Duda: A Story of Wisdom and Passion That Could Have Changed Soccer Forever.

By Raúl Romero Havaux

Mexico, 1970. The world celebrates its first three time World Cup champion. Gabriel, however, has little to celebrate.
Brazil, 2013. Duda, a successful sports marketing executive, is called to a meeting that will change his life. Sofia, his love of many years, and Edson, his friend and star/captain of the Brazilian national team take the news in very distinct ways when Duda calls and proposes something that will change the soccer world forever.
FIFA and sponsors are not enthusiastic, but little by little Duda finds allies and his idea takes shape. Meanwhile, Natalija, an attractive and successful independent journalist has moved to Rio to follow a lead on the story of another prize that will be disputed at the World Cup. Everything is on track until Duda travels to Mexico City.
Brazil, June 12, 2014. After the inauguration ceremony, Brazils national team takes the pitch and on TV all one can see are thousands of shimmers of light
Natalija smiled because she knew that he knew that she knew about soccer. She smiled because he looked at her like in that way, on this beautiful May afternoon, on this beautiful terrace next to the ocean, and she was sharing this moment with a beautiful man who not only knew about soccer, and knew that she knew about soccer, but who was so interested in her that he said nothing about it. She smiled because it had been so long since she had been in the presence of a man she was interested in; she had felt it the moment they met, even though he was exactly the opposite of her type. He drives a Porsche for Christs sake! she had thought playfully.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palibrio
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781463390457

Raúl Romero Havaux

Ral Romero Havaux is a founding partner at Integralis Consulting Group, where along with his colleagues, supports individuals, teams and organizations worldwide in effectively dealing with business challenges trough a conscious development process. He lives in Queretaro, Mexico. Duda is his first novel.

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TWO

Rio de Janeiro 2013

People think focus means saying yes to the thing you’ve got to focus on. But that’s not what it means at all. It means saying no to the hundred other good ideas that there are. You have to pick carefully.

-Steve Jobs

His literally barking iPhone wakes him at 7am. Duda had chosen the barking ringtone as the alarm because it reminded him of the German Sheppard he owned when he was a teenager still living with his folks. Adorable Bruno would wake him up like this on weekends to go for walks on the malecon, where they had both entertained themselves looking at women.

Headache. "Way too much light for this time of day! Monday … Here we go again, he thought to himself. The two bottles of red wine he drank working until late night Sunday have come for payback. But that is just how Mondays go; really, they are never a huge deal; they just simply require a little bit of extra effort to get things rolling. This Monday was just another predictable beginning to the events between Monday and Friday. Soon a friendly over the hump Wednesday would arrive, and by Thursday, you are already on the downslope on the way to the weekend. Ok, time to get moving!"

It was May and much warmer than usual. He went into the bathroom and took a good look at himself in the mirror from head to toe. He was dressed in white cotton pajamas, pants only. He sleeps shirtless.

At 38, he had continued to keep himself in good shape. There was almost no fat to be found on his lean frame, though the midsection tire was starting to loom. He looked at himself with great interest, and proceeded to disrobe completely so that he could appreciate his entire naked body. He liked what he saw, and thought how fortunate he was to be successful, good looking, healthy and with a gorgeous woman at his side. Duda was nicely tanned and tall, 6 foot 5, and still strong. "All good," he thought to himself as she shifted his attention to the coffee grinder converting the beans into the espresso that Sofia would be bringing to him shortly, just like she did every day, and just before he got into the shower.

:) Her smile, almost as wide as the text message icon, was reflected back to him in the mirror, though a little bit obscured by the steam from the shower. Sofia was already dressed and ready to go. She was adorned by a light summer dress with a floral pattern that drapes down to the knee. Duda delighted in the first sip of coffee and gave her a morning kiss that doubled as an invitation to so much more. She lovingly permitted the kiss and followed his lead, as if she didn’t mind if he would have pushed onward to fully undressing her. But then she would have had to shower and get ready all over again, and thus arrive late to work. So it wasn’t going to happen … and they both knew it, even as they both enjoyed playing the game of who would be first to stop, and the first to getting them back on track to getting their Monday started. Duda pulled himself up off of her, and just like that, the last tiny remnant of the weekend was left behind them. And with it, Monday officially began.

Mmm, I would love to lift up your dress and devour you with kisses … but it’s getting late and I have a meeting; which, of course, could not possibly match this … it’s not even comparable so we might as well not even talk about it. She gave him a kiss, but not before first giving an interested look at the naked body of her lover. Ciao, see you tonight.

