From the eastern side of the street, the clown has a better view of the great nineteen thirties portico of the State. Wedged between the old theatre and what was once a corner tavern is a café where Mañuel dos Santos, short sleeved white shirt and black hair combed and oiled, is the only customer. A small espresso remains untouched in its white cup and saucer in front of him as dos Santos reads the copy of Folha de S.Paolo sent to him by his niece, Gabriella. Gaúcho is dead. Dos Santos reading the obituary of Luís Carlos Tóffoli, legendary centre forward for Palmeiras. Gaúcho, the cowboy. Dos Santos remembers the game against Flamengo in November 1988, not that he was there; like millions of his compatriots, he was crammed into a café, glued to a TV. Sao Paolo versus Rio, his own side in the belly of the beast, the gigantic Maracaña stadium. Flamengo still a goal down until a minute into time added on, Bebeto in the number nine shirt clipping a flailing Zetti who had rushed off his line to intercept; the keeper writhing in agony as players huddled around and team physios made their way onto the field with a stretcher. Gaúcho taking Zetti’s shirt with seconds remaining, all his team needing to do was cling on, and victory would be theirs. Seconds later, a corner to Flamengo, a desperate diving header from Bebeto that ricocheted across the goal line, bouncing into the back of the net, the final whistle blowing almost immediately, and now Gaúcho the centre forward in the firing line of five penalties from some of the finest strikers in South America. Adair placing the ball on the spot, the big defender shooting low and left but Gaúcho somehow getting a hand to it and turning it past the post. Euphoria in the café. Zanata from Palmeiras shooting low and right, goalkeeper Zé Carlos at full stretch, unable to stop Palmeiras going one up. The café erupting once more. Bebeto, the striker who took Zetti out of the game and brought his team level in its dying seconds shooting top right as Gaúcho dived left; Bebeto for a moment the hero of Rio, the stadium deafening in support for the home team. Amauri for Palmeiras who later shone at Juventus shooting top left, the ball simply too fast for Zé Carlos who threw himself in its way fractions of a second too late. Leonardo shooting top right, Gaúcho’s outstretched and gloveless hand almost in reach, the second for Flamengo. Midfielder Fabio Bandeira skying the ball over Zé Carlos’ crossbar and now Renato, wrongfooting Gaúcho and driving the ball down the centre, Flamengo inching in front, 3:2. Zé Carlos, crouching on his goal line, arms outstretched, white gloves like wingtips, the plume of hair, a raptor ready to spring on the ball released from the boot of Ederval Luiz Lourenço da Conceição, the green-shirted giant known to the faithful as Tato. The ball shot high and left while the keeper stayed low, Tato levelling the scores. Zico for Flamengo slotting the ball so fast and low and left that Gaúcho had no chance, then Gaúcho himself, back in attack, cannoning the ball into the net like Adair, Zé Carlos guessing the trajectory but arriving too late intervene. 4:4. Zinho stepping up for Flamengo, just twenty-one years old and driving the ball to the left where Gaúcho leapt, parrying it away, the thump of his bare palms on the synthetic leather audible across the stadium, the gasp of disappointment from fifty thousand Cariocas in the stands. Gaúcho clapping his team mates, urging them on as midfielder Heraldo shot hard and fast to the bottom left, Zé Carlos’ gamble to go right failing, the victory finally theirs. The inestimable joy as the Bar da Praça exploded, men hugging and kissing strangers, the endless Antarticas that followed, the parties that continued all the next day and a hangover that lasted into the weekend. And Gaúcho now dead, his emaciated body saturated with Dipheriline and Heparin, the cells that encrusted his prostate overwhelming his blood and his bones. Mañuel dos Santos takes a sip of coffee and stares at the picture of the smiling, dark haired man in the black and red shirt from three decades earlier. Gaúcho the incredible, hero of Maracaña, sobriquet after sobriquet, idol of the rubio y negro, the lone highlight in this, Palmeiras “lost decade”. Tóffoli may have pulled on other team shirts in his career but for dos Santos, he was always Palmeiras. Fifty two. The old man shakes his head and reaches in his pocket for some rolling tobacco. This needs a cigarette.