#Facts About Garrincha

[sportzkedaa]

Garrincha Bio: Biography, Wiki, Age, Career, Footballer

Garrincha Bio: Garrincha was born In Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on October 28, 1933. He plays soccer and is a famous player. Forward who played a key role for Botafogo between 1953 and 1965, amassing 232 goals in 581 games.

Garrincha Bio: Garrincha was born In Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on October 28, 1933. He plays soccer and is a famous player. Forward who played a key role for Botafogo between 1953 and 1965, amassing 232 goals in 581 games. From 1955 to 1966, he was a part of the Brazilian national team. Garrincha Bio: Biography, Wiki, Age, Career, Footballer, Football Record, Wife & More. During his professional career, he was a member of six different teams. Garrincha’s Life Path Number in Numerology is 9.

Table of Contents

Garrincha Bio

Garrincha Physical Stats

Garrincha Football Information

Garrincha Personal Info

Garrincha Biography & Interesting Facts

Garrincha Childhood

Garrincha Career

Facts About Garrincha

Garrincha Net Worth

Garrincha Bio

Garrincha Full Name: Manuel Francisco dos Santos

Garrincha Nickname: Mané Garrincha

Garrincha Profession: Professional Football Player

Garrincha Physical Stats

Weight: 74 Kg

Height: 1.72 m

Eye Color: dark brown Eye

Hair Color: Black Hair

Read More: Andrés Iniesta Bio, Wiki, Age, Career, Footballer

Garrincha Football Information

Position: winger 

Professional Debut: 1951

Jersey Number: 4

Garrincha Personal Info

Date of Birth: October 28, 1933 

Garrincha Place of Birth: Mage, Brazil

Garrincha Date of death: January 20, 1983

Place of death: Rio de Janeiro

Cause of death: Cirrhosis

Garrincha Nationality: Brazilian

Read More: Xavi (Footballer) Bio, Wiki, Age, Networth, Facts 

Garrincha Biography & Interesting Facts

Garrincha Biography: The name Garrincha means “wren.” This is the name Manuel Francisco dos Santos was given as a child. Because of a congenital defect that left his left leg six centimeters shorter than his right and gave him a malformed spine, the youngster was undersized for his age. Manuel is short for “mane,” as his pals called him. Thus, Mane Garrincha was another name for him.

Garrincha Childhood

Garrincha Manuel Francisco dos Santos was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on October 28, 1933. He has a younger brother named Jimmy and an elder sister named Rosa.

Read More: Giacinto Facchetti (Italian footballer), Biography

Garrincha Career

Garrincha Career: he joined with Botafogo in 1953, the team administrators were overjoyed because he was older than eighteen. This occurred as a result of his ability to receive expert treatment. He scored 20 goals in 26 games to assist Botafogo win the Campeonato in 1957.

He acquired weight after the 1958 World Cup, in part because of his alcohol consumption. He once ran his father over when intoxicated and intoxicated.

In 1973, he made the decision to terminate his professional career. His age and the fact that it was his first time becoming a grandfather were his motivations. On December 19, 1973, Garrincha played his final match at Maracanã Stadium against a FIFA world squad. Thirty-one thousand spectators witnessed this match.

Facts About Garrincha

Garrincha was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on October 28, 1933, at the age of 49.

He is a celebrity soccer player.

Garrincha best-known film is Garrincha – Hero of the Jungle. 

Garrincha passed away in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on January 20, 1983. 

He had five children: Manuel Garrincha dos Santos Júnior, Nadir dos Santos, Ulf Lindberg, Neném dos Santos, and Tereza dos Santos. 

He was married to Elza Soares, who lived from 1966 to 1982, and Nair Marques, who lived from 1952 to 1965. 

Garrincha height is 1.69 m (5 feet 7 in).

Garrincha Net Worth

Garrincha Net Worth is 30$ million Doller.YouTube ChannelFollow

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[rmfantasysetpieces1]

Real MAdrid + FC Barca lies

This year, Brasil's FA, allowed foreign investors to buy majority stake in a few clubs, and santos was relegated.

I love santos, always have and always will, I loved santos timeline wise before any team in uefa or caf or concacaf. I knew of club america and teams in ligamx or some italian serie a teams, alot of italian influence in nyc, but I didn't support any of them.

The team of pele even made me proud not accepting the financial deal, staying a financially modest club. I know many said they should take the money, like the club of garrincha, botafogo [which hurt the heart badly, garrincha was a late bloomer, he came from the beach literally,for the club that he is the legend of to.. be sold to a statian ahhh]

But I am not angry that Santos is relegated. It happens. The problem with most people who call themselves fans of various clubs is their fandom is on condition of status. I am 100% certain most people who say they support fc barca or real madrid or psg now or mcfc now or chelsea now still wouldn't do it if these teams were in the position of my OL.. olympique lyonnais, Gladbach, santos :) [still hurts the heart] , or chelsea before the roman empire or manchester city before the caliphate. Relegation isn't merely the demotion from one league to a league placed under, it is a demotion of a common position.

I paraphrase gary lineker , who played for Barca, for decades FC barca+ real madrid were the biggest financial players in uefa and the college of clubs in fifa, and never did the fact that other clubs accepted their financial dominance deter other clubs from doing the best while being financially less potent. Now Barca+ real madrid see themselves having to be in a second tier financial status to a small group of other clubs and they, side their fanatic fans, cry to the moon about being eventually absentia or toward irrelevancy in a futebol world about to collapse, forgetting the football world survived decades of them operating no different than those they deem threatening the football world today.

#RMSoccer

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

NEXT SA. In PARIS 💥 - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Berlin, Germany) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoPf1pgN4MF/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[bobwilsonme]

