Like the Olympics, the World Cup graces TV's around the globe but once every four years. The World Cup though is a different animal. Unlike the Olympics, the World Cup is just
one beloved sport (sorry Ann Coulter) instead of a cornucopia of exercise-based activities. The result is World Cup Fever
– a state of frenzy fueled by overflowing springs of nationalistic pride and heart
straining 90-minute bouts. The symptoms of my World Cup Fever were, I assume,
not unlike the experiences of many other patriotic Americans. I hunkered down
in my backyard, a TV always within earshot, and barbequed. But alas no amount
of ribs, hamburgers, and hot links could will the good ol’ boys past the waffle
demons.
His name is Richard Barnard and he is an amateur witch
doctor/recreational shaman. All six feet of him radiates Brazilian pride and
ardent support of the national team. On a day-to-day basis his dress and
personality could be described as casual and approachable but on the night of
June 11th, on the eve of the World Cup, he was anything but. His
clothes, which looked to be hand made, almost entirely of leather, were
tattered. His skin was painted with powered dyes while beads and feathers hung
from his dreaded hair. I stumbled upon this vivid sight as I exited my bedroom in
search of a drink. Richard was standing in the middle of our kitchen; although
at this point, kitchen was a
farfetched descriptor for the room. The ceiling wept with animal skins, beads, feathers and a
host of other objects that I had never seen before. The walls had taken on a heavy
color that made the white of old seem pitiful and the counters had all but disappeared
beneath a thick layer of dust. The centerpiece of this jumbled scene was a big
crock-pot cauldron sitting proudly on the floor.
The components for a devious concoction circled the cauldron.
The assortment was obscure, surely scavenged from the depths of the Seattlezon
Jungle. I recognize pork shoulder, salted pork belly, smoked sausage, short
ribs, black beans and chopped red onion but rounding out the group was a host
of ingredients I couldn’t recognize.
I hid behind the large couch in our living room while
Richard composed himself. Concentration and tension reached their zenith and
the ceremony began. Richard, and the ritual, started slowly. An unheard beat
propelled a frenetic dance as he circle the cauldron. Once the dance had reached
its top speed Richard began to pepper in chants. Wild commands and fierce curses
pierced the murky air.
BRASIL GANHA! BRASIL
GANHA!
SUFOCAR MESSI, SUFOCAR
ESTAR COM DEUS
SALVADOR NEYMAR
Piece by piece Richard added ingredients to the bubbling
cauldron. Steam and powerful aromas surged through the room. After an
unknowable amount of time the concoction was complete; the dance on the other
hand was far from finished. As the crock-pot cauldron bubbled Richard
rhythmically pounded the ground.
The house shook, the walls drooped and the temperature rose swiftly.
Hours passed in this manner – me hidden behind the couch and Richard entranced in
ritual. Finally Richard’s pace increased to frightening new highs. Steam
screamed from the crock-pot cauldron and over the roar of thunder cracks, the
spirits of Pele, Garrincha, Ronaldo and Kaká howled out through the night air.
With a final step that felt more like an exclamation point, the ceremony came
to a tremendous stop. Richard collapsed in a heap; his energy dampened and the
room heavy with silence. The heavens no longer bellowed, the walls no longer
wept. All that remained in the mangled room was the cauldron’s muted gurgles
and me. As I emerged from behind the couch, the crock-pot cauldron’s gravitational
pull slowly drew me in. The smells intensified and intoxicated as I approached.
By the time I was within an arms length of the cauldron I was fully under the
spell of the strange meaty potion. My strong nationalistic tendencies were
momentarily broken – all that mattered was the contents of the cauldron. I am of
course ashamed to have betrayed both country and creed but I must admit, it was
delicious disloyalty.
When Richard awoke he had only broken memories of his
actions the night before. He was
visibly fatigued but glowed with pride in knowing that he had successfully done
his part. Each day of the tournament, Richard ate a measured portion of his cauldron
creation. He explained to me that Feijoada, or as I had come to know it,
Brazilian Meat Stew, was a sacred dish in Brazil, a dish with the power to
influence gods and fill you up right. Day after day Richard ate Feijoada until
the fateful day. On July 3rd Brazil narrowly escaped Columbian
defeat. And on July 3rd Richard scraped the last of the Feijoada
from the crock-pot cauldron. And on July 3rd Neymar fractured a
vertebrate in his back. Guilt, sadness, remorse and anger formed dark clouds
behind Richard’s eyes. He knew it was over. The Feijoada was finished and so
too was Brazil. The rest, as they say, is history; a slice of history far too
painful to be rehashed here.
The losses are hard to swallow; fortunately, Feijoada is
not. So Brazil, as your doctor, I’m prescribe large servings of meaty Feijoada
three times a day to fill in the cracks of your broken hearts.
BONUS CONTENT: Richard was not alone in his efforts. If only Brazil had more witch doctors…
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