from Natal, does not get one. “It’s my turn next,†he says.
Rafael, from Alem Paraiba in the Minas Gerias province 200km north of Rio, wants a spot as a right-sided midfielder. “It didn’t really work yesterday,†he says. “I hope I get the chance to show what I can do today.â€
In his hand he holds a white card, just like the one Elton has. On the front is his name, height, weight, position and latest club. On the back are seven lines, one for each day of the peneira. Each day, Santoro must sign the card. If he doesn’t, the player gets a barca passou, a boat that takes him away.
Elton, a striker, has seen the boat pass several times. “This time I’ll make it,†he insists. “I’m tired of my club in Natal. Never any money, bad training. To play with Flamengo is like playing in Europe.â€
The next two teams are called out. Neither Elton nor Rafael’s name comes. They look nervously at their white cards. The first group guzzle cold water and pour it in their shoes. Their feet are burning, blistered by the bone-hard surface.
“I’m sure we’ll get to play next time,†says Elton, adjusting his shinpads. “There are so many players. I just have to prove that I’m better than they are.â€
Fifteen minutes later, it’s finally their turn. They put on the green jerseys and gently tuck their white cards in their socks behind the shinpads. Jorge, the masseur, is standing next to the water tank. “Poor sherry, playing in this heat,†he mutters.
By 11am it’s too hot to play any more, so the players return to the concrete dressing rooms and form a line at the tiny shower area. As he waits, Wellington, a friend of Paulo Sergio, tells his story. He comes from Novo Friburgo in the mountains north of Rio de Janeiro and began playing for Flamengo when he was 10. He initially lived in Rio during the week and went back to his mother for weekends. Now he plays matches at the weekend so he’s moved into the club’s accommodation.
“It’s not too bad,†he says. “A woman cooks for us and helps with our laundry. At the most, we sleep 10 boys in one room.â€
Whenever there is a peneira, the building gets crowded. “It can be very lively, but we have to behave. The management wants us to attend school in the afternoons, but we normally get back from training at 1pm and school begins at two. So we have to choose: shower or lunch? There’s no time for both.
“At the start of every season, I decide to do my best in school. I say to myself that I must attend all the classes. The first day’s not a problem. Neither is the second. On the third day it begins to get harder. My mother is always telling me how important school is. She calls every day to ask how things were. I always tell her the same: ‘good’.â€
At 4pm, Wellington’s friends in the U20 team face Fluminense. Everyone wants to watch their elders kicking the crap out of their biggest rivals. The undoubted star is 19-year-old Zelio Junior, who already makes more than 3,000 reais [£740] a month. He’s well on his way to changing his family’s life. Not that it stops his mother yelling from the stands. “I never miss a match,†she says. “They need me here. Life as a player in Flamengo is tough. They cannot afford to lose.â€
Beside her sits Margarethe, mother of Marlon, central defender and captain. Marlon is busy but managing well. Then he makes a mistake and the ball finds its way into the goal. His mother looks like she wants to vanish. “My son, my son,†she sighs and hides her face in her hands.
Adriana Lacerda is a beautiful 28-year-old with short black hair, warm brown eyes and big earrings. She is employed as the chief psychologist of Flamengo’s youth department. Every team has its own full-time psychologist – yet another detail that distinguishes Brazilian youth football from the rest of the world.
“At least 80 percent of our players come from poor conditions,†she says. “They don’t have health insurance. Many have never visited a dentist.â€
Her tiny consulting room is next door to Tito Araujo’s recruitment room. At a round table that takes up almost the whole room, she holds individual talks with the boys during the season. “The first thing I do with a player that has been accepted is to have a thorough conversation,†she explains. “I have to know everything about the player and his family in order to help him. There are often problems within the family. The mother and father are arguing. The father wants the son to perform better and bring in more money while the mother wants the son to study more. The pressure is huge.
“Parents believe all their problems are solved just because Flamengo has accepted their child,†she continues, “but the selection process is cruel. Time after time, I try to explain that only a few go all the way. They have to make sure that their child continues with his studies.â€
Last season, Lacerda collected phrases the boys had said during individual sessions. “Without mentioning any names, I gave the parents a presentation. ‘When I get home my father is always asking me how it went on the training. When I tell him it went OK, he gets upset and turns his back on me. It is very hard.’ Many could see what they were doing.â€
The door to Lacerda’s office opens. Erick Conde, psychologist for the Juvenil set-up, is concerned about one of the players currently going through the peneira. “Do you think it’s possible to talk about him later? Just the two of us?â€
FourFourTwo asks what Lacerda says to a 16-year-old who has played with Flamengo since he was eight and is suddenly forced to leave the club. “He takes care of that,†she says, pointing towards Araujo’s office. “Normally he calls a meeting with the parents and the player. He tells them that the player has not developed as much as they were hoping, that he is free to try another club.â€
Free?