10 REAL Cases Of Time Travel That Cannot Be Explained Today we're talking about we cases of time traveling from a time traveler who passes a lie-detector test to a man from the future who earned a fortune on the stock market join us as we take a look at ten real cases of time travel that can't be explained in February 2018 a man who claimed to be a time traveler underwent a lie detector test on camera the man only known as Noah said he was from the year 2030 and made several predictions for the near future among them he said that Donald Trump would be re-elected for a second term of presidency in 2028 time travel will be invented and the first humans will visit Mars he also claimed that Bitcoin will be used as a currency but the cash money also still exists noah also claims to have some sort of futuristic technology implanted in his wrist that is somehow involved in the time-travel process an x-ray confirms that there is in fact some sort of device embedded under the skin but he refuses to have it surgically removed several days after the lie-detector test no one was reported to mysteriously vanish during the livestream it was then revealed that he contacted the channel via email stating that he was briefly taken back to the year 2030 for interrogation but is now back in our time in 1932 journalist J Bernard Hutton along with photographer Yocum brand was sent to do a story on the Hamburg shipyard for a German newspaper the pair claimed that shortly after they arrived at the shipyard bombs started raining down from the sky and they had to scramble to safety when they emerged they took several photographs of the devastation before returning to Hamburg when the pair told their story no one believed them has there not been a bombing of any sort determined to prove that our not crazy they developed the photographs they had taken to their shop the photographs showed no signs of an air raid whatsoever eleven years later Hutton was living in London when he opened a newspaper and read that an air raid had taken place on the Hamburg shipping yard the bombing was part of the Allied attack codenamed Operation Gomorrah to his amazement the photographs in the newspaper looked just like the ones he thought he and Brandt had taken years earlier did the pair slip through some sort of time rip had they actually witnessed an event that was yet to occur in 2016 a mysterious photograph surfaced on Icelandic social media it showed downtown reykjavik in 1943 at the height of world war ii in the foreground a group of American GIs can be seen standing outside a taxi station as well as a man leaning against a window who appears to be talking on a mobile phone long before they even existed originally posted to a Facebook group by Kristian Hofmann it quickly began to attract attention across the Internet the photo was so convincing that many people said it was irrefutable proof that time travel must exist while others thought that it showed that the mobile phone must have already been invented in the in use in Iceland by the 1940s what do you think is this man from the 1940s really using a cell phone there's been several recorded instances of people seemingly using technology that shouldn't exist at the time many believed it to be evidence of time travel this footage of a woman exiting a DuPont Factory was taken in 1928 if you look closely it appears that she's talking on a mobile phone this footage was taken from the opening of a Charlie Chaplin film in 1928 as the camera pans in a lady can be seen walking past chatting on another mobile phone what do you think does this footage really prove that time travel exists this now famous black-and-white photo was taken on the day Southfork bridge reopened in Canada in the early 1940s take a look at the man in the middle right of this image he's wearing a pair of modern sunglasses or who - jumper and a logo printed t-shirt if this is a real time traveler why has he traveled to the 1940s to witness a bridge reopening in Canada now I know some of you are thinking that you've seen this photo a million times before the way to the number one spot where we'll reveal an extra piece of shocking information his photo was taken after Brazil's triumph over Czechoslovakia in the final of the 1962 FIFA World Cup the man holding the trophy is Brazilian player Garrincha who was voted player of the tournament if you look directly below him there's a man who appears to be taking a photo of Garrincha using a mobile phone could this be evidence of a time traveler who's traveled back in time to witness this historical sporting occasion in 1901 and mobile Ian Allen ordained two professors from San Hugh's College in Oxford England travelled to France to visit the Palace of Versailles as they were walking around a small chateau within the grounds known as Petit Trianon the pair claimed that something very strange happened they said they were suddenly surrounded by people dressed in 1780s period attire and that Mary Antoinette herself was sitting on a stool in the gardens seemingly impossible as antoinette the last queen of france was found guilty of high treason and beheaded by guillotine in 1793 the pair then claimed that everyone mysteriously disappeared just as a tour guide approached them in 1911 the two professors wrote a book titled an adventure under the aliases of Elizabeth Morrison and Frances Lamont that described in detail their bizarre experience because of the credibility of the authors and the grounded accounts of which they told their story it is widely regarded as one of the best pieces of evidence that Timeslips may actually exist deep Mobilia Jourdain experienced a time slip or was it some sort of strange hallucination let us know what you think could have happened in the comment section below in 2008 archaeologists opened a sealed tomb in guanxi China that supposedly hadn't been disturbed for more than 400 years inside the coffin they discovered a small wristwatch with the time frozen at 1006 on the back the word Swiss was engraved the first wristwatch however was not made until the 1800s which makes the discovery in Wong G so baffling was the watch left behind by a clumsy time-travel era could it just be an elaborate hoax in a video published in February 2018 a man by the name of Alexander Smith claims to be a time traveler that's visited the Year 21-18 in the video he says that he's actually one of the first people to ever use time travel technology as part of a top-secret CIA mission in 1981 he goes on to say that a group of unnamed people were looking for him and that he was living in hiding among other things Smith claims that by the mid 21st century it's become widely known to the public that intelligent alien life exists he goes on to say that they've been visiting earth for a long time and that the government has been keeping it a secret he also says that while walking around in the year 21 18 he came across a statue of a man named Jamie Oliver back who he later found out would become President of the United States and he's somehow assassin at the end of the interview Smith reaches into his jacket and produces a photo of a city he claims he took while visiting the year he then mentions that the reason the image is slightly distorted is due to the time travel process in 2003 a newspaper reported that a man by the name of Andrew Carlson had been arrested on insider trading charges according to a report by the Security and Exchange Commission Carlson had turned an initial investment of just 800 dollars into a portfolio worth around 350 million u.s.

[aleesblog]

Remembrance hump of Garrincha published in The Blizzard

                                                                                                                                                                         Bird of Passage                                                    

A personal quest into the life-story of Garrincha, Brazil’s unrefined legend                

                       By Andrew Lees                    

1st June 2017

Money talks but it don't sing and dance, and it don't walk

Neil Diamond

Under an unremarkable sky there were four of us out on the backstreet making our rings fly. I thrust my ring away then pulled it in, creating ellipses in the summer air. If it dared to slip I coaxed it back up, bending my knees and bracing my shoulders as I tried to circle the sun. Jill Clapham and Karen Pullen were streets ahead, looping their hoops in a swaying 2/4 rhythm and creating double flirts with their ductile hips. That morning as the larks rose into the sky above Little Switzerland I twirled my first ton.

At two o’clock we all ran in to watch Sweden play Brazil. My father was already crouched in front of our Bush console. I sat beside him on the hearthrug and my mother brought in a jug of Kia-Ora orange squash. On the other side of the bulbous screen a thickset man in a raincoat was triumphantly brandishing a large Swedish flag. The magic mirror then moved its focus to show the opposing teams jogging up and down uncomfortably in the silent rain. At last the referee blew his whistle and the final was afoot. A quarter of an hour into the game the commentator informed us that the effervescent Brazilian fans were singing, “Samba, Samba” even though they were losing 1-0. Garrincha, their right-winger attacked from the fringes. Twice in succession in the first half, he beat three players and his inch-perfect goalmouth crosses resulted in Vavá goals. As the game went on my eyes were drawn more and more to this hunched man who never passed the ball. On 29 June 1958 I was transported to a field of dreams somewhere on another planet.  

