Neither Password nor ID card

I never graduated in journalism. I was a lawyer, but one day, in October 1962, I walked by the Jornal do Brasil door on Avenida Rio Branco and went in.

I asked the doorman:

“Where can I find Carlos Lemos?”

“On the third floor.”

He didn’t ask for my ID or give me a password. I took the elevator and asked someone for directions when I got upstairs. Lemos was in a small room on the left. The conversation was simple and direct. I had known him from earlier, when—once, I don’t even remember who sent him—he showed up at my parents’ apartment on São Salvador Street, in Laranjeiras.

The idea was for the two of us to study for the Law School entrance exam. I was accepted both at the Law School of PUC, next to Colégio Santo Inácio on São Clemente Street, and at the one in the Federal District, on Catete Street. It was 1955. I don’t know if Lemos also got into PUC, but I did run into him again on Catete Street. I chose to go there not only because it was free, but also because it had evening classes. That suited me, for financial reasons and because I worked during the day at the National Steel Company, in the Shareholders Department.

There on Catete Street, most of the time, Lemos, I, and others would hang out at the bar across the street, talking about the sensational “Brandi Letter” case, with daily speeches by Carlos Lacerda in the Chamber of Deputies against the presidential ticket of Juscelino Kubitschek/João Goulart in that October election. Lemos always had the latest news, since he was a reporter for Tribuna da Imprensa, owned by Lacerda himself. It was later proven that the letter—about an alleged arms trafficking scheme and union brigades—was fake. Time passed, I stayed in law school, but Lemos disappeared. He never graduated.

But we met again that day in October 1962. I got straight to the point:

— Look, Lemos, I like writing and thought about working here at JB. (Quick aside: JB was already becoming the most fashionable newspaper, surpassing O Globo. End aside.)

— Doing what?

— Well, how about trying sports? I go to Maracanã Stadium every Sunday…

Lemos took me to the Sports Section. It was headed by Fernando Horácio, short, already a bit pot-bellied, and talkative. He called over a reporter named Dácio de Almeida and said: “Tomorrow you meet Zé Inácio at the Fluminense training session and explain to him what he has to do.”

It’s hard to believe today, but everything worked like that: fast, direct, no ceremony, no complications. I showed up at Fluminense Stadium, which was very convenient since it was on Álvares Chaves Street, close to where I lived with my parents. Dácio introduced me to coach Zezé Moreira. I watched the training session, stopped by the locker room, went to the newsroom in the afternoon, learned how to write a “lead” (actually more commonly spelled “lede” in English,, but that’s another story): what, who, when, where, why… I wrote the piece. Fernando Horácio approved it. Soon I found myself officially hired, after a brief stint as an intern. More than a reporter, I also discovered myself as a copy editor, rewriting pieces by other reporters considered “picturesque,” like Arthur Parahyba and Apolônio Barbosa.

Things were that natural at JB in 1962—a newspaper opening new horizons for Brazilian journalism. The atmosphere in the newsroom, especially for those who started after six in the evening—when there was no longer any risk of visits from the Countess or Dr. Nascimento Brito (he insisted on the “Dr.”)—was relaxed. Late at night it was, let’s put it this way, almost too relaxed. Desks were pushed aside and pickup soccer games were played with improvised paper balls, with Dácio “Malandro” de Almeida attempting bicycle kicks on the hard floor. Those were also the moments when Waldir Figueiredo, editor of the Automobile Section, would storm into the Sports room shouting “where’s that pretty trouser snake?” and threatening to grope the shy Catholic Marcos de Castro, who would hide under the desk.

I spent time in the Automobile Section, where I incurred Lemos’s wrath for once writing an article arguing that drivers of the “lotações”—small buses that terrorized Rio de Janeiro pedestrians —were actually excellent behind the wheel. As far as I remember, my first signed piece was an interview with Agustin Valido, an Argentine who became famous for scoring the goal that gave Flamengo the 1942–43–44 “treble” championship. The fact that the goal had been illegally scored with his hand made him even more beloved by the fans. Curiously, in 1944 he had retired from football and had opened a printing shop. One day, playing a casual game at Gávea with workers from his company, he was spotted by coach Flávio Costa, who invited him back to the field for a short term contract .

The Sports Section was one of those that most offered opportunities to travel abroad, and I began with a trip to Paraguay, where I reported not only on two Fluminense matches but also described a military parade celebrating the country’s independence, in which some soldiers marched barefoot. I also wrote about the return to Rio on a plane where it was raining inside, forcing the team masseur “Pai Santana,” so called for his devotion to Candomblé, to protect himself with an umbrella.

