LEONIDAS DA SILVA wandered through that holy of holies, backstage at the Folies Bergere, with an eye as J clear, cool and calm as a mountain pool.
If the sight of oceans and oceans of flesh, naked and unadorned, shocked his soul, he hid it well.
He simply threaded a path through the nudes without a murmur of protest. He was big that way.
He was one of those sleek, smooth Latins who plan to pop the world into their pocket.
The people of this breed are always handsome, but this one was actually beautiful.
He was the Brazilian centre- forward, the most exciting foot¬baller alive.
And at this moment, on the eve of the 1938 World Cup in Paris, he enjoyed the status of visiting royalty.
So naturally he had to meet the eternal queen of that gay city, the legendary, ageless Mistinguett.
She was by repute the most beautiful, fiery, passionate woman in all the world.
Tonight, as was her wont after the show, she held court in her dressing-room.
Leonidas took the scene in with his familiar calm. Then he saw Mistinguett and, for the first time, he looked a little stunned. No one blamed him.
For seen like that under the carefully positioned lights of her stage boudoir, she was just too good to be true.
There wasn’t a man in that room who wasn’t watching her.
Then sighting the guest of honour, she stretched out a shapely arm.
“Ah, Monsieur Leonidas,” she said. “Welcome.”.
Now, with Leonidas, surprise was ever just a fleeting emotion.
And as the heads turned, he smiled his famous smile.
The effect was remarkable. Sud¬denly Leonidas, not Mistinguett, was the central figure in that room.
The deserted Mistinguett shrug¬ged dimpled shoulders and dis¬appeared behind her screen. Soon there was only the delicious whis¬per of silk to remind one that she was there at all.
But she wasn’t a legend for nothing. Following the maxim
“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”, she suddenly emerged gowned in a few shreds of gossamer that look-ed as though they’d been painted on to that superb body.And taking him by the arm, announced, “Darling, of course, you can take me to dinner.”
Leonidas who had asked no such thing didn’t quarrel with fate or fortune. And so together, they sailed out into the night.
That was how Leonidas gained himself the strangest and the most exotic fan club of them all.
From that moment on, Mis-tinguett and the girls of the Folies Bergere would be there in the stands every time he played.
Their interest was understand-able.
For he was one of the most colourful incredible figures.
Beginning seven years before with the championship club of Brazil, he had won an honour almost every season.
In 1933, he had wandered to Uruguay and played in Penarol’s championship side. The following year, he returned to Rio de Janeiro and won another cham pionship medal with Vasco da Gama.
In 1935, he arrived in Botafogo and incredibly they too topped the league.
All you need to win football matches, said the fans of a Continent, is Leonidas.
He was only of medium size, but as fast and as agile as a jungle cat ... a “Black Diamond” indeed. And everything he did seemed to be tipped with magic and mystery.
The same brand of mystery was wrapped around the Brazilian team itself.
They had taken a hideaway in headquarters atNiederbronn, deep in the heart of the forests of Alsace.
And only really arrived in Paris on the eve of the tournament, and were then switched to Stras¬bourg for their game against the Poles.
Leonidas, an unashamed lover of the limelight, began like a hero.
Collecting the ball on the centre line, he shook off three rugged tackles and set off on a diagonal line that took him across the face of the Polish goal.
With the defence split open wide, he back-heeled to'Peracio who promptly blazed it high above the bar.
But this was a hint of things to come.
Seconds later, he rifled one in from 25 yards that poor Madejski in the Polish goal never even saw.
By half-time, he’d scored three, given Brazil what looked like a winning 3—1 lead, and given the crowd football out of this world.
But rain was falling, a danger signal for these men used to the hard, fast pitches of South America.
Poland, it’s true, had no one to match the brilliance of the Black Diamond. Yet nevertheless, they had a very good second best in Willimowski, a blond, artistic inside-left.
He scored two fine goals and now it was Brazil's turn to stagger.
Full-time came with the score deadlocked at four goals apiece and the game slipping away from Brazil.
But Leonidas, it seemed, had only been awaiting his cue, letting the drama build up a little.
in five majestic minutes of extra time, he won the game for Brazil.
He first scored from a shot taken on the turn and from the most oblique of angles.
But this was nothing to the one that followed.
From a Polish attack, the ball ricocheted to Leonidas who had fallen back deep.
Under pressure, he kept the ball. There were no wild clear-ances for this one.
Leonidas’s fifth goal of the afternoon was there for the taking. But at the very last moment, with the gesture of a truly great one, he flicked the ball back to Romeo who made no mistake.
At the end, the crowd surged on to the pitch and carried off Leonidas shoulder high.
For once, even this flamboyant extrovert was shaken by the warmth of the ovation. And in the dressing-room, he kept saying over and over again “El publico 1 El publico!”, shaking his head all the while in wonder.
So began the biggest purple patch of his life. He became the idol of Paris, envied and admired by the men, pursued by the women.
He had another stand-out game against the Czechs to put Brazil into the semi-finals where they would play Italy.
The Brazilians were by now strong favourites for the Cup and this semi-final seemed little more than a low hurdle on the road to their eventual triumph.
That’s the way it seemed to Brazil.
They left out Leonidas from the Italian game . . . explaining that they wanted to have their star player fresh for the final, so that he could dazzle the world.
The world was duly astonished, the Italians delighted.
They showed their appreciation with two quick goals which were sudden death for Brazil.
Helpless on the edge of the stand, Leonidas could only watch and pray for a miracle.
But the plain truth was that without the Black Diamond, Brazil were just another side.
The Italians won, 2—1, and went on to win the Cup too.
So ended what must surely have been the most incredible blunder of World Cup football.
There was some small consola-tion when Brazil, captained for the day by Leonidas, beat Sweden in the match for third place.
The Black Diamond said fare-well to Paris with two superb goals.
Next day, he flew home.
Thousands came to wave him good-bye ... a touching tribute to this man they had named king of the World Cup.
The king without a crown.