Old Men Fighting.

We were headed to a strip of bars across the city to catch a soccer game between Corinthian, the team I supported from São Paulo, and some team from the countryside. It was their first real game of the season and to celebrate we had spent the early part of the evening drinking a mixture of Tang powder and a local cane liquor that went for three dollars a liter. Sucão – translated literally means “big juice” – is always some sort of neon color and particularly conspicuous when you mix it in a large water bottle. With a couple bright yellow liters in hand while we walked, we got more than a couple shout-outs from the few still awake amongst the passed-out homeless men littering the sidewalk.

Corinthians, of four professional teams in São Paulo, is known as the team of the favela. For reasons beyond me, their main sponsor is a milk company. When I tell people I’m a fan of the team, they often mention that I’m probably the only fan who can actually afford to buy the damn milk. It’s tough to tell if they’re joking. I do know that I’ve seen many folks wearing a Corinthians jersey standing outside a house with the team’s crest painted on it, and it’s easy to wonder if they spent more money on the team than they do on their own walls.

The train we got on was headed in the same direction as the stadium. It was a pretty typical sporting event crowd; everyone in their colors, chatting excitedly, a drunken yell or chant here and then. At every stop more fans pushed and jostled their way in until the train was boiling hot.

“Hey, share the wealth,” I said as loudly as I felt I could without getting looks. Jeff was a few bodies away and couldn’t hear me, so I reached through the tangle of arms and grabbed him, motioning for him to pass the drink.

He started to work his way through the crowd. “Damn, it’s a little bit crowded here, huh?”

The smell of sucão on his breath was stronger than I expected. I took a long pull to match. The train lurched and I spilled the drink down my shirt.

“Fuck. At least I’m not the most rowdy one in here, right?”

“Sure. A tall white guy wearing the wrong colors and drinking a neon yellow drink is hardly conspicuous, right?”

I took my first good look at the rest of the car and, sure enough, those kind-hearted souls that weren’t averting their children’s eyes were giving me dirty looks. Bloodthirsty fans my ass. Our stop finally came and we ran out into a cab.