Many, however, would disagree. "When you hear the word torcida organizada, or 'organized supporters,' you would imagine it would be something positive," says Cassio Zirpoli, a journalist for the Diario de Pernambuco. "But really they're just 'organized' in terms of doing harm. They create a great atmosphere in the stadium by bringing flags, banners and drums and singing throughout the game, but the violence far outweighs the support they give the team. It's true that it's a minority that causes the violence, and there's no way the directors can hope to control tens of thousands of 'members' but that's not an excuse. If the directors genuinely oppose the violence, then they need to find a way to register and control their members."
The words of Zirpoli and Thiago illustrate perhaps the biggest problem that the Inferno Coral face: how to distinguish between "official" members of the group and youngsters from rough neighborhoods who wear the group's colors and go to games, but are more easily drawn to violence than the directors.
A few years ago, a senior Inferno Coral member was stabbed near Arruda after he confronted a gang dressed in Inferno T-shirts who were robbing other Santa Cruz fans after games. "Crime like that isn't a soccer problem, it's a social problem," says Cunha, tapping my knee for emphasis. "The people who come to the clubhouse and go to the games with us understand that. But there are thousands of so-called members that we can't control. I see people standing amongst the Inferno Coral who I've never seen before."
Inside the aging concrete bowl of Arruda water pours through holes in the upper deck of the stadium and spatters loudly on the steps of the lower bleachers below. The field is a quagmire, and the ball sticks in the mud every few seconds. The rain and the team's poor current form has tested the loyalty of even the Santa supporters, and the few thousand fans that dot the vast expanse of the terraces huddle together, bedraggled, forlorn and largely silent. Other than the odd flash of a green Imperio Alviverde rain jacket, I find it hard to spot the Inferno Coral members. The game finishes in a drab 1-1 tie.
Later that night, when most fans are already headed back home, three men re-enter the stadium. They creep to the upper top deck, where they proceed to demolish a bathroom. They drag a toilet to the exterior wall of the stadium and hurl it over the side. Falling from a height of 25 meters, it hits 26-year-old Paulo Ricardo Silva, walking with a group of visiting fans on the street below. He dies instantly. Silva was a member of the torcida organizada of Santa's Recife rivals Sport, known as Jovem Sport, and was at the game to support the Jovem's allies, the Parana organizada Furia Parana. "They killed my son and they killed me too," sobs Paulo's mother when she learns of his death.
After being apprehended by police, the three men admit to being Inferno Coral members.
"It's time to play hardball with the organizadas," says Jose Bispo, public prosecutor for Pernambuco. "We've banned them before, now we're going to eradicate them completely." The cover of the Diario de Pernambuco leads with a single word – "#Shame." The Brazilian soccer association, the CBF, announces that Arruda will be closed for an indefinite period.
Back at the clubhouse three days later, Thiago is upset. "We had nothing to do with it," he murmurs, standing on an exposed second floor landing. It is a quiet, sunny Monday afternoon. Apart from a few workmen lazily continuing with the construction work, the dusty building is almost deserted, a far cry from the boisterous atmosphere of the previous Friday. One young girl sprawls in front of the TV watching daytime soaps, while another, a member of a torcida organizada visiting from Natal, washes her clothes in a sink and a skinny teenage boy wolfs down his lunch of rice, beans and chicken.
"That sort of thing should never happen," continues Thiago. "It's a tragedy." Does he know who the three men were? He shrugs and purses his lips. It is not a yes, but nor is it a no. "No one who went to the game with us," he says, "was involved in the crime."
In the days that follow, Cunha posts a statement from the Inferno Coral on Facebook, expressing regret over Silva's death and inviting Inferno members to attend the funeral as a mark of respect. The three men responsible for the crime are arrested. According to the lawyer for one of the men, his client's intention was to kill the president of Jovem Sport, Mario de Azevedo, who, along with other Jovem members, had allegedly beaten him with a baseball bat after a Santa-Sport classico (a game between local or city rivals) a few weeks earlier.
An anonymous director of Jovem Sport gives word to the Recife media that, despite his best efforts, revenge may be coming. "Our biggest problem," says the director, echoing Cunha and Thiago, "is the factions from the bairros. A lot of the time they don't listen to us, and just do what they want."
Guns raised, the police invade the Inferno clubhouse later that week, dragging those present, including the two girls and the teenage boy I had met that Monday, away for questioning. The authorities search the compound, finding only a lone baseball bat and a knife. Not long after the raid, the Recife police force goes on strike and the city descends into chaos. Twenty-seven murders are reported in a single 48-hour period and there is widespread looting in the suburbs. The Brazilian military is called in to restore order, and soon tanks are rolling down the streets. Perhaps fearing easy reprisals in such a lawless atmosphere, Cunha and the other Inferno directors go underground, and stop returning my calls or e-mails.
After a couple of days, the police go back to work. No official punishment is levied against the Inferno Coral over the killing, although Santa Cruz are fined and banned from playing at Arruda for five games. The three men confess to the crime and await trial. The media storm dies down. Everything continues as it was before, minus the life of one more soccer fan.
The history of the torcidas organizadas is almost as old as Brazilian soccer itself. In his book O Clube Como Vontade e Representacao ("The Soccer Club as Passion and Representation"), historian Bernardo Buarque describes the birth of the first organizadas in Rio de Janeiro in 1942, the most famous of which was Flamengo's Charanga, led by famed fan leader Jaime do Carvalho, who also accompanied the Brazilian national squad to the World Cup in 1954 and 1974.
Speaking with the Brazilian magazine Historia, Buarque explained, "Each team had its own fan group and its own chief fan, who was always a charismatic figure: Tarza of Botafogo, Dulce Rosalina of Vasco da Gama, Paulista of Fluminense. There were plenty of fights even then, but soccer was more innocent at the time."
