A Letter to My Favela

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Do you know what it feels like to be a promise? 

I know. 

Including an unfulfilled promise. 

Football’s biggest waste: Me. 

I like that word, waste. Not only because of how it sounds, but because I’m obsessed with wasting my life. I'm fine like this, in frantic waste. I enjoy this stigma. 

I don’t do drugs, as they try to prove. 

I’m not into crime, but, of course, I could have been. 

I don’t like clubbing.

I always go to the same place in my neighbourhood, the Naná’s kiosk. If you want to meet me, stop by. 

I drink every other day, yes. (And the other days, too.)

How does a person like me get to the point of drinking almost every day? 

I don’t like giving explanations to others. But here’s one. I drink because it’s not easy to be a promise that remains in debt. And it gets even worse at my age. 

They call me Emperor. 

Picture that.

A guy who left the favela to receive the nickname Emperor in Europe. How do you explain that, man? I didn’t understand it until today. OK, so maybe I did some things right after all. 

A lot of people didn’t understand why I abandoned the glory of the stadiums to sit in my old neighbourhood, drinking to oblivion.

Because at some point I wanted to, and it’s the kind of decision that’s difficult to go back on. 

But I don’t want to talk about that now. I want you to join me on a ride. 

I have lived in Barra da Tijuca, a fancy part of Rio, for many years. But my belly button is buried in the favela. 

Vila Cruzeiro. Complexo da Penha. 

Jump on. Let’s go there by motorbike. That’s how I feel at ease.

I’ll let the right people know that we’re coming. Today you will understand what Adriano really does when he is with his buddies in a very special place. No b.s., or fake newspaper headlines. The real deal. The truth. 

Come on, man. It’s already dawn. Pretty soon the traffic will be at a standstill. You didn’t know, did you? From here to Penha via the Yellow Line it’s quick, brother. But only if it’s at this time. 

Are you coming or not?

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I told you so. There it is, right at the entrance to the community. The Ordem e Progresso pitch. Damn it, I played more football here than at the San Siro. You can bet that, bro.

To enter and leave Vila Cruzeiro you have to pass in front of the field. Football imposes itself on our lives.

Here my father was truly happy. Almir Leite Ribeiro. You can call him Mirinho, as he was known by everyone. A guy of status. You think I’m lying? Ask anyone. 

Every Saturday his routine was the same. He woke up early, he prepared his backpack and he wanted to go down to the field straight away. “Come on! I’m waiting for you, pal. Let’s go! The game we have today is gonna be tough,” he’d say. Back then, our amateur team’s name was Hang. Why this name? I don’t know, man! When I started, it was already called like that. I played for a long time with the yellow and blue shirt. You better believe. Same colors as Parma. Even after going to Europe, I never abandoned the Várzea games, as we call them in Brazil. 

Of course. Back in 2002, I came on vacation from Italy and did nothing else. I would take a taxi from the airport straight here to Cruzeiro. Holy crap. I didn’t even go to my mother’s house before.

I would go down to the foot of the hill, drop my bags and go up screaming. I was going to knock on Cachaça’s door, my dear friend (may he rest in peace), and on Hermes’s door, another childhood buddy of mine. I came punching the window, “Wake up, you bastard! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Jorginho, my other great childhood friend, would join and then … forget it, man. These guys would go nuts! The rest of the world would only find us days later. We traveled around the entire neighbourhood playing ball, just hanging around all over the place, from bar to bar. Not even a mule can handle it! 

One of Hang’s rivalries was against Chapa Quente. We even played an amateur’s championship final against them. I was already at Parma. My father spoke to me every day. “I’ve already signed you up for the championship, son. The guys are shaking. I’ve been telling them for a month, “My big black dude is coming.”' And they reply, “That’s not fair, Mirinho.” I don't care. You’re going to play.”

Of course I played!

With a small plastic cup of Coca-Cola in his hand (the only drink he liked), my father announced the Hang’s starting eleven.

“Hangrismar in goal. Lemongrass, Richard, and Cachaça in defense.”