That winter I gave up hula-hooping and started to kick a rubber ball against our coal house door. I learned to keep the pill on the ground, tame its wicked bounce and make it run. I gained a rhythm that allowed me to twist and dart past imaginary opponents. I found that with the slightest of taps from my left foot I was able to alter the ball’s speed and trajectory. I kept my feet apart, flexed my body and imagined I was Garrincha. My ball slept with me under the sheets as I listened to Bobby Vee on my portable radio.

I set unregistered record after record with that small rubber ball and became a star of the school playground. It was also the last time the skylarks darted out of the turf and diminished to dark specks in the porcelain sky, the last time they would sing their hearts out, momentarily disembodied as they summoned the sun.

It was now 1959 and I had started to go to football matches with my father. I loved the communal walk to the ground, the baying wit of the tribe and the surging swell of bodies tumbling down the terraces. But what I watched on the pitch was a war in which tough men battled it out for a paltry win bonus. The game was prosaic, forbidding and merciless and bore no resemblance to the fluidity of the Brazilian champions.

In the summer of 1966 I got to watch Brazil play for a second time. Garrincha emerged from the Goodison Park tunnel wearing the number 16 shirt. His unstoppable swerving banana kick that had hit the top right hand corner of the Park End net three days earlier had led me to anticipate a repeat performance of the mesmeric sequence of steps I had watched as an 11 year old with my father. After the band had played the national anthems Brazil’s bandy-legged outside-right ambled over to position himself next to two policemen patrolling the far touchline.

Under the floodlights and with the Liverpool crowd’s chants of “Hungary, Hungary” and “ee ay adio ” echoing in their ears Flórián Albert and Ferenc Bene set about putting the ageing world champions to the sword with fast incisive counter-attacks. Just before half-time Kenneth Wolstenholme, the BBC sportscaster, lamented, “Ah, Garrincha seems to have gone now. He has lost all the feistiness and fire and that devastating burst of speed.”  

In the second half I noticed that Garrincha sometimes came inside looking for help and on the rare occasions when he tried to get round the outside of the Hungarian defence he was easily cut off and forced to pass. At the final whistle a delirium of appreciation burst forth, as toilet rolls rained onto the pitch. A stray balloon blew up from the Gwladys Street terrace, drifting forlornly in the direction of Stanley Park.

It is 2006 and I am sitting in the Bar Vesuvio in the old cocoa port of Ilhéus watching Botafogo play Vasco da Gama. The ball rarely leaves the ground and always seems to be angled perfectly through the narrowest of channels. Periodically it shoots out to the flanks and is then rifled back across the box. In this game corners and throw-ins are irrelevant. The ball dips and bends as it fires towards goal. Then out of the blue a Botafogo player goes round his opponent on the outside and I blurt out the words, “Alma de Garrincha.” An old man sitting beside me smiled kindly and said, “Garrincha jogou futebol do mesmo modo que viveu sua vida, divertindo-se e irresponsalvelmente!” [Garrincha played football the same way he lived his life, pleasing himself and running wild!]

Back in England football was now an acceptable topic of conversation in the hospital canteen. In fact there were many similarities between the modus operandi of university teaching hospitals and Premier League football clubs. One Tuesday lunchtime after rounds I explained that ‘Garrincha’ was a drab little Brazilian bird with a buzzing flight and a bubbly song that could not survive in a cage. Nobody had heard of Garrincha.

I then got out my laptop and showed them extracts from the 1963 Cinema Novo film Alegria do Povo [The Happiness of the People]. The film begins with black and white photographs of Garrincha to a soundtrack of samba. I fast-forwarded so they could see the Lone Star of Botafogo mesmerising his opponents in the Maracanã stadium.

One of the house officers, a Manchester United supporter reflected, “He plays a bit like George Best.” I replied caustically that Garrincha was Best, Stanley Matthews and John Barnes and a snake charmer rolled into one. “What’s more you don’t need slow motion/3D/surround sound from 23 angles to prove he has more tricks than Messi and more grace than Ronaldo.” I knew that my fuzzy evidence had not convinced them. They smiled benignly but knew their chief was basking in the emotional overglow of an unhealthy reminiscence bump.

Undeterred I continued to watch web compilations of the Little Bird’s sillage, much of which had been posthumously embellished by music. To Moacyr Franco’s song Balada no.7 (Mané Garrincha) I watch him double back before arrowing away to the right. A magnet seemed to be always attracting him to the margin of the pitch. His style was casual, irreverent and highly improbable but never disrespectful. He tormented and teased but never mocked. He was wordless and indefinable. For Garrincha, football was no more than a series of duels against instantly forgettable defenders and foreplay was far more enjoyable than scoring. The more joyous he made the crowd, the sterner became his facial expression. He was football’s Buster Keaton cracking jokes with his bandy legs and dancing to the gaps in the music. In one game playing for Botafogo he was even admonished by the official for flirtatious play. He was a one-man carnival who could turn life upside down with his antics. ‘Seu Mané’ expunged the prison of cause and effect from the game of football.

By the second half of the 19th century Lancashire cotton goods had become almost worthless in Brazil. Even the turbines coming in on the Liverpool boats from Manchester were in far less demand. As a consequence the 1000 or so English expatriates began to invest more in local textile production. John Sherrington, a man who had strong commercial links with Manchester, purchased a stretch of verdant land that nestled below the forested Serra dos Órgãos in the centre of the sate of Rio de Janeiro. Here in 1878 in the grounds of the old fazenda he and his two Brazilian partners constructed a textile mill. The project got off to an ill-omened start when the ancient tree said to have been more than 50m tall and with a trunk circumference greater than 30 human arm spans came down during the construction of a road, but within a few years the factory was functional, converting natural fibres into yarn and then fabric.

The municipality of Pau Grande in the district of Vila Inhomirim 50km outside Rio de Janeiro already had a small railway line. It had been constructed by the English engineer William Bragge in 1853 and connected Raiz da Serra and the Imperial City of Petrópolis with the wharf in the small port of Mauá at the mouth of the Rio Inhomirim. This railway provided a reliable form of transport from the mill to the coast.

