Everyone with any connection to soccer over the past 65 years has a Pele story.
I actually have several.
The Brazilian legend — remembered for his unparalleled athletic talent, grace under pressure, radiant smile and everlasting humanity — died Thursday at 82. World leaders, players past and present, and billions of odd folks mourned his passing.
Pele transcended time and place. He grew older, but never lost his youthful wonder. He played, lived and traveled across the globe, yet he at all times held Brazil near his heart.
In fact — this being Westport — we had just a few special connections to The King.
My first encounter got here a 12 months after I graduated from Staples High School. My friend and former teammate Neil Brickley heard that Pele’s Santos team was playing an exhibition match in Boston.
We took a road trip to Nickerson Field. Within the early Nineteen Seventies, probabilities to see high-level matches were rare.
It was a meaningless friendly, against an unworthy opponent: the minor league Boston Astros. But we were mesmerized, by Pele and your complete Santos squad.
The gang was small. (The Boston Globe reported that Santos “awed 1,000 people … 1,000 spectators, and the 11 Astros”).
As we left, we saw the team bus idling on the road. We decided to attend.
Impulsively, we said we’d follow the bus wherever it went. It ended up on the Parker House.
The team filed into the dining room downstairs. Neil and I figured, Why not?
We sat just a few feet away. Food was delivered to the team. We ordered our own.
We nervously asked Pele for autographs. I carried his in my wallet for years.
A hotel band played background music. Midway through, the leader stopped. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re honored tonight to have with us the best soccer player on the earth. Let’s have a giant hand for … Paulie.”
Two years after my “dinner with Pele,” he was back within the US. He had retired from soccer, but dogged negotiations by Warner Communications had paid off.
The Latest York Cosmos — a virtually unknown team within the struggling North American Soccer League — signed the legend to a 3-year contract. The concept was that he would jump-start interest in the game on this country. (And make Warner Communications a ton of cash.)
Most of the contract details were handled by Warner vp Jay Emmett. He lived on Prospect Road here. And though he dealt usually with the highest entertainers on the earth, he knew that Pele was greater than all of them.
His first game within the US was on Sunday, June 15, 1975. I had graduated from Brown University 3 weeks before. I used to be doing a little soccer writing, and wangled a press pass.
The Cosmos played at Randall’s Island. The place was a trash-filled dump. Employees feverishly painted the brown dirt green. In spite of everything, the match — an exhibition against the Dallas Tornado — was televised by CBS, an infinite coup.
I actually have been in just a few electrifying moments in my life (several others involving Pele). But nothing compares to being on that field, that day, when he appeared in a Cosmos uniform for the primary time.
The sound and the emotion made it seem as if the world was shifting. I used to be 22, and thought I’d seen and felt the whole lot.
But Pele’s impact on American soccer was just starting.
Mark Brickley — Neil’s older brother, and a former Staples soccer player who graduated in 1970, a 12 months before me — became the Cosmos’ very young director of communications.
He had an incredible workload. The Cosmos acquired a stable of world-renowned players to enhance Pele — Franz Beckenbauer, Carlos Alberto, Giorgio Chinaglia. And because the team became a worldwide sensation, their visibility in Latest York skyrocketed.
Henry Kissinger, Mick Jagger — and everybody in between — desired to see and be seen with the team (especially Pele). I had a front-row seat to all of it. Mark hooked me up with press and field passes.
The press box was a madhouse. The sector was the place to be. Watching from just a few feet away — as an entire hanger-on — the adulation showered on Pele, by odd fans and the largest names on the earth, was astonishing.
The locker room was also a madhouse. Reporters who had seen the whole lot jostled for a probability to ask Pele the identical questions he’d faced 1,000,000 times. Without fail he looked journalists in the attention, smiled, and answered in his imperfect, but lilting and lyrical, English.
But there was more.
Mark Brickley also arranged for Westport Soccer Association youth teams that I used to be coaching to play several preliminary games, before the Cosmos took the sphere.
The summer of 1977 was one Latest York will always remember. The Son of Sam killer stalked the streets. A serious blackout led to looting and violence.
But across the Hudson River at Giants Stadium, the Cosmos were magic.
Crowds grew steadily: 35,000, 50,000, then 75,000-seat sellouts. My 12-year-old team took the sphere before those packed stands, vibrating with energy and anticipation.
Considered one of those matches took place in a downpour. Still, the stadium was packed. As we left the sphere, and the Cosmos massed within the tunnel able to run on, I looked up. The intense lights magnified the raindrops; every seat was filled.
“Have a look at this!” I said to the players. “Don’t ever forget it.”
They didn’t. (Considered one of them — Mark Noonan — went on to a protracted profession in the game. He’s now commissioner of the Canadian Premier League.)
The NASL included other Westport connections. A league rule mandated that a minimum of 3 North Americans be on the sphere for each team. The star-studded Cosmos’ lineup included defender Paul Hunter. A 1973 Staples graduate (and up to date University of Connecticut alum), he did the dirty work in order that Pele, Beckenbauer, Carlos Alberto and others could shine.