Damn, Lemongrass was a bitter dude. He complained about everything. Richard had a kick that was as powerful — or even more — than mine. Everyone standing in the wall would be shitting themselves when he’d go up to take the free kick.. 

“Hermes in midfield with Alan. 

Crézio on the right wing and Jorginho on the left, our number seven. 

In attack, Frank, Dingo, the owner of the number 10, and Adriano.”

You could play in the Champions League with this team. 

I'll paint the picture for you. Hot weather in Rio, typical of the end of the year. Loud music. Samba.  Smoking hot brunettes walking up and down. Father in heaven, bless us all. There’s nothing better on the planet, bro.

We won the final. Fireworks throughout the favela. A beautiful display. Really amazing.

It was also on this pitch that I learned how to drink. My dad was crazy, man. He didn’t like to see anyone drinking, much less kids. 

I remember the first time he caught me with a glass in my hand. I was 14 years old, and everybody in our community was celebrating. They had finally installed floodlights at the Ordem e Progresso pitch, so they organized a game with a barbecue.

There were lots of people, that joy taking over, typical of the Várzea, you know? Samba, people coming and going. Back then, I wasn’t a drinker. But when I saw all the kids taking care of business, laughing, I said “aaaahhhh.” There was no way. I took a plastic cup and filled it with beer. That bitter, thin foam coming down my throat for the first time had a special flavor. A new world of “fun” opened up in front of me. My mother was at the party and saw the scene. She kept quiet, right? My father.… Holy shit. 

When he saw me with the glass in my hand, he crossed the field at the hurried pace of someone who can’t afford to miss the bus. “Stop it right there,” he shouted. Short and thick, as usual. I said, “Oh, man.” My aunts and my mother quickly caught on and tried to calm things down before the situation got worse. “Cmon, Mirinho, he’s with his little friends, he’s not going to do anything crazy. He’s just there laughing, having fun, leave him alone, Adriano is growing up too,” said my mother.

But there was no conversation. 

The old man went crazy. He snatched the cup from my hand and threw it in the gutter. “I didn’t teach you that, son,” he said. 

Mirinho was a leader of Vila Cruzeiro. Everyone respected him. He set the example. Football was his thing. One of Mirinho’s missions was to prevent kids from getting involved in things they shouldn’t. He always tried to bring the children to play ball. He didn’t want anyone fooling around. Much less messing up at school. His father drank a lot. He really was an alcoholic. He even died from it. So, every time he saw kids drinking alcohol, my father had no doubts. He threw glasses and bottles that were in front of him onto the floor. But there was no point, right? Then, the beast changed tactics. When we were distracted, he would take out his dentures and put them in my cup, or in the cup of the boys who were with me. The guy was a legend. How I miss him…. 

All the lessons I learned from my father were like this, in gestures. We didn’t have deep conversations. The old man wasn’t one to philosophize or give moral lessons, no. His daily uprightness and the respect that others had for him were what impressed me most.  

My father’s death changed my life forever. To this day, it’s an issue that I still haven’t been able to resolve. The whole shit started here, in the community that I care about so much. 

Vila Cruzeiro is not the best place in the world. Quite the opposite.

It’s a really dangerous place. Life is hard. People suffer. Many friends have to follow other paths. Look around and you will understand. If I stop to count all the people I know who have passed away violently, we’ll be here talking for days and days…. May our heavenly father bless them. You can ask anyone here. Those who have the opportunity end up going to live somewhere else. 

Damn it, my father was shot in the head at a party in Cruzeiro. Stray bullet. He had nothing to do with the mess. The bullet entered his forehead and lodged in the back of his head. The doctors had no way of removing it. After that, my family’s life was never the same. My father started having frequent seizures. 

Have you ever seen a person suffering an epileptic seizure in front of you? You don’t want to see it, brother. 

It’s scary.

I was 10 years old when my father was shot. I grew up living with his crises. Mirinho was never able to work again. The responsibility of supporting the house fell entirely on my mother’s back. And what did she do? She faced it. She counted on the help of our neighbors. Our family was there to help too. Here everyone lives with little. Nobody has more than anyone else. And even so, my mother was not alone. There was always someone giving her a helping hand. 

