Watching the 1982 World Cup in my parent's basement, my brother and I pranced around our basement trying to imitate the beauty of Socrates. No-look passes, flicks and back heels were introduced to a growing soccer nation, and I was clearly swept up in it. With the passing of the Brazilian midfielder this past weekend at the age of 57, Gabriele Marcotti writes of the great playmaker and leader of the Brazilian football revolution.
Sunday morning marked the passing of Socrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira, better known simply as Socrates. The Brazilian midfielder was 57. He is survived by his wife and six sons. Sometimes greatness is measured through intangibles like leadership and personality, sometimes it is gauged through empirical achievement, like statistics and championships. Sometimes it's a combination of all those things. But Socrates stood on an even higher plane: Soccer will probably never again produce anyone like him.
The 1982 Brazilian team that he captained was perhaps the greatest never to win the World Cup (along with Hungary in 1954 and Holland in 1974). It was also one of the last Brazil teams to fully embody the romantic stereotype that comes to mind when we think of the green-and-gold. Sublime touches, languid pace, creativity ... the sheer joy of what they call "jogo bonito," or the beautiful game. Zico was probably the best player on that Brazil side, but Socrates was its philosophy made flesh.
At 6-foot-4 and rail-thin, he strolled through the midfield sporting his trademark beard and headband. He could have been Bill Walton's long lost Brazilian cousin. On the ball though, he was more Magic Johnson, thanks to his signature move, the no-look backheel pass. It's one of those things that isn't particularly hard to do, but is frightfully difficult to do well, mainly because you have to weight and execute a pass to a point on the pitch you can't actually see. Plus, rather than kicking the ball with your foot, where you at least have some level of sensitivity, you strike it with the bony part of your heel. When you see it these days, it's often a hit-and-hope move of last resort. For Socrates it was his bread and butter, something he nonchalantly pulled off in congested midfields, surprising not just his opponents, but often his teammates too, who would suddenly receive assists in mid-stride.
The backheel is not something any youth coach teaches. Nor is it something any pro coach particularly wants to encourage, precisely because it is so unpredictable. But in the carefree world of 1970s Brazilian soccer it had its place, especially when used as effectively as Socrates used it.
The 1982 Brazilian team that he captained was perhaps the greatest never to win the World Cup (along with Hungary in 1954 and Holland in 1974). It was also one of the last Brazil teams to fully embody the romantic stereotype that comes to mind when we think of the green-and-gold. Sublime touches, languid pace, creativity ... the sheer joy of what they call "jogo bonito," or the beautiful game. Zico was probably the best player on that Brazil side, but Socrates was its philosophy made flesh.
At 6-foot-4 and rail-thin, he strolled through the midfield sporting his trademark beard and headband. He could have been Bill Walton's long lost Brazilian cousin. On the ball though, he was more Magic Johnson, thanks to his signature move, the no-look backheel pass. It's one of those things that isn't particularly hard to do, but is frightfully difficult to do well, mainly because you have to weight and execute a pass to a point on the pitch you can't actually see. Plus, rather than kicking the ball with your foot, where you at least have some level of sensitivity, you strike it with the bony part of your heel. When you see it these days, it's often a hit-and-hope move of last resort. For Socrates it was his bread and butter, something he nonchalantly pulled off in congested midfields, surprising not just his opponents, but often his teammates too, who would suddenly receive assists in mid-stride.
The backheel is not something any youth coach teaches. Nor is it something any pro coach particularly wants to encourage, precisely because it is so unpredictable. But in the carefree world of 1970s Brazilian soccer it had its place, especially when used as effectively as Socrates used it.
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