The Francisco dos Santos family were descendants of the Fulni-ô Indians, who after being ousted from their coastal homeland by the Portuguese had settled in Águas Belas, a municipality close to the Rio Ipanema. Although they had finally been hounded down near Quebrangulo and forced to take the surname of their oppressor these ‘people of the river and stones’ refused to bow to outside discipline. As their traditional lifestyle was eroded some of their number assimilated with renegade black slaves in the quilombo hideouts of the Brazilian outback.

Manuel Francisco dos Santos was the first to travel the 2000km from the tribal homelands to the boomtown dominated by the mill owned by the América Fabril company. Although the landscape bore similarities with the countryside on the borders of the states of Alagoas and Pernambuco from where he had travelled, Pau Grande itself more closely resembled Delph or Saddleworth on the Pennine ridge.

The several hundred labourers had come from all over Brazil but the mill managers were exclusively English. In return for the privileges of secure employment and accommodation the predominantly illiterate mill workers were obliged to comply with the strict discipline and moral code of the British Empire. Mr Hall, the manager, would sometimes deal with misdemeanours that had occurred outside the factory by administering a caning to the miscreant. Mr Smith, the director, emphasised the virtues of hard work and self discipline and encouraged football on the premise of ‘healthy body, healthy mind’.

On 28 October 1933 Manuel’s brother Amaro dos Santos, who worked at América Fabril as a security guard, became a father for the fifth time. The midwife was the first to notice that the baby boy’s left leg bent out and the right turned in. Manuel Francisco dos Santos had to grow up fast and his love of trapping and caging birds led his older sister Rosa to nickname him Garrincha. In his school reports he was described as quiet but mischievous and impulsive and his teachers considered him uneducable. For the young Mané by far the best thing about Pau Grande was a secluded potholed stretch of grass 60m by 40m high on a bluff that overlooked the factory. There were days when he would return two or three times for peladas [kickabouts]. Barefooted and dressed only in shorts Garrincha and a couple of mates would regularly thrash older opponents. His hunting spear was the ball and his prey lay nestled in the back of the net guarded by a goalkeeper. When he was not running with the ball he would be fishing or hunting with his friends Pincel and Swing, two brothers from the neighbouring Raiz de Serra.

His first job, at 14, was in the cotton room of the mill with its blistering heat, lung-damaging dust and deafening machines. The air had to be kept hot and humid in this the most unpleasant working environment of the factory to prevent the thread from breaking. He was always going absent, often to drink cachaça in a local bar or have sex with the mill girls at the back of the small football stadium belonging to SC Pau Grande, which had been founded in 1908 by workers from the factory. His employers soon gave up any hope of getting a decent day’s work out of him and it was only his footballing deftness that saved him from the sack. With Garrincha in SC Pau Grande’s side the factory team went two years without a defeat.

The coach likened Garrincha to Saci, the pipe-smoking mulatto imp whose spellbinding one-legged footwork created whirlwinds of chaos wherever he went. It was impossible to outrun Saci, who could make himself disappear at will. Sometimes he would transform into Matita Pereira, an elusive bird whose melancholic song seemed to come from nowhere. The only way to placate this legendary trickster was to leave him a bottle of cachaça.

Eventually Garrincha’s dazzling dribbles came to the attention of scouts from Rio de Janeiro and he was offered trials for the big clubs. He arrived at Vasco da Gama’s São Januário ground without boots, turned up late for a trial with São Cristóvão and when asked to stay overnight by Fluminense feared for his job and returned on the last train home. His insouciance counted heavily against him. Eventually a supporter and scout from Botafogo, a modest football and regatta club, but one that had a strong journalistic and intellectual following, dragged SC Pau Grande’s number 7 back to the capital.

On clapping eyes on Garrincha, the Botafogo coach Gentil Cardoso is said to have muttered, “Now they’re bringing cripples to me.” He then asked the young bumpkin, “How do you play, son?” to which Garrincha replied, “With boots!” After watching him kick a ball around Cardoso had seen enough to throw Garrincha into the first-team squad’s practice match. After the game the Brazil left-back Nílton Santos, who had been nutmegged for the first time in his career by the upstart, is said to have told Cardoso that the boy was a monster and should be signed on the spot if only to prevent him being snapped up by one of their rivals. The Rio press enthusiastically heralded Garrincha’s signing as a professional footballer in 1953. Their only criticism was “the boy dribbles too much.”  

In Sweden in 1958, Garrincha was the best in the world in his position. Four years later in Chile he was the finest player in the world. After he had been officially announced as the player of the tournament, the poet Vinicius de Moraes composed the sonnet 'O Anjo das Pernas Tortas' [The Angel with Twisted Legs]:

'Didi passes and Garrincha advances

Observing intently the leather glued to his foot

He dribbles once, then again, then rests

Measuring the moment to attack

Then by second nature he launches forward

Faster than the speed of thought.'

In his June 1962 article “O Escrete de Loucos” [The Squad of Madmen] published in Fatos & Fotos, Nelson Rodrigues, the great Brazilian cronista reported that the European squads had been working on strategies to stop Garrincha but had not taken into account that the Brazilian team was a phenomenon made up of pranksters who played the game from the soul. In the last minutes of the final against Czechoslovakia, Garrincha had turned the opposition to stone. One defender even put his hands on his hips in total capitulation. Regarding the earlier 3-1 victory against England in the quarter-final, Rodrigues wrote, “The Englishman plays football whereas the Brazilian lives and suffers every move.”

Garrincha fathered fourteen children by five different women. One of them, Ulf, was born after the 1958 World Cup final and grew up in Sweden1. Garrincha had a lengthy and tempestuous relationship with the samba diva Elza Soares. He drank heavily and was responsible for the death of his mother-in-law in a car accident where he was drunk behind the wheel. When he finally hung up his boots, after a brief comeback with the small Rio club Olaria in 1972, he faded into oblivion. One of his last public appearances was at the carnival in Rio de Janeiro. The shots of his hunched bloated figure sitting alone on the front of the Mangueira samba school float saddened the nation.

Following Garrincha’s death from the complications of alcoholism on 20 January 1983, Hamilton Pereira da Silva, a poet and a politician from Tocantins, composed Requiem for an Angel:

They stood in the cortege

And offered him wings

Multicoloured wings

Vermilion, white

Chocolate

Grey

Hang gliding on the wing

For you who lived as an angel for so many years

These wings would have been meaningless

Before the eyes of the people

In the magical glow

Of those Sunday afternoons…

Two days after the announcement of Garrincha’s death, the poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade published an article entitled “Mané and the Dream” in the Jornal do Brasil in which he declared that football had become a panacea for Brazil’s sickness. Garrincha had been a reluctant hero who had temporarily banished the nation’s inferiority complex and inspired the have-nots to greater things, He pleaded for another Garrincha to rekindle the nation’s dreams: “The god that rules football is sardonic and insincere. Garrincha was one of his envoys, delegated to make a mockery of everything and everyone in his stadiums. The god of football is also cruel because he concealed from Garrincha the faculty to realise his mission as a divine agent.”