A neighbor showed up with a big box of eggs one day and said, “Rosilda, sell them to raise some spare change. That way you can buy a snack for Adriano.” But she didn’t have the money to pay her neighbor. “Don’t worry, sister. Sell the eggs and pay me back later.” It was like that, man. I swear to you. 

Another neighbor got her a gas cylinder. “Rosilda, sell this one. Half is yours, half is mine.” And there my mother would try to raise some spare change by working hard every day. My father stayed at home. And my mother ran for two, while my grandmother took me to training. 

One of my aunts got a job that allowed her to receive food tickets. She handed the vouchers to my mother. “Rosilda, it’s not much, but it’s enough to at least buy Adriano a cookie.” 

Without these people I would be nothing. 

Nothing. 

Damn it, that talk made me really thirsty. Let’s stop at my friend Hermes’s shack. That’s behind the court. There! There in the alley. 

My grandmother lived here. Dona Vanda, what a character. I already told you about her, right? “Adi-rano, my son! Come and eat popcorn.” Grandma can’t say my name right to this day.

I stayed at her house every day when I was a kid. My mother, my father and I lived on Street 9, which is on the top of the hill. Do you want to go up there and see? It’s complicated. There’s a lot of activity going on. We better stay down here. The favela has certain rules that we need to respect. 

When I was a child, my mother would go down to work and leave me with Grandma. She took me to school and then to Flamengo. My hustle started early, there’s no denying it. 

Hermes, my friend! Pull the dominoes for us. Be careful, he steals like hell. Keep an eye open, huh. Hermes is sneaky. Sit here, Jorginho. Let us play dominoes, you can start.

We used to take a bath in a pit at the end of the alley. Swimming pools in favelas are like that, man. You didn’t know, did you? Damn it, if it’s boiling hot in south Rio, where the most well-off people live, imagine the community in north Rio. The kids pull out the bucket and cool off as best as they can. I’ll tell you that to this day I prefer this, you know? I only go into the pool, the sea, that sort of thing, to pretend that I’m part of the well-off neighborhoods. But I’m really happy taking a shower on the roof, or when I pour a bucket of water over my head, as we do here in the favela.

Do you see the movement of people around here? And the noise? Damn, the favela is very different. We open the door and find our neighbor straight away. Put your foot out and there’s the owner of the store on the street, the aunt selling pastries with a bag in her hand, the barber’s cousin calling you to play football. Everyone knows each other. Of course, one house next to another, right? 

That was one of the things that surprised me the most when I moved to Europe. The streets are silent. People don’t greet each other. Everybody stays apart. The first Christmas I spent in Milan was hard for me, man. 

The end of the year is a very important time for my family. We bring everyone together. It’s always been like this. Street 9 was crowded because Mirinho was the man, right? The tradition began there. At New Year’s Eve too, it was the favela gathered outside my house. 

When I went to Inter, I felt a very strong blow in the first winter. Christmas came and I stayed in my apartment alone. It’s freezing cold in Milan. That depression that hits during the freezing months in northern Italy. Everyone in dark clothes. The deserted streets. The days are very short. The weather is wet. I didn’t feel like doing anything, man. All this combined with homesickness and I felt like shit.

Still, Seedorf was an amazing friend. He and his wife made supper for those closest to them on Christmas Eve and invited me. Wow, this brother has a great level. Imagine the Christmas reception at his house. An elegance that you gotta see. Everything was very beautiful and delicious, but truth to be told, I wanted to be in Rio de Janeiro. 

I didn’t even spend much time with them. I apologized, said goodbye quickly and went back to my apartment. I called home. “Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas,” I said. “My son! I miss you. Merry Christmas. Everyone is here, the only one missing is you,” she replied. 

You could hear the laughter in the background. The loud sound with the drums that my aunts play to remember the time when they were girls. What? Those there dance as if they were at the ball to this day. My mother is also the same. I could see the scene in front of me just by listening to the noise over the phone. Damn, I started crying right away. 

