Brazilian Pride

From my journal in 1985...our time in Rio.

The Olympics.  Inspiring.  Captivating.  Alluring.  Beautiful.  For the past two weeks, the news is distant, social media is banned (I can't learn results!!), and my nights are late as I don't want to miss a thing.  I listen to every story told. I sit on the edge of my seat with my rapid heartbeat for the final fingertip reach in the pool, the stuck landing on the bright blue gym floor, and the finish line joy.
And then there's just something different and special about this Olympics. With my mom born and raised in Brazil and my grandparents living there for 40 years, I made the journey a handful of times as a child to this vast, breathtaking country, playing with the other children, tasting the acai ice cream, and splashing in the Amazon.  I walked atop Sugar Loaf Mountain, people watched on the sandy

Copacabana Beach, and climbed the steep stairs to stand under the massive, unbelievable statue of Jesus overlooking the scenic bay and city.  
And then there's soccer, or futbol.  I was born a fan of Brazilian soccer.  The only time we ever had cable TV in my first 18 years was for the Olympics and the World Cup.  Every Brazilian soccer game we watched.  Every Olympics we didn't miss.
So, as I'm watching the gold medal match played in Maracana Stadium, I feel Brazilian.  My blood is red, white, and blue, but at moments like these it does run blue, green and yellow like my mom's!  I want this so bad for this country.   
When Neymar kicks the winning penalty shootout shot into the upper right corner of the white net, the country erupts in a volcano of tears, exultation, and joy!  And I wish I could call Gramps. 
A few months ago, my grandpa told me he looked forward to Rio hosting the games and the hope of Brazil's soccer team winning the gold medal.  He knew what it would do for a country.  He knew the many heartbreaks it would mend.  He knew.  Just as I know he was smiling down and celebrating from Heaven.  As much as this is "just a game", it echoes resoundingly as so much more.  It teaches life lessons for those on the field and those of us watching.
I call my mom, and pride bellows from her voice.  And in two years for the Winter Olympics, two weeks of my life will again be well-spent.