In his imagined chronicle Diario do Tarde Paulo Mendes Campos wrote that the rules of Association Football did not apply when Garrincha was on the pitch. The pushes, trips and shoves against him went unpunished and it was only when the embarrassed defender fearful of ridicule by the crowd pulled at his shirt that the complicit referee would be reluctantly forced to award a foul.

Despite these chansons de geste by Brazil’s greatest living writers and poets, the truth of the matter was that Seu Mané’s trickery defied literary description. Football was not an art. Garrincha had held a mirror up to the nation.

His body was taken from the clinic in Botafogo to the Maracanã stadium. Nílton Santos insisted that his teammate be buried in Pau Grande and not in the new mausoleum for professional footballers in the Jardim da Saudade. Traffic came to a halt on the Avenida Brasil as the cortège passed by with mourners crowding the sides of the road and others throwing flowers from the overhead bridges. “Garrincha you made the world smile and now you make it cry” had been daubed on a tree. As the mayhem of cars finally approached Pau Grande the bottleneck became so great that people were forced to abandon their vehicles and walk to the little church.

Seu Mané had played the game for its own sake. His fancy footwork, element of surprise and capacity for improvisation had nourished the nation’s soul. A memorial stone was placed in the cemetery. Its inscription read, “He was a sweet child. He spoke with the birds.” Tostão, his teammate, would write on the 20th anniversary of Mané’s death, “Garrincha was much more than a dribbler, a ballet dancer and a showman, he was a star.”

My sentimental quest begins at the Botafogo Sports and Regatta Club on Avenida Venceslau Brás. It’s now used mainly by the young socios (members) to play volleyball and basketball. A picture of Nílton Santos in the entrance reminds the club of its glory years. His black and white striped shirt with its lone star hangs in a display case next to the trophy cabinet.

When Garrincha played for Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas it was a deeply superstitious club.  The day before the game a mass communion with eggnog, milk and biscuits would took place and on match day the club’s silk curtains were tied up to symbolise the ensnarement of the opponents’ legs. An hour before the game each player was compelled to take a mud bath and eat three apples. An ex-Fluminense player had to be included in every team. Before each game a stray mongrel called Biriba would piss on the leg of a player. When things were going badly for the team the Botafogo president would release the little dog from the stand to run onto the pitch and distract the opposition. Biriba became so important at the club that he was included in one of Botafogo’s championship winning team photographs.

I set off past the Aterro do Flamengo with its fenced playgrounds full of youths playing football, I look over at the Marina da Glória with the mist-topped Sugar Loaf in the background, heading for Praça Quinze where the boats come in from Niterói. Out in the bay the Ilha das Cobras is surrounded by frigates. I drive fast on the Linha Vermelha heading north in the direction of Galeão. To my left is the vast sprawl of the Complexo do Alemão favela, the Instituto Oswaldo Cruz and the toy-town church of Nossa Senhora da Penha perched on its sacred mount. I reach the artificial brine lake designed to deter the favelados from hanging around the beaches of the Zona Sur and then drive north towards the Federal University Hospital block where I had lectured the day before. A nauseating smell of sewage fills the air. I head north-east through the teeming run-down districts of Baixada Fluminense, which are full of old trucks, new schools and stray dogs.

In Casa-Grande & Senzala [The Master and the Slaves], Gilberto Freyre uses the term bagaceira – the shed where the dry pulpy residue left after the extraction of sugar is stored – as a metonym for the exploitative plantation culture. Freyre wrote that “Brazil is sugar and sugar is the Black” and both were linked in the collective unconscious with sensuality and sexuality. Bagaceira was later used to refer generically to marginalised riff-raff. Football had provided Garrincha with an escape route from enslavement but when all the fibre had been squeezed out of him cachaça left him as bagaceira.

The municipality of Magé with its farming communities guarded by the Dedo de Deus mountain marks the official leaving of Rio de Janeiro. We turn right along a bumpy narrow road filled with buses and motorcyclists, cross the single lane railway track, go past a man on a horse and open roadside kiosks selling tyres. The people seem gentler and more approachable than in Grande Rio. At a birosca that sells buns and cachaça I stop to ask the way to Pau Grande. Chortling, the bar owner points to his groin and says, “Aqui está.” “Pau grande”, I later learned, was slang in Brazilian Portuguese for “big cock”.

After another 15 minutes drive the Estadio Mané Garrincha, the home of SC Pau Grande, comes into view, its rustic white walls and small arched entrance resemble an Andalusian village bullring. The grass is lush and samba drifts from the television in the clubhouse. The president, plump, with a Zapata moustache and dressed only in fading khaki shorts, greets me effusively. In one corner of the clubhouse are three cases of memorabilia, one filled with small trophies, the other two with crumpled newspaper cuttings and posters defining the ascent of the Little Bird. One of the pictures shows an 11-year-old Garrincha sticking out in a team of men and another his father Amaro, looking down affectionately on his young son from a small wooden veranda. In some of the group photographs there are boys who resembled my own teammates from school, pale solemn faces, straight brown hair and small chins.

The president tells me that Garrincha used to love to return to Pau Grande for a pelada with his old friends after playing at the Maracanã. Over a glass of cachaça he tells me the club are hoping to raise money to create a small museum. He also reminds me that the black and white striped SC Pau Grande strip is identical to that of Botafogo except for the star. I offer him money to buy a ball, but he refuses and we settle for just another photograph. I then walk down the cobbled road to the centre of the village where a small bust of Garrincha greets the few visitors. To its right are a series of murals illustrating how Pau Grande used to look in its prime.

América Fabril closed in 1971 and its buildings now operate as a distribution centre for mineral water but the Neo-Gothic grey and white Capela de Sant’Ana that had been overwhelmed by Botafogo supporters at Garrincha’s funeral is unchanged. A car blasting out propaganda for Sandra Garrincha, a candidate in the Magé prefectural elections, drives by, followed by a group of young girls waving flags in support of her campaign.