“Are you OK, my son?” my mother asked. “Yes, yes. I just came back from a friend's house,” I said. “Ah, so have you already had dinner? Mom is still setting the table,” she said. “There will even be pastries today.” Damn, that was a low blow. Grandma’s pastry is the best in the world. I cried a f***ing lot. 

I started sobbing. “OK, Mom. Enjoy, then. Have a good dinner. Don’t worry, everything is fine here.”

I was broken. I grabbed a bottle of vodka. I’m not exaggerating, bro. I drank all that shit alone. I filled my ass with vodka. I cried all night. I passed out on the couch because I drank so much and cried. But that was it, right, man? What could I do? I was in Milan for a reason. It was what I had dreamed of my entire life. God had given me the opportunity to become a football player in Europe. My family’s life has improved a lot thanks to my Lord and everything He did for me. And my family did a lot too. That was a small price I had to pay, compared to what was happening and what was still going to happen. I had this clear in my head. But that didn’t stop me from being sad.  

Do you want to climb to my friend Tota’s rooftop? There is my refuge. I’ll call the bikes. We take our booze and I show you the entire view of the complex. Come on, man!

Let me turn on tutufi. Tutufi, damn it. You don’t understand, do you? To connect your cellphone to the speaker, shit. How do you say? Bluetooth? Oh, I don't know how to say those words in English, no, damn it. I only studied until seventh grade! In the favela we have to turn it up loud, man. We only hear music like that here. 

There is Grota, there is Chatuba, here is Cruzeiro. It’s all the same thing, really. One glued to the other. But they are different communities from the Penha complex. And that there is the Church of Penha, high up, blessing us all. Yes, I walk around with the church hanging on my neck in this medallion here. Do you like it? Then put it on to catch the wave. I am baptizing you into our community. What a morale boost, huh? 

When I “fled” Inter and left Italy, I came to hide here. I went all over the complex for three days. Nobody found me. There is no way to. Rule number one of the favela. Keep your mouth shut. Do you think someone would snitch me? No f***ing rats here, bro. The Italian press went crazy. The Rio police even carried out an operation to “rescue me.” They said I had been kidnapped. You’re kidding me, right? Imagine that someone is going to do me any harm here … me, a favela child. 

Everyone ripped me apart. 

Like it or not, I needed the freedom. I couldn’t stand it anymore, always having to keep an eye out for cameras whenever I went out in Italy, whoever was coming my way, whether a reporter, a shady hustler, a scammer, or some other son-of-a-bitch.

In my community, we don’t have that. When I’m here, no one from outside knows what I’m doing. That was their problem. They didn’t understand why I went to the favela. It wasn’t because of drinking, or women, much less because of drugs. It was for freedom. It was because I wanted peace. I wanted to live. I wanted to be human again. Just a little bit. That’s the damn truth. So what?

I tried to do what they wanted. I bargained with Roberto Mancini. I tried hard with José Mourinho. I cried on Moratti’s shoulder. But I couldn’t do what they asked. I stayed well for a few weeks, avoided the booze, trained like a horse, but there was always a relapse. Over and over again. Everyone blasted me. I couldn’t take it anymore. 

People said a lot of shit because they were all embarrassed. “Wow, Adriano stopped earning seven million euros. Did he give up everything for this shit? That’s what I heard most. But they don’t know why I did it. I did it because I wasn’t well. I needed my space to do what I wanted to do. 

You see it now for yourself. Is there something wrong with how we’re hanging out here?? No. Sorry to disappoint. But the only thing I look for in Vila Cruzeiro is peace. Here I walk barefoot and shirtless, just wearing shorts. I play dominoes, sit on the curb, remember my childhood stories, listen to music, dance with my friends, and sleep on the floor. 

I see my father in each of these alleys.

What more would I want? 

I don’t even bring women here. Much less do I mess with girls who are from my community. Because I just want to be at peace and remember my essence. 

That’s why I keep coming back here. 

Here I am truly respected. 

Here is my story. 

Here I learned what community is. 

Vila Cruzeiro is not the best place in the world. 

Vila Cruzeiro is my place.