Pele played against other Westporters, including Hunter’s brother Tim (Staples ’71, UConn ’75) of the Connecticut Bicentennials, and Steve Baumann (Staples ’70, University of Pennsylvania ’74) of the Miami Toros.
Like so many opponents, Baumann was each excited and awed by the prospect to play against Pele.
Today — retired, after a protracted profession as a university and highschool coach, and museum director — Baumann ruefully recalls the day in 1976 Pele scored on a bicycle kick over his head, at Yankee Stadium.
That moment was immortalized on film. It lives today on YouTube, below.
But my Westport Soccer Association connections with Pele weren’t over.
On October 1, 1977 he was set to play his final match ever. The tribute game would come with his first half in a Cosmos jersey. Then he’d switch to his beloved Santos club.
Thanks again to Mark Brickley, our WSA club was invited to take part in the on-field ceremony. Eight teams would ring the sphere, demonstrating soccer skills after which honoring Pele.
That morning was a whirlwind of activity. We “rehearsed” on a practice field adjoining to Giants Stadium, then were escorted into the tunnel.
A gaggle of celebrities were driven in golf carts past us. Our 12-year-olds didn’t care about Frank Gifford or President Carter’s son Chip. But when Muhammad Ali stopped by us — that was something.
The Best had come to pay tribute to The King.
Out on the sphere, our team had the premier spot amongst all 8: directly in front of the rostrum. (Thanks again, Mark!).
Speeches were made. Tributes were offered. Then got here the time for every team’s captain to walk to midfield, and hand Pele a bouquet of flowers.
I told our captain, Peter Scala, to remain after he gave the flowers. In spite of everything, he’d be the primary one there. Who knew what might occur?
Peter gave the bouquet. Pele pulled him close, and whispered something in his ear. Massed behind us, held back by dozens of security people, 700 photographers clicked their cameras. Across the globe, people in 42 countries watched.
Peter walked back to me, grinning from ear to ear.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Peter looked stricken. “I forget!” he said.
The ceremony hurried. Pele’s graceful speech was all about children, and the way necessary they were.
Love was necessary too, he noted. “Join with me 3 times: Love! Love! Love!” he said.
Click below for that video clip. (And note one other local connection: It’s narrated by Jim McKay. The “ABC Wide World of Sports” host was a longtime Westport resident.)
We headed to our seats within the stands. The sport ended. As Pele was hoisted on the shoulders of Cosmos and Santos teammates, it began to rain. A Brazilian newspaper said, “Even the sky was crying.”
I had just a few more encounters with Pele after that. In 1988 — then a longtime author for Soccer America Magazine — I used to be invited to Brazil, to cover the first-ever Pele Cup Youth Tournament.
It was a memorable 2 weeks, for a lot of reasons. (Including the 48-hour, trip-from-hell route there: Latest York to Orlando, Miami, Jamaica, Manaus and, finally, São Paulo).
There have been loads of highlights, including a visit to Belo Horizonte — the positioning of a spectacular World Cup upset in 1950, when the US beat England 1-0 (we traveled there with players from each teams).
However the crowning moment was a visit to Pele’s home in Santos. Seeing his trophies, his birds, his pool — his life — was a day I actually have at all times treasured.
My path crossed with Pele a few times afterward. He was a guest at conventions of the National Soccer Coaches Association of America, our skilled organization.
As at all times, he was generous together with his time, and graceful with whomever he was with.
And he never stopped smiling.
One 12 months, our convention was in Cincinnati. President Bush stayed at the identical hotel. His handlers wanted him to fulfill Pele.
Pele’s people said he had no time. He needed to fulfill with the players and coaches.
They weren’t kidding. The All-American banquet is a protracted affair. There are numerous honorees — NCAA Division I, II and III; NAIA; junior college; highschool. All have men’s and ladies’s teams.
The celebrity annually poses with each group. But Pele made each team appear to be it was the just one on the earth. And that meeting them was essentially the most exciting day of his life.
Another presidential story. Within the mid-’80s, one man’s introduction went this manner: “I’m Ronald Reagan. I’m President of america. But you don’t must introduce yourself. Everyone knows Pele.”
I didn’t know Pele. He definitely didn’t know me.
But ever since I used to be a young soccer player at Staples High School, my life was enriched by sharing space with him.
(I can’t resist two final Pele stories — neither of which I could slot in above. On a road trip to Toronto with the Cosmos, I used to be within the hotel lobby because the team was preparing for his or her bus. An older couple approached Pele, and asked for an image.
(The person posed with him. His wife nervously fumbled with the camera. Pele stopped, and walked over to her. Very gently, he said, “You need to first remove the lens cap.”
(And this, as told to me by a reporter friend who was there. A crew filmed Pele with a Special Olympics team. He got in goal; a young girl took a penalty kick. She stubbed it; the ball rolled slowly toward the road. Pele dove high; it skittered in underneath him.
(“I scored on Pele! I scored on Pele!” the girl yelled with joy. “There was not a dry eye anywhere,” the reporter said.)