I ask one of the security guards at the gate of the old factory if I can have a look around. The factory looks much the same as it did in the days when it produced cloth. The chimneystack is still standing but there are now vast empty spaces giving parts of it the appearance of a vacant exhibition space. In some of the rooms machines rumble away bottling water from the mountain springs. I thank my guide and walk back into the village in the direction of the lemon bungalow which the Brazilian football federation had bought Garrincha for his part in the World Cup victory in Chile in 1962. Two of Garrincha’s friendly grandnieces are standing on the veranda talking to a young man astride his bicycle. Grilles guard the windows of the house even though I am told there is still next to no crime in Pau Grande. There is a mural of Garrincha’s head in his playing days at the front door and on the wall of the house looking onto the street is written the legendary number 7 he carried on his back and the words “jogando certo com as pernas tortas” [playing straight with twisted legs]. One of the girls invites me to enter a small shrine at the side of the house. Among the photographs and medallions is a framed tribute fastened on one of the walls:

'Garrinchando

'Garrincha pretends that he despises the ball, but she knew he would always come back to pick her up.

The dribble was his courtship.

Garrincha, you passed through life, overcoming all obstacles that were put before you. But in the end that relentless adversary Death defeated your dribble.

From that moment on the ball and the football universe became orphans of the most blessed contorted legs football has ever known.'

Pau Grande is still full of gente boa. Doors do not need to be locked at night. Round the corner from Garrincha’s old house an elderly man tells me that the former mill town is still full of Garrincha’s ancestors. He then leads me up a path behind the houses that reminds me of the Brackenwood edgeland of my childhood, full of weeds, plastic bottles and butterflies. After a short walk up a steep incline we reach an empty white outhouse with two palomino horses tied up outside. 20 metres below the high bank is a clearing strewn with twigs and leaves. At either end are goal posts without nets. I climb down and start to run close to the right edge where patches of grass grow sheltered by overhanging trees. I pause. I then sidestep to the right and accelerate. I twist round with my back to the goal, shimmy and shoot. I feel free. When I can fly no more I sit on a bench behind the far goalposts. Once I have gained my breath I rise and walk to the edge of the ridge and look down on the mill, the little chapel and the orderly rows of houses.

An hour later I drive on up to the cemetery at Raiz da Serra. As I am parking the car, a skeletal drunk in shorts, sandals and a fading orange shirt staggers out of the Encontro dos Amigos bar offering to guide me to Garrincha’s grave. He tells me that the previous Friday three Vasco da Gama players had made the pilgrimage from Rio to pray for inspiration before their game against Flamengo. Tucked away in the middle of a row of closely packed tombstones I am shown a faded inscription, which says “Here lies the man who was the happiness of the people Mané Garrincha.” On the worn headstone his date of death is recorded incorrectly as 20 January 1985. There are no flowers or graffiti. A singer and friend Agnaldo Timóteo had paid for the funeral, the tombstone had been paid for by his captain Nílton Santos and a local family called Rogonisky had allowed Garrincha’s remains to be buried in the same grave as their 10-year-old son who had been killed in a road traffic accident.

I then climb up to look at the newer but equally stark and neglected obelisk. Written on a memorial tablet are the words:

'Garrincha

The Happiness of Pau Grande

The Happiness of Magé

The Happiness of Brazil

The Happiness of the World.'

As I sit in silence in this deserted cemetery I think that it could only have been my great-grandfathers’ deep loyalty to street, neighbourhood and even mill that prevented them packing their bags during the slump. It was in towns like Oldham that association football first changed from a game played by gentlemen into a profitable attractive Saturday afternoon spectator sport. As I sit by Garrincha’s grave I see their familiar faces under their flat caps, their trunks bent over by the damp and onerous labour, hurrying past the smokestacks and rows of terraced houses to Boundary Park. The Latics were yet another stabilising devotion that stopped them sailing down to Rio on a Lamport and Holt steamer.

Football has been hijacked by television money and sponsorship deals. It was now much more of a spectacle but had fewer magic moments. Running fast with the ball glued to your toes was high risk and was decried by millionaire coaches. Wingers like Garrincha (outside rights and lefts) had been replaced by a new breed of wing-backs that could attack and defend. Power and victory were what counted these days.

A small brown wren-like bird with a large cocked-up tail, sharp beak and shiny black cap flits under a neighbouring headstone and interrupts my litany of regrets. Dusk is falling and with a heavy heart I leave through the dark forests on the steep ascent to Petrópolis. I am now certain that when I have started to dribble my lines, when I can no longer remember my date of birth or the names of my children the alchemist will still be around beckoning me to come and join him for a pedala in the clearing above the cotton mill.

[celticnoise]

CELTIC legend John Hughes celebrated his 76th birthday on Wednesday.

To mark the occasion, CQN has marked the occasion with a walk down memory lane with Big Yogi, the club’s seventh-highest scorer with 189 goals.

The Hoops great has been recalling some memorable Old Firm games and today he continues with one of his all-time favourite outings against the Ibrox men.

Enjoy a Saturday sitdown with another EXCLUSIVE extract from Hughe’s autobiography, ‘Yogi Bare: The Life and Times of a Celtic Legend’, co-authored by Alex Gordon.

Yesterday, Yogi revealed all about the abject disappointment of losing the 1966 Scottish Cup Final replay, but today’s recollections  are the flipside of these occasions.

OF course, it was an entirely different outcome only three months prior to our Hampden disappointment. The traditional New Year game was due to be played at Parkhead – in fact, it was January 3 after we had beaten Clyde 3-1 on the first day of 1966 at Shawfield. I have to say the playing surface was treacherous that afternoon. It was flint-hard and there was a silvery glow under the floodlights.

We didn’t possess such a luxury of undersoil heating in those unenlightened times. The ground staff used to spread bundles of hay all over the place in an effort to protect the pitch. They would sweep it off as close to kick-off as possible. Then they put down what seemed like a few tons of sand. To be honest, it wasn’t very satisfactory for a footballer.

There was absolutely no give on the rock-hard surface under your feet. If you tried to turn swiftly in these conditions there was every chance you would end up skidding around on your backside. Actually, it could often become a bit farcical with players resembling giraffes on ice as they fought for their balance. Dignity went right out of the window.

In many people’s eyes, Pele was the greatest player on the planet at that time. Make no mistake about it, even the legendary Brazilian would have struggled on these surfaces. In South America, many youngsters honed their skills performing on the Copacabana and other beaches. When they moved up a grade, they played on pitches where the grass was deliberately left a little longer. That allowed players to ping the ball around with amazing accuracy. They could hit a fifty to sixty-yard pass and the ball would simply settle on the grass. Goodness knows what they would have thought of Scotland’s pitches in the dead of winter.

