Greatness of being Tricolor isn’t for all, but one can rise anywhere | OneFootball

Friends, Fluminense is missed. And don’t come at me with that pathetic notion of time, of calendars, of pre-season. The absence of the Tricolor on the field is a hole in the soul, a void in the city’s landscape. It’s the howling longing that Sapucaí feels for samba; that the bar feels for the bamba; that the master of ceremonies feels for the trembling flesh of his beloved flag bearer. It’s the craving of great love.

Being a tricolor, as I’ve said and will repeat ad nauseam, is not for just anyone. And let the on-duty mediocrities not dare to misinterpret me, with the sordidness that is so typical of them. They’ll say it’s a matter of birth, of caste, or of surname—as many have done over the centuries. However, we stand by the facts. And against the facts, my nobles, there are no arguments. And the fact is bothersome.

First, it is a sine qua non condition to understand that yes, it’s true. Not everyone was born for the glory of carrying these three colors on their chest, and that is the root of this worldly and vile confusion. A truly shallow confusion, it’s true, but one that dazzles the eyes of the most incredulous. However, what these people will never understand is that, if not everyone is born to be tricolor, a tricolor, my dears, can spring from any soil. Can emerge from the deepest and most anonymous people. The living proof, the immortal proof, answers to a hero’s name: Chico Guanabara.

Imagine Laranjeiras at the beginning of the century. Football was a ballet for the eyes of the upper class, and the crowd, ah, the crowd was a euphemism. The marriageable maidens, in their immaculate dresses, nervously twisted their kid gloves. From this gesture of refined anguish was born the term that defines us: “torcedor” (supporter). It was a restrained act, almost a secret.

Then, from the depths of Morro Mundo Novo, right next to our temple, emerges the epic figure of Chico. Black, capoeirista, with the strength of those who carry the world on their shoulders. Francisco de Assis, his baptismal name, was the antithesis of that silent audience. He didn’t watch the game; he savored it. More: he devoured it. He played it together, from the steps of the stands.

The skeptics… better yet, the envious, in their stupendous smallness, have always tried to label Fluminense. But how, if our first and most iconic cheerleader was precisely this man? The people. The people in their purest, most volcanic expression. There, in that instant, the verb “to cheer” left the gloves of the maidens and incarnated, sweaty and hoarse, in a single man. The club did not reject him. The club embraced him—just as it would later embrace the “pó de arroz” (rice powder). Chico, a man of the people, black, capoeirista, resident of Morro Mundo Novo, was, at the beginning of the last century when things were stupidly different, nothing more and nothing less than the living and pulsating personification of the tricolor soul.

Ah, how I miss Fluminense. How I miss meeting thousands, millions of Chicos throughout this land. The time is coming. It will be hard. Just six more days and we’ll all be together. Cheering, jumping, shouting, and singing. Each in their own way, within their own means. But all carrying with them a small piece of the giant legacy that this man of the people left for our people.

So dress up, my friends, the craving is about to be healed. Let every unfurled flag be the material proof of our longing. Let the armors, dated from every and any battle, be present and shining. Let the instruments not mark a march or chant, but the very heartbeat of the reunion. Bring the rice powder! In abundance! May its white cloud blind the skeptics and announce to the world once again: Fluminense belongs to everyone!

Finally, let it be clear and leave no doubt: Fluminense does not return to play. It returns to fill the void it left in the soul of the city and in the heart of its people.

ST

Washington de Assis

This article was translated into English by Artificial Intelligence. You can read the original version in 🇧🇷 here.