The most important agency in Brazil had worldwide operations run by Duda, and represented two of the five most important sports brands internationally. Arriving to the offices, he always thought the same as he parked his black Porsche 911 Carrera: "Another thing that Steve and I have in common," he would say to himself, almost like a cultish follower of the founder of Apple who even though he had never had the chance to meet, shared the same mantra: Revolutionalize doing what you love, making it beautiful.

That morning on May 30th it was busy like all others, with a full agenda and full of surprises, something normal when the job you have is the Vice-President in charge of creative at the most important agency in all of Brazil.

Ideas are not the ones you think about, but the ones you execute, his boss, the President of the agency, had told him on more than one occasion with the intention of bringing him down a peg. Agreed, and the ideas thought of and executed by the same person are the ones that count, and that’s me, he retorted back in defense.

The daily walk from his parking spot to his office was a ritual: Park the Porsche which announced to everyone that I have arrived. Walk towards the reception desk passing the exterior garden patio with its two fountains, and come in through the main entrance crossing the archway that, by means of connecting the exterior patio to the interior offices, always offered a nice breeze that made air-conditioning unnecessary, even during the hot season. "Excellent! he said to himself each time he passed through there … so simple and functional. Next, greet the receptionist, who changed every so often, but never really changed at all: she was generally young, attractive, finishing her degree, and probably at her first job. On occasion, she was probably the future secretary of some Director. A good morning wink from him, and he happily awaiting her reaction, which was sometimes shy and sometimes not so shy. Move past the central patio where the smell of coffee fills the space at this time of the morning from the espresso bar on the south wing, and where colleagues gathered for their morning shot. Hi… Hey, how about that Mets game last night?’ Did you see the news about the Nike Tennis flop?’ What do you think about yesterday’s sales pitch? I think we won the account. Can I see you later in your office? I need to share something with you. Did you check out the new receptionist?’ It was the perfect meeting place for that kind of chatter and the only place where smokers felt welcome. And this day, like always, Duda lit a cigarette. Souza Paiol are the cigarettes he helped make fashionable with his famous campaign: Smoking is not healthy … not always. It was directed at hipsters, and thus trendsetters, and was meant to present a brand of cigarettes handmade from palha and corn paper, and in a cigarette box design with 70’s style drawings.

The brand was strongly positioned in the marketplace, and was consumed equally by artists, intellects, and healthy people. Smoking was cool thanks to him, and which he celebrated each and every time he lit one of his Souza Paiol cigarettes, which was generally chased with a cup of coffee. Can I bum one of those? asked his friend and apprentice Luciana, who was basically second in command in spite of her young age. So you want to be cool? he answered, already extending her one and preparing his butane lighter to bring it to life. I thought you weren’t into being cool..hahaha, she said back to him in a mocking tone, but at the same time in adulation for the success of his campaign. I only smoke these because you sell them, he barbs back in a flirtatious tone and words filled with double meaning.

Coincidentally, we have the bigshots coming in today…don’t you have a meeting with them this morning?

Shit, that’s right! What do they need this time? I gotta run. He left her with a warm kiss on the forehead, took a final sip from his espresso, and crumpled the cup, tossing it into the trash can next to the bar. Bingo, he sang out as it swooshed into the trash can and disappeared.

The route to the office was like this all Mondays. After drinking coffee, having a smoke, sharing an intimate moment with Luciana, catching a little office gossip, and having a quick chat about a business issue, he would make his way towards the office. This time, however, his step was slightly quickened, though not because he had any more respect for the bigshots coming in…heck, almost all the big accounts coming out of the agency were of his own doing, and his successes always trumped any curveballs thrown at him. For the President of the agency, Duda was his ace in the hole. Duda´s talent at work…and talent at partying…were hard to ignore. Duda’s work performance had been impeccable, even if very demanding of others, and not very tolerant of those who couldn’t keep up. The results, the ones that count, spoke for themselves. Various national hit campaigns, a couple of worldwide successes with a prominent sports clothing company, and a long list of awards and accolades from Cannes to local universities, where incidentally he was one of the favored guest speakers welcomed to inspire the new generations. And then there was the partying. For him, this was a non-issue regarding his work; first, because it was his personal life, and secondly, because he had never let it interfere the quality of his work. His alcohol habits, and his dabbling into a few drugs, combined with his unbridled passion for the electrically charged Rio nightlife, had never been a problem for him.

He entered the main office building, climbing stairs, and circling around to the north side of the building making his way towards his office. There, he greeted his secretary with the respect she deserves for managing his life with more dexterity than he himself could. Good morning, Wenda. I hope all is well. I am going to check in with the boss. Send me an espresso please.