In fact, Jock Stein tried a little experiment in the summer of 1965 when he brought over four Brazilians to the club on trial. They were unknowns – certainly not at the Pele or Garrincha level – named Ayrton Ignacio, Marco Di Sousa, Jorge Farah and Fernando Consul. It was novelty value, of course, but they attracted a fabulous crowd, around 20,000, to a reserve game at Parkhead where Ignacio scored two goals in a 3-1 win over Motherwell.

Three of them left for the sunnier climes of their homeland after only a month or so, but Igancio signed a short-term deal with Clydebank. I had to laugh at a report in a national newspaper when the Bankies took on Albion Rovers at Cliftonhill. It was another freezing, cold evening in Coatbridge and the reporter actually wrote, ‘It was so cold Ignacio was turning blue with the cold.’ I’m no racist, but the player in question was as black as two minutes past midnight. Unsurprisingly, Ignacio caught up with his team-mates shortly afterwards.

Anyway, back to our first Old Firm meeting of 1966. It was due for a 2pm kick-off, but there was a further problem with fog beginning to settle on the east end of Glasgow. Celtic were top of the league and Big Jock was determined to get the game played to increase our lead over our main rivals. He was confident of a victory and it was so important to show who were the new masters of Scottish football.

Jock, as was his normal pre-match routine, walked onto the pitch with referee Tom Wharton, a massive match official who, at 6ft 4in was actually two inches taller than me. So, naturally, he was known as Tiny. At this stage, possibly about half-an-hour before the kick-off, the game must have been in doubt. The Celtic manager was nothing if not persuasive. He must have got to work on the ref. I can almost hear him say, ‘Och, there’s nothing to worry about, it’ll clear in a few minutes.’ Anyway, Tiny agreed and he declared the game on.

However, Jock must have wondered if his compelling and forceful argument to play the fixture might just have backfired on him. Rangers left-winger Davie Wilson was a tricky, little customer. It was often said he could win the Ibrox men a penalty-kick when he was fouled on the halfway line. Listen, Wee Davie could get our old foes a spot-kick at Aberdeen when he stubbed his toe getting on the team coach at Ibrox! A bit far-fetched, but you get the drift.

Having said that, he was a superb goalscorer for the club, especially for a player normally operating in a wide position. He demonstrated that against us inside ninety seconds of that particular confrontation. He mastered the tricky conditions better than our defenders, collected a rebound and slammed a low left-foot drive away from Ronnie Simpson. The man known to us all as ‘Faither’ was blameless as the ball squeezed in at the far post. It was a blow, no argument, but I doubt if there was a single team-mate on the park that day who didn’t believe we could turn it around. Although it must be admitted it’s never clever to give Rangers a goal of a start.

We began to turn the screw and pummelled their defence for just about the entire remainder of the first-half. They were defending frantically and I must admit I wasn’t getting too much joy out of my immediate opponent Kai Johansen. I had made life difficult for him in the League Cup success at Hampden in October. Actually, to be fair, that was Johansen’s first Glasgow derby after he arrived in the summer from Morton and I’m sure the 107,000 crowd would easily be the biggest attendance he had ever performed in front of and that can be more than a little daunting.

Still, I was certain I could replicate my good form of the previous encounter. Johansen was a lot quicker than my old sparring partner Bobby Shearer and was turning quite well on the frosty and problematic conditions. I was pushing the ball past him and chasing after it, but he was doing a very reasonable job of getting back to put in tackles. It was frustrating, to say the least.

We had forty-five minutes to change things around. I spotted a pair of discarded white training shoes lying in the corner. They had suction pads and were used for training indoors. I think they were Billy McNeill’s gear, I’m not sure. I had been wearing rubber studs in the first-half and they were as useful as a chocolate fireguard. I decided to give them a try and, thankfully, they fitted.

What had I to lose? Johansen, I realised, would have been more than delighted with his performance up to that point. I had to give him something else to think about. I discarded my normal boots and put on the shoes. Could they make a difference? We would find out soon enough.

The game was merely four minutes into the second-half when I combined with Tommy Gemmell and our left-back sent a dangerous low cross skidding into the Rangers penalty area. Joe McBride dummied the ball and that was just perfect for someone of the speed and courage of Stevie Chalmers. He darted into the danger area and turned the ball past Billy Ritchie. Game on!

I was beginning to get into my stride on the left wing. The shoes were doing their job and definitely helped me maintain my poise and balance when I was running with the ball. Suddenly I was leaving Johansen in my slipstream. My pace was beginning to tell and he was mistiming his tackles. Thirteen minutes after the equaliser, we were ahead. It was Stevie again with a header from a left-wing corner-kick. Rangers were on the ropes and we knew it. So, too, did they. Time to go for the jugular and finish them off.

Seven minutes later, I got away from Johansen again and saw Charlie Gallagher taking up a great position about twenty-five yards out. Charlie could strike a beautiful ball, that was undoubtedly his forte. He wasn’t a tackler and Big Jock always insisted we had to let our opponents know we were on the field. ‘Win the battle and you’ll win the war,’ he would say often enough.

Charlie had other strengths, though. He was a lovely passer of the ball to unlock the meanest of defences, but he could hit a shot with a lot of venom, too. I beat another couple of defenders before looking up to make sure Charlie was still unmarked and slipped the ball as expertly as I could in front of him. Charlie simply lashed an unstoppable drive in the direction of Ritchie’s goal. The ball exploded against the underside of the crossbar before bouncing down over the line. The Rangers keeper didn’t move a muscle.

The fourth goal in the seventy-ninth from Bobby Murdoch was a collector’s item. Not because of the awesome power and flawless accuracy from our midfielder; he displayed both of those qualities often enough in his exceptional career. No, it was the role referee Tiny Wharton played in it. Jimmy Johnstone and Gallagher combined on the right before Charlie sent the ball across the Rangers defence about twenty-five yards out.

The pass was actually heading for Tiny when he suddenly opened his legs and let the ball go through them. It was a consummate dummy any pro footballer would have been proud to claim. Bobby read it perfectly and hit a devastating left-foot drive that almost took the net away.

I have watched a video rerun of that game and I was hugely impressed by Billy Ritchie. He was left lying on the turf, beaten for the fourth time, the game lost and, staggeringly, he got to his knees and applauded Murdoch. That didn’t often happen in the heat of an Old Firm duel, but it did display the keeper’s unbelievable sportsmanship.

