Tired after decades of scandals, endless corruption, inability to organize a minimally decent calendar, behold, a candidate to take over the CBF emerged from the low clergy of Brazilian football.
A specialist in crossword puzzles, crude and with a long page more for medical records than for biography, JM, his initials, began to travel the country with retrograde promises, presenting himself as anti-system and shielded from the corrupt: “With me there will be no place for the president of federation, because it’s all thieves”, he boasted with gestures that imitated a moralizing whistle.
He set up his ticket with a soldier in pajamas to reinforce a disciplinary image and tried to win the support of the president of the most popular club in the country, these typically Brazilian entrepreneurs, lavish with their widow’s money.
In the midst of the campaign, in a city in the interior of Minas Gerais, he ended up being hit by a bottle thrown by a maddened fan, known to his children, with whom he attended shooting schools.
Hospitalized, a reason to stop attending debates with the other suitors, he won the sympathy of the ignorant, greedy, self-directed crowd, always looking for an equal and addicted to self-deception.
And, he also won the election, to the surprise and concern of the world, which is a ball.
He immediately put his ideas into practice, something that no one believed he would do either, attributed to campaign tactics, even though JM had, for example, expressed deep admiration for a referee who, instead of showing a red card, drew blood from the players.
His first act was to prohibit the renovation of the lawn at the Mané Garrincha stadium, in the federal capital.
“It’s a sissy thing to want to play on green mats. I was an athlete, and twisting your ankle in holes strengthens character,” he explained. And he concluded: “I don’t see any problem with playing in the land. In fact, how good it would be if the Amazon turned into endless fields, okay?”.
Another measure that he hastened to take was to ban the display of red cards, associated with the insidious communist campaign.
Then, he banned women’s football in Brazil, because, after all, he defended: “Women were born to give birth, even if the fruit is that of a weakened man”.
To please the electorate, each day he wore a different shirt from the most well-known clubs and, without touching, began to arouse the ire of those fans who, for being real, do not tolerate turncoats.
He then realized that he was starting to lose support and, without shame, went to the presidents of federations whom he had called thieves.
To please them, he created, in place of the Brasileirão, the Rachadão!
He promised, and fulfilled, to distribute balls across the country. “The best vaccine is the one you put in your pocket,” she would teach her, between breaks, breaks and breaks, when she wasn’t quoting the Bible.
Mané Garrincha, with no lawn, was soon privatized for a bargain, but excluded women took to the streets to say #elenão! It went bad.
They started using all the weapons they had, starting with saying no to any men who insisted on the mistake of supporting JM.
Clinging to the position like a leech, before they put him in a straitjacket, JM assured that only God would remove him from the post. Nobody called.
He then stuck the whistle in the bag and went out of tune.
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