Embracing the only show in town

There’s no getting away from football in Brazil this month — which is absolutely fabulous if you’re a fan.

If you want to escape the World Cup here in Brazil, there’s only one thing you can do about it: nada. Absolutely nada.

On the other hand, if you just can’t get enough of the Copa Del Mundo, Brazil will still test your resolve to the maximum. On the ground, in the air, in the cafes and the bars, on the back streets and boulevards, on the airwaves and on newsstands, everywhere and all the time, this is Planet Football.

Say you want to do something as simple as hail a cab? In Sao Paulo one night, just off the 5th Avenue-like main drag Paulista, we had to queue at a taxi rank which boasted a modest little shelter, not much bigger than a public phone box — yet it still found room for that most essential feature, a tiny television screen up in the corner. And, of course, the match was on. Then a cab pulled up and it too had an in-car television — and the match was on.

Arrive at any airport in the country and, as you go to check-in, there are life-size cardboard cut-outs of Neymar and Thiago Silva ensuring you queue in the right place.

Once on board any flight of the Brazilian national carrier TAM, you’re greeted by a scripted announcement which tells you how overjoyed they are to welcome the world to “the land of soccer”.

Then the little television screens descend — and the match is on again. Or at least the highlights.

Incidentally, if you do ever find yourself in these parts and have the opportunity to fly into Santos Dumont, Rio de Janeiro’s airport for most domestic flights, make sure to take it. Its location right on the edge of the bay means that as your plane circles and descends, you get the most spectacular view of the whole city and its landmarks great and small: from the Maracana to Christ the Redeemer, from Copacabana to the Sugarloaf, from the higgledly-piggledy favelas tumbling down the hills to the sleek lines of the big apartment blocks and offices downtown.

Just for added kick, on the day I flew in from Sao Paulo last week, the flight path happened to take us over a massive aircraft carrier docked in the harbour, before sweeping in low over the waves to land on what, seen from a distance, is an unfeasibly small runway which appears to be floating in the water: the aviation equivalent of popping one on to the 17th at Sawgrass.

If, like me, you’re sufficiently simple-minded to still get a buzz out of the exciting parts of flying — the take-off, the landing, the dizzying views on a cloudless day from 38,000 feet — then a flight into Santos Dumont will tick every box. But if you’re of a nervous disposition, and you find yourself having to take one anyway, then I would strongly suggest that you avoid looking up the Wikipedia entry for the airport which features an interesting if inordinately lengthy section entitled ‘Accidents And Incidents’.

And so, after all, it seems that I’ve just managed a brief digression away from futebol.

But not for long. It never can be for long in Brazil when the World Cup is in town. In every eating and drinking establishment, small and grand, the match is always on, with a minimum of at least two screens positioned in such a way that, when facing your table companion, you can both still enjoy the game without having to swivel around in your seat. (I mean, perish the thought). You might say they have all the angles covered.

Remarkably, we did find one close-but-no-cigar exception just a few doors down from the Irish Examiner Rio Bureau in the neighbourhood of Laranjeiras. It’s a lovely place called the Café Library where, at the tables among the book-lined shelves and racks of arthouse DVDs, you might come across, as we already have, a chap reading a philosophical work by Alain de Botton or a pony-tailed girl with a guitar case studying sheet music on her iPad while sipping the excellent cappuccino. Jerry Seinfeld, I reckon, would knock at least 15 good gags out of the place.

So, no, this isn’t a football hangout by any means — yet every match is on the telly here too. The only concession the management has made to its usual demographic is to show the games with the volume set to mute, which means you can still follow the action, except to a soundtrack not of that manic and by now entirely familiar roar of ‘GOOOOOOOOOOOOL! GOL! GOL! GOL!’ but rather the ‘cool school’ jazz stylings of Chet Baker, maybe, or some soft, sophisticated swaying samba.

Nice. One of these days, I’m going to ask if they’ve got any Ramones.

Back from the Maracana on Sunday where we’d watched Belgium edge out Russia in one of this fantastic World Cup’s rare bore-fests, myself and friend and colleague Dion Fanning retired to the Café Library to watch the USA against Portugal. At an adjoining table were two new faces, a pair of elegant, elderly ladies enjoying their meal and glass or two of wine. Myself and Dion were both rooting for the Yanks and, despite the always subdued atmosphere of the place, couldn’t help but respond in the time-honoured manner to Jermaine Jones’ stunning goal — with a fist-pumping eruptive cheer. The friendly staff are used to us daft gringos by now, so there was no problem there, but through various audible mutterings from the next table, it was obvious that the ladies took a dim view of us not supporting the Portuguese.

Suddenly, there was an unaccustomed tension in the air at the Café Library, a veritable frisson if you will, but it was dispelled just as quickly by Silvestre Varela’s late, late equaliser. Now it was honours even and all friends again, everyone bidding each other a cheery ‘bom noite’ as we held the door open so that one of the old dears, with the assistance of her pal, could carefully transfer from her crutches into a wheelchair.

But, you know, I’m pretty sure we could have taken them if it had all kicked off. From almost directly outside the café, a curve in Rua Das Laranjeiras offers an uninterrupted view between the buildings of Christo Redentor — Christ The Redeemer — the world-famous statue at the summit of Corcovado. It’s a bracing sight with which to begin a new day.

Yet such is the all-embracing pull of this World Cup that I fancy I’m already beginning to see it in a different light, less as the great protector with his arms spread wide over the city, and more as an old-fashioned stopper organising the back four into a watertight offside line.

Indeed, one of the these mornings I wouldn’t be at all surprised to look up and find one of his great arms cranked upright in the style of Tony Adams, a man who, after all, knows a fair bit about redemption himself.