“What else can we say? It’s hard. Many tears. The good thing is that the player can easily get a spot in one of the smaller clubs, but naturally, the boys who are leaving are very sad.â€
That most of the players come from extreme conditions is something Lacerda has been forced to get used to. Of 150 players in Flamengo’s developing teams, only 10 percent are from the middle class or above it.
“Football is a game for the poor, not the rich. For middle-class kids, it is more like a hobby. A bunch of friends might get together and play, but their parents want them to become lawyers, doctors or engineers. Not footballers.â€
Sure enough, Socrates and Kaka are the only middle-class kids ever to have represented Brazil.
The infamous suburb Tavares Bastos is located on the mountains outside Flamengo. Five years ago, this suburb was known for cocaine and marijuana. Young motorcyclists drove the middle classes here so they could buy their stuff. The lines were extra long on Friday afternoons: a ‘white’ line for cocaine, a ‘brown’ line for marijuana. Charismatic drug dealer Borel ran the market. He loved football and made sure his battles with the police never came in the way of the small pitch he had funded. His men were told to escape into the rainforest if the police dared to approach them.
This is where Paulo Sergio was raised. “I got my first football clothes from Borel. He wanted me to be a goalkeeper. He gave me the lot – shorts, shirt, everything.â€
Paulo Sergio’s mother works as a maid for an elderly woman; his father, Antonio, is working in a garage down by the beach, parking residents’ cars. As an extra job, he drives a taxi. Antonio built the family’s house himself. They pay 20 reais [£5] a month for 60 different TV channels, among them the privately owned SporTV and ESPN Brasil.
The bookshelf in the living room is filled with trophies. “My dad was a central defender. He was champion several times at the soil pitches in the Flamengo Park,†says Paulo Sergio proudly.
Antonio nods his head. “We were the toughest team,†he says, rolling up his
trousers to reveal battered legs showing the scars of 20 years of football.
In Paulo Sergio’s room there are many medals. Most are from his futsal career. “He was the best,†his father says. “When he turned nine he got his first salary, 500 reais [£123] a month. And this computer.â€
An old PC is squeezed between video tapes and magazines on a desk. It’s hardly bleeding-edge, but it’s solid evidence of what clubs will do to hold on to players.
Vasco had seen Paulo in a tournament and wanted to sign him. “I went to his club Hebraica in Laranjeiras and told the chairman. ‘I don’t know what to do. Vasco are willing to give Paulo 700 reais [£173] per month if he starts playing for them.’ He was stunned. He said: ‘All right, this is what we’ll do. I’ll buy a computer for him. Is that OK?’†He laughs out loud.
When Paulo joined Flamengo a year later, he did not get any money from the transfer. “To be a part of Flamengo’s squad is the best thing for him. It’s a good education and he can easily go to another club later. But when he turns 16, they must show us some money. He’s not playing for free,†laughs Antonio.
Life in Tavares Bastos has improved since the municipality moved the headquarters of the military police here five years ago. Borel and his fellows escaped through the rainforest to other suburbs. “I’ve never had any problems. We live an easy life here on the hill,†says Paulo Sergio and looks out over Sugarloaf Mountain and Flamengo.
We walk down to the football ground where Paulo began his career. The municipality have made sure that Borel’s old soil pitch has become a grass pitch.
“I got my spot,†he grins. “The peneira is over. I will be one of the strikers. Wellington made it as well. We will be a strong team this year.â€
What about the others? “I don’t know. Anthony refused 10 players this Friday. Maybe there will be 10 more this week. He doesn’t want too many.
What happened to Elton?
“Elton?â€
The striker...
“Oh, the guy from Natal? The boat took him away.â€
A couple of days later, we are back in Tito Araujo’s office. The Juvenil group is formed. Araujo’s mission statement is that in a few years Flamengo should be able to field a first team consisting of seven homegrown players. The U20 team already has several players on their way up – among them Zelio Junior, who many believe will be a big star. Those who are left, the club hope they can sell overseas.
“If you don’t have what it takes, then you’re out,†says Araujo. “That’s life. For you to become a journalist you had to fight, right?â€
“Not from the age of eight,†I say.
He is silent for a few seconds. “What can I say? Life begins earlier in Brazil.â€
One of his two mobile phones vibrates on the desk.
“Futebol,†he says and leans back on his chair. “Has he played for a club before? Which club? What position? All right, take him to a clinic and do a ECG and a regular medical. Send the papers to me...â€
Since FourFourTwo’s visit to Flamengo, youth recruitment boss Tito Araujo has become director of the club’s futsal programme while U17 coach Antoro Sentoro has moved to rivals Fluminense to work at their academy. Like Zelio Junior, striker Paulo Sergio is now playing regularly for the Flamengo U20 team.
Youth Development: The Player Factory
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