The innocence began to wane in the 1960s and 1970s, during the country's period of rule by military dictatorship, when, perhaps inspired by youth and student protest movements in Brazil and Europe, younger fans began to resent the old organizadas, which maintained close links to the clubs and therefore officialdom. It was around this time that the torcidas jovens ("young supporters") started to emerge – more youthful, more dissident and quicker to protest against corrupt directors and incompetent coaches than their predecessors.
As Brazilian society grew more urban, industrialized and correspondingly more violent, so too did the organizadas. "Soccer reflects what occurs in wider society," Buarque told Historia, paraphrasing anthropologist Roberto DaMatta. "During the 1970s there was a huge increase in the number of organizadas, each one seeming to represent an individual neighborhood. This led to an increase in the violence."
The first registered torcida organizada death of the modern era came in 1988, when the leader of the Palmeiras organizada Mancha Verde, Cleo Sostenses, was shot outside his group's clubhouse by a rival gang and since then the violence, in both Brazilian soccer and Brazilian society, has shown no sign of abating.
For Cunha, police negligence is part of the problem. "When these gangs leave the neighborhoods on the day of the games, why isn't there a police car with them?" he asks sharply. "When Paul McCartney played at Arruda there were so many police here that I couldn't drive down the street. But then that's a middle-class event, so they get treated differently from soccer fans."
The Inferno Coral believe the treatment they receive from the police is unnecessarily brutal. "When we go to the Ilha do Retiro (the stadium of Sport) they fire tear gas and the beat us with batons," says Cunha. "Even when we're not doing anything."
The relationship between the torcidas organizadas and Brazil's soccer clubs is also a fraught one. For years, elected team presidents, who often double as politicians, have provided subsidized travel and match tickets to the groups, eager to secure the support of huge voting blocs. Yet Palmeiras, one of the big Sao Paulo teams, recently announced they were breaking all ties with their largest organizada, while star national team striker Fred voiced his anger at the Fluminense organizada, Jovem Flu.
"We need to look hard at these groups," he told the press. "They're responsible for the majority of deaths in soccer, they get their team banned from playing at their own stadium, and they're infiltrated by marginais who drive ordinary fans away from games."
The Inferno Coral are adamant that they receive no such help from the club. "They don't help us with anything," argues Bolinha, as we prepare to brave the rain before the game. "But it's not our objective to receive something from the club, it's to support the team."
Belo Horizonte is a sprawling metropolis of over 5 million people in southeastern Brazil. It is the country's third biggest city and one of its most prosperous, though as always in Brazilian urban areas, away from the upper- and middle-class neighborhoods there is a precipitous drop into swathes of intense poverty. Belo Horizonte, which will host seven games in this summer's World Cup, including a semi-final, is a wealthier city than Recife in many ways, not least in terms of soccer. While the teams in Recife struggle to compete at a national level, Belo Horizonte is home to Atletico Mineiro, current holders of the biggest club competition in South America, the Copa Libertadores, as well as the current Brazilian league champions Cruzeiro.
It is also home to Galoucura, the torcida organizada of Atletico and allies of the Inferno Coral. In contrast to the Inferno clubhouse, the Galoucura headquarters is bright and clean. Upstairs, sunlight pools on the floor of a mixed martial arts training center, complete with a gleaming fighting cage. Two men grapple on the floor, their limbs straining. Downstairs there is a well-equipped gym and a meeting room. Two fierce pit bull terriers, Pierre (named after a tough Atletico defensive midfielder) and Shakira, bark from behind an iron gate.
Spending time with the torcidas organizadas can be a disconcerting experience. A number of Galoucura directors – Saf, Feijao, Macale, Pipoca and president Cesar Gordinho – sit around the long wooden table of the meeting room. Most of the men are heavily muscled, and while there is conviviality in the air, there is also an unmistakable whiff of machismo and testosterone. And amongst the civility and talk of devotion to one's team, there is violent imagery everywhere – the machine-gun-toting snake of the Inferno Coral has its iconographic match in the snarling Tasmanian Devil of Galoucura.
A man at the clubhouse named Macale is large and brooding, but with a disarmingly warm smile. He has been a member of Galoucura for 24 years. "My dad took me to stand among Galoucura when I was a kid, and after that I was hooked," he says.
Galoucura, which is one of the biggest organizadas in Brazil and has existed for 30 years, boasts of having more than 65,000 members and sympathizers. The way the directors describe it, the organization sounds like a civically minded youth club. "We offer free classes to young people in the local communities," says the thick-set, heavily-tattooed Gordinho. "And we run a soccer school on Saturdays where the kids get something to eat when they turn up." Then he shakes his head. "Of course the media just talk about the bad stuff, even though we've had very little trouble since 2010."
He mentions 2010 for a reason. In December of that year Otavio Fernandes, a 19-year-old Cruzeiro fan and member of the club's Mafia Azul organizada, was confronted by a gang of Galoucura members after a mixed-martial-arts tournament in the posh Belo Horizonte neighborhood of Savassi. He was beaten to death.
Twelve men were eventually charged with the crime, including Macale and Saf, who each spent more than a year in prison, though on charges of gang membership rather than homicide. Former Galoucura president Roberto Augusto Pereira, vice-president Willian Thomaz Palumbo and a number of other ex-directors were found guilty of murder and remain behind bars.
Macale, his eyes lowered to the table in the Galoucura meeting room, says, "I was innocent. I didn't do anything. I was there that night, but I wasn't even close to the fight." Saf, angular and intense, says only, "I did my time and I paid my debt." For a brief moment, the room falls silent, the only sound that of the dogs scratching behind their gate.
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