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Ah, Brazil, Brazil. Even here in our little street, during the 2002 final, all the cycle repair wallahs and tea shop boys tied yellow rags to their handlebars. My own son, then just a small fellow, drew a Ronaldo on our wall with chalk. But all this talk of samba style, it makes me remember our local Kali team — they too try fancy footwork, then lose the ball near our temple tank. For me, a team that shares the chappati and knows when to pass is better than one great dancer. But what do I know, I am just a tailor who also repairs broken zippers for free.
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