In 1965 I traveled with the Brazilian national team to Africa and Europe. More unusual events caught my attention: in Algeria, the revolution that overthrew Ben Bella, and in the Soviet Union, the journalist Ricardo Serran, from O Globo, being jailed in a cell at Moscow airport for trying to enter the country without a visa. This trip, along with covering the 1966 World Cup in England, sparked my interest in life outside Brazil, and I eventually ended up at the BBC’s Brazilian Service in London.

Everything was simple, direct, informal in those days. Alberto Dines, the editor-in-chief, had a small room next to Lemos’, who was the newsroom chief. He called me in before my trip and said: “Look, I’d like you to send some stories from London—but not too many, because JB has a correspondent there, an Englishman. He’s a friend of Dr. Brito and will complain if he thinks he’s facing competition.”

That actually suited me, because my intention was to enjoy “swinging London” to the fullest— the most “in” capital in the world at the time, with miniskirts, the model Twiggy, the Beatles, Sloane Square, King’s Road… I only sent two pieces during the year I was there: one about the conflict between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland, and another about the Isle of Wight rock festival. In the latter, on the beach, I suddenly found myself overhearing, in Portuguese, a conversation about Ipanema beach characters between a Brazilian couple bathing “au naturel.”

Perhaps that earned me, upon returning to Rio and JB, an invitation to combine the Sports Section with the “Caderno B,” then run by Paulo Afonso Grisolli, with Marina Colassanti as deputy. There I wrote what may have been my best text at JB, though I didn’t sign it, against Grisolli’s wishes. It was about the player Fio, from Flamengo, who had been honored by Jorge Ben (later Jorge Ben Jr) with the song “Fio Maravilha.” It must have been around 1972 or 1973, but since I didn’t sign it, I was never able to locate it again.

In contrast, and with the only excuse of having just returned to Brazil, I once interviewed someone who spoke about “Mãe Menininha do Gantois”, from Bahia, and I referred to the famous Candomblé priestess as “Menininha do Gantuá.” I was nearly fired, despite my legitimate claim of unfamiliarity with Bahian affairs… Ah, in Caderno B I also wrote a restaurant column under the pseudonym Marco Rubião. They eventually discovered I knew nothing about cooking…

Other things happened to me in the old headquarters on Avenida Rio Branco, such as a stint in the venerable “Main Copydesk,” alongside luminaries like Hélio Pólvora and Lago Burnett. After two months, I asked to leave, because copy editors invariably worked until 11 p.m., often later, and at that time I had three jobs: early morning as a lawyer at the National Steel Company on Avenida 13 de Maio, then as an editor for the Bloch Encyclopedia on Praia do Russell, and finally Jornal do Brasil on Avenida Rio Branco. Lemos then assigned me as a special reporter, but after a frustrating day running uselessly through federal offices, I said I really wanted to return to the Sports Section. I ended up there as a columnist and later editor of Revista Viva and director of the Jornal do Brasil Marathon—but that was later, when we had already moved to Avenida Brasil.

One day, Carlos Eduardo Novaes—whom I had known for a long time but hadn’t seen in nearly ten years because he had gone to Bahia—showed up at Avenida Rio Branco and began writing about the Soccer Lottery in a humorous tone. All the other newspapers treated the subject very seriously. From there to becoming a major columnist in Caderno B was a short step…

In the old newsroom on Avenida Rio Branco, practically everyone had nicknames. I was “Moderno,” a nickname given to me by Oldemário Touguinhó, himself known as “Porco” (I have no idea why). Luiz Lara Resende, brother of Otto Lara, was “Gato Lara.” Roberto Porto was “the largest sloth in Brazil.” Sérgio Noronha was “nega Noronha” (no one was politically correct at the time). João Máximo was “Smoke,” even after he quit smoking. Milton Costa Carvalho went by “Milton Siri,” short for his real nickname, which was “Siririca.” Ari Gomes stood out as “Ari Cagada.”

But the move to Avenida Brasil eroded the relaxed atmosphere that suited a newspaper. The different sections, sequestered inside walls, were an impediment to communication; secretaries blocked the access to the Editor-in-Chief Walter Fontoura and to Luiz Orlando, who had taken over the newsroom after Carlos Lemos left… On Avenida Brasil, Jornal do Brasil began to stop being Jornal do Brasil. We no longer had Joyce, the switchboard operator who knew everyone’s life and, they say, was Carlos Drummond de Andrade’s “special friend”, nor visits from Wilson Figueiredo—universally known as Figueiró—to talk football. Even the booming shouts of Salim Simão—whose eclectic friendships ranged from Dr. Brito to Sandro Moreira, João Saldanha, the French correspondent Alain Fontan and the colorful Argentine Lamana—no longer echoed as they once had.