It was all over for the Ibrox side when I moved the ball over from the left, Wee Jinky got involved and the ball dropped perfectly for Stevie to launch a low drive past Ritchie. It was the end of a perfect day played in hellish conditions. The fog continued to descend and about an hour after the game, you could hardly see a hand in front of your face.

The Rangers contingent in the 65,000 crowd must have hoped it had fallen earlier in the afternoon. It’s interesting to note that we had another seventeen league games to play and we lost only three. One was at Aberdeen, another was at Hearts and the last came, rather bizarrely, at Stirling Albion.

Of course, I was delighted at the end of that unforgettable match. Stevie claimed a hat-trick, but I got most of the headlines. One newspaper emblazoned this across their back page: ‘JOHN SHOES THE HERO’. A terrible pun, but I liked it all the same.

TOMORROW: Big Yogi concludes his EXCLUSIVE extracts from his autobiography, ‘Yogi Bare: The Life and Times of a Celtic Legend’, co-authored by Alex Gordon. The Celtic great highlights some more controversial moments when the Glasgow giants locked horns. 

* DON’T miss the unbeatable match report from Celtic v Livingston this afternoon – only in your champion CQN.

http://bit.ly/2U11Kcr

[dweemeister]

July 16, 2018

MOSCOW (The Guardian) -- The last time France won the World Cup, in 1998, they brought cross-culturalism – which in football is an augmented reality – into the media spotlight. Winners again, they were one of three semi-finalists who had significant numbers of players with a mixed heritage, sons or grandsons of immigrants. That mix, that blend, is to football what poverty always was too: proof that the game itself discriminates according to a player’s worth on the pitch, not his social status – a true meritocracy. The fact that the marginalised continue to find paradise in a game that’s ever more conditioned by money is not insignificant.

It is a relative conquest because the perspectives on this phenomenon continue to carry the same prejudices as ever. When Brazil failed to win the tournament in 1950, the narrative that won out was one that attributed that to the supposed impurity of their race. Eight years later, Didi, Garrincha, Pelé and company brilliantly won the World Cup in Sweden – in what was, you can only assume, proof that race could be purified in record time. Nowadays, depending on the score and depending too on who is talking, much the same things are said (or thought).

There is another, more telling message contained within the current sociological and cultural composition of national teams. This is a more purely footballing one. There was a time in which the way football was played was similar in some way to the place it was played. The theory held that we played as we were, and it found literary expression in Pasolini to whom we turned to hear him talk about the poetic football of South America and the prosaic football of Europe.

As globalisation imposes itself, in football too people and ideas are ever more mixed, identities fragmented. And yet within that, identities survive and shift: to take just the famous example, no one can deny that Pep Guardiola’s teams play in verse, Diego Simeone’s in prose. I have no objection to that. I seek only to underline that football continues to reflect social pulses, heartbeats: there are tendencies here too. There are changes and challenges upon ideas and ideals. Nothing is inalterable.

[fifabrazil2k14worldcup]

Interesting and gripping facts about Brazil's football legend Garrincha

http://dlvr.it/N8lq3C

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

TROPICAL DIASPORA #1 • ALBUM and Cassette OUT NOW • We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño (at Berlin, Germany) https://www.instagram.com/p/COgdD-OHwvE/?igshid=1kwc99qttp60

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

By @dj_garrincha - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Mexico City, Mexico) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6QKjj2ohmz/?igshid=17o3b8nmw8ld7

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

By @tropical_diaspora_records - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Bosque de Chapultepec I Sección, Miguel Hidalgo) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6QJ-TCo8by/?igshid=1tpm5a5uz1bpe

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

🇧🇷 🇲🇱 🇧🇫 🇸🇳 🇨🇴 🇬🇳 🇳🇬 🇯🇲 🇲🇽 🇵🇷 🇪🇸 🇦🇷 • We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #Mandeng (at Berlin, Germany) https://www.instagram.com/p/B48CdIcnd8v/?igshid=maunwu3l8mef

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

NEXT Sa. In PARIS 🔥 - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Halle Des Blancs Manteaux) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3HRyoyoS1m/?igshid=1eujjqhnqdrn7

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

NEXT SA. In PARIS ❤️ - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Halle Des Blancs Manteaux) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3HRit-Ihh0/?igshid=1afxdwboenvsc

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

NEXT SA. In PARIS ❤️ - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Halle Des Blancs Manteaux) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3HRit-Ihh0/?igshid=1afxdwboenvsc

[tropicaldiasporarecords]

NEXT SA. In PARIS 💥 - - - - - - We are very happy to announce our first compilation on vinyl coming out this autumn. The Volume 1 introduces many independent bands and artists with strong social messages and songs that make people think and dance. This socially responsible dancefloor compilation starts with the words of Davi Kopenawa Yanomami, the shaman and spokesperson of the Yanomami natives in today’s Brazil. His words are crucial to understand the challenges we are facing and how much we still have to learn from those people. It ends with a song dedicated to Bety Cariño, a social activist from Oaxaca brutally murdered by the colonial powers and their hitmen. Like so many other things in the small universe of Tropical Diaspora® Records this compilation album is the result of travels and personal connections. In fact, its meaning conveys just that: the creation of human relations based on love and care, understanding, respect and passionate discussions around the topics that move us. Djs Garrincha and Dr. Sócrates do exactly this with a case full of records traveling across the borders of Europe and the Americas. Dj Garrincha’s trips have taken him to meet artists and ignite relations that are meant to last. It can be Chicago, São Paulo, Medellin, Berlin, Barcelona, Olinda or San Juan. We still are committed to add new Diaspora cities into our web of places and people to care about. • @grupohoroya @bantunagojeje @andre_piruka @skamariapastora_oficial @elsantogolpe @bandodelaraza @losmadeinbarcelona @abeokutaafrobeat @riosentimusica • #forgetfullness #noreturn #tropicaldiasporanr1 #tropicaldiasporarecords #tropicaldiaspora #tdr010 #vinylisculture #vinilecultura #cassetteecultura #diaspora #höröyá #larueda #bantunagojêje #skamariapastora #elsantogolpe #bando #losmadeinbarcelona #abeokuta #riosenti #GriotXamã #ElRurrú #sereno #FanfarraDominicana #Cangrejo #WeareStreet #Mr.Job #Mandin’groove #CanciónparaCariño #betycariño #nonosolvidamos @indielabelmkt (at Halle Des Blancs Manteaux) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3HRVfwoO-O/?igshid=1pxvcu8zv1vvk