He stepped out on to the sidewalk and stood there, while the rain bit into his face.
It was cold and wind-whipped and clean, bringing the scent of green grass to a city that had forgotten the taste.
He sighted a cab across the street, whistled and watched the driver come round in a sweeping U-turn, pause briefly to collect him, then take off again in a seemingly single operation.
Behind them, the crowd was spilling out of the white cavern-in-the-sky building that was the headquarters of the Brazilian Football Association in Rio.
Photographers, holding their cameras under their coats, formed a solid line across the pavement edge.
Small boys with autograph books hovered hopefully.
The cabbie took in the scene with a wise, all-seeing eye, then half turned his head to ask over his shoulder “You been at the meeting, Pal?”
The passenger grunted in a bored sort of way.
Now, the cabbie could place him. He prided himself he could spot a reporter a whole block away.
“Did they axe Didi?” he asked.
“No, not this time. Drop me off at the nearest subway, will you?”
The cabbie’s wise, all-seeing eye looked a mite surprised. “What was that?” he asked.
“The nearest subway.”
“No, I mean about Didi. What was that you said?”
“They picked him.”
“Yeah, but why . . . what happened to change their minds? Did he ask for another chance . . . promise to reform?”
“No, nothing like that.”
The cabbie silently cursed reporters. Why couldn’t they get excited like ordinary humans? Why did they have to be so cagey, so reserved?
“Well” he growled finally, the rasp of impatience in his voice “what the hell did happen?”
The passenger who had been following the progress of a long-legged chick with some interest dragged his attention away reluctantly.
“Oh” he said “they just decided he’d be handy to have around . . . that’s all there was to it.”
The cabbie guffawed briefly, slapped his thigh and missed the wing of an oncoming car by a whisker.
“Do you happen to know Didi?”
The fare shrugged. “Sort of” he said.
“Well tell me then why he acts the way he does. Why he’s such a rebel, why doesn’t he fit into the team plan?”
“Maybe he doesn’t like to play his football that way. Maybe he just can’t.”
“All right, that perhaps I can understand. But why did he have to go and marry a white dame, when a million beautiful brown dames could have been his for the asking?”
The fare gave this a little thought.
“Perhaps,” he said, “Didi thought she was quite a dish too.”
The subway loomed up and the cab eased over towards the curb.
The fare stepped out and handed over a bill. The cabbie slowly counted out the change, turned his head and, for the first time, saw his passenger clearly.
The wise, all-seeing eye was suddenly glazed and a little scared.
“Hell, pal,” he said, “I was just sounding off. I didn’t mean nothing. Honest.”
Didi, for it was he, smiled almost gently.
“Forget it,” he said, “a few million others are busy saying the selfsame thing.”
And that was how Didi, the Black Cobra of Brazil, came to be selected for the World Cup of 1958.
For weeks past, the vexed question of his selection had dominated the sports pages of Brazil.
The charges against him were legion. He was sup-posedly too old ... at 30.. He wasn’t trying hard enough. He had married a beautiful white girl, etc., etc.
Outwardly, the most unconcerned person in all Brazil was Didi himself.
Having booked Brazil’s passage to Sweden and the World Cup with one of his swerving free kicks against Peru, he had remarked laconically:
“It would be funny, wouldn’t it, if they left me out, after I had paid for their ticket.”
You could tell at a glance that he was moving into the sunset of his career.
It was there in the gentle irony of his smile and the experienced wisdom of his eyes.
He was the kind that needed a reason for doing anything. Most certainly he needed a reason for running himself into the ground in pursuit of a leather object called a football.
One night in Gothenburg, he found himself a reason and that discovery was to change the whole destiny of the 1958 World Cup.
The reason was a 17-year-old boy named Pele. And he, like Didi, was out of favour with the critics.
Didi was too old. Pele was too young ... at least too young to be cast adrift on such stormy seas.
Pele’s appeal to Didi was two-fold. Firstly, they were both out of favour. Secondly and more important, Pele today was what Didi had once been.
Didi’s appeal to Pele was simpler. He considered him the greatest and the most talented footballer in the world, the only one he truly wished to learn from.
Unfortunately, the selectors didn’t share Didi’s faith in the boy. They went into the opening games against Austria and England without him.
They won the first easily enough, but the English game,a goal-less draw, was very nearly a Brazilian disaster.
One man alone saved them from defeat . . . Didi.
Solidly for three-quarters of an hour, he dominated the midfield, setting up attack after attack on the English goal.
Without doubt, he was the genius, the black master spirit of a team which had so very nearly left him behind.
Pele came into the team against Russia, the remaining side in the group, and gave a performance of whispered promises.
In the quarter-finals against Wales, the promises were a little louder . . . but still promises.
And all the while, Didi watched him with an indulgent eye . . .a little like a great conductor who knows that the brilliant young soloist’s moment has yet to come . . .
That it would come just as soon as he, Didi, tapped the baton, and not a second before.
The hour struck in the semi-final match against the French.
In the second minute, Didi set up a goal for Vava. Fontaine equalised after nine.
Then just before the interval, Didi scored an astonishing goal from fully 30 yards.
Abbes, in the French goal, seemed to have the drive covered all the way.
It was almost in his arms when suddenly it swerved, like a live thing, and bulged the net.
At half-time, Brazil led 2—1 and Didi had kept his tiger on the leash throughout.
Then with the start of the second half, he set him loose at last.
The most perfect diagonal pass flew straight to the feet of Pele, leaving the defence stranded, momentarily frozen in their tracks.
The boy caught it on his instep, as though this was the easiest thing in the world, and casually volleyed it past the bewildered Abbes.
Between them, Didi and Pele held the game in the palm of their hand for 45 magical moments.
Pele scored three and one sus-pects that if there had been the need, he might well have scored three more.
But it wasn’t really until the final against the host nation Sweden that the full subtlety of Didi’s strategy became apparent.
He knew all too well the fate that lies in wait for the big name stars in any World Cup com-petition.
He’d seen Matthews chopped down in Rio . . . Puskas injured at Berne . . . and his own scarred legs were eloquent testimony to the pain and punishment.
Now, that Pele’s reputation had flamed overnight, he once again ignored him during the first half of the final.
From mid-field, Didi conducted his orchestra and it was Gar- rincha and Vava who were steal-ing the thunder from the youthful Pele.
But not for long.
Half-time arrived with the score Brazil 2, Sweden 1, and ten min-utes later a remarkable goal by Pele settled the match.
On the edge of the box, he controlled a long, high centre from Didi as calmly as though he were on the sands of Copa- cobana, flicked the ball over his head, bounced it on his thigh and fired it into the net . . . just like that.
Zagalo scored a fourth.
And then literally in the dying seconds, Pele headed another to provide the perfect finale.
The finale to a series that had proved a triumph for the man they called too old . . .
And for the boy who was too young.