Of course, she replied, adding, I understand that the meeting is not going to be in his office, but instead in the conference room. She said the words as her eyes pointed him in the opposite direction towards the south wing. "Hmm, thought Duda, I am sure he wants to set something up for me with a new potential client. It will be fine to arrive a few minutes late; let’s show these people who is who around here."

A few minutes later, Duda opened the conference room doors. It was a modern conference room, equipped with a horseshoe shaped table that gives the presenter plenty of room to move around freely and pitch his ideas well. The windows were floor to ceiling, looking out onto the posterior garden of the building, allowing light to enter from the east in the mornings. "Too much light on the presenter, thought Duda… poor design." He let his eyes adjust to the entering light, and began to recognize the audience in attendance: the full Board of Directors.

Hello, Duda, thanks for coming, said the Board President, an old wolf from the marketing world who served on the Board of the agency at the global level. For the last few months, he had dedicated much of his time to the Brazil office, which he considered, in spite of its successes, to be underperforming especially considering the current economic stability of the southern country. Please sit down.

Thank you, but I am fine like this, he answered dryly. It was not a good sign that he has been called in like this, and he was sure that this was not about a promotion or some special recognition; this simply wasn’t good. OK, if you prefer, that will be just fine. We called you in today because the Board has unanimously decided to fire you. We know you’ve done a lot for the agency, and that you are without a doubt, a shining star in this business. But you are not a team player, and your lifestyle, apart from not being a healthy example, places you in high risk situations, both for us and for clients. I am talking about your alcohol problems. In this envelope, there is a check and a letter of recommendation. I know it goes without saying, but we expect that even though we decided to terminate this working relationship with you, that you maintain professionalism with the agency and clients with whom you’ve worked. If it helps, this decision was also evaluated by the clients you manage, who are also tired of fighting with the ´star.´ I am sorry.

What a crappy design this room has; I can’t even see your faces … goodbye. That is all Duda said. He turned to leave the conference room without closing the door behind him. He traveled that same route back to the Porsche for the final time. All he could think of is how much he wanted a gin and tonic…and it was just 9 o’clock in the morning.

THREE

Is it getting better…?

It’s a kind of spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money

-Albert Camus

Even in this terrible moment, the harmonic symphony of notes unleashed as the engine of his Porsche started up, was beautiful. "Could there be a more perfect machine? No." He put the machine into reverse, and without checking the rearview mirror backed artfully into a semicircle, and left the parking lot to get on the rua Visconde de Piraja; he turned left on Joana Angelica, and two minutes later took a right on Av. Epitalcio Pessoa, which is where he had been living for the past three years and where many others like him lived: the young, beautiful, talented, and special. He parked, and somewhat indecisively began to walk along the wooded ridge. Hungry. Thirsty. "I want to get a drink. What happened? What the fuck! What the hell is wrong with them?" His mind started its diarrhea and his body began to feel what his mind had been thinking: Stomach ache, flushing in his face, a prickling, tingling in his hands and feet. Duda continued walking, and as he continued onward began to feel himself separating from the world; as if it were a big stage, and he was an actor, yet invisible. No one saw him, and he saw them all. He continued walking and the nausea started to creep up into his mouth from his stomach. He wanted a drink. He needed a drink; something was telling him that his world was being destroyed and this time the consequences were serious. Easy there, now just think. He said it and repeated it over and over again and continued along the path where locals walked their toy dogs carrying plastic baggies to pick up their shit, and runners proudly showed off the clothes that he sold. "Grotesque, thought Duda, who didn’t have a dog precisely because he would have had to pick up their excrement just like all the rest. I am not like them. If I have a dog, I take him out, and he shits wherever the hell he pleases! I would not be picking up squat."

"They fired me; what assholes." He kept walking. Smoke. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. He knew that even though his body was crying out for it, that he was not going to drink this early in the morning. For that purpose, lunch was coming soon and then the afternoon to follow. "How distant the afternoon appears to me from here," he thought. "How did this happen so fast? In his line of work, this kind of thing was always a hazard. He always knew that one fine day someone could grow weary of him. Well, they had even said it in so many words at the meeting. But the results were always there: the awards, the successes, the campaigns that made history. How is it possible that people can be so cold, so distant? He thought of his clients. And they agreed. Incredible! Sons of bitches. They were always happy getting the awards, and then afterwards, they themselves celebrating with Duda until the morning hours in the best nightclubs of Rio. Sons of bitches! he wailed out filled with rage. He thought and he felt. His heart was shriveled up and wrinkled. It skipped a beat. Sadness and melancholy settled in. He thought to call Sofia. But what would he tell her? He already knew the response: You knew this was coming. We talked about it. You can’t keep acting like a capricious teenager. The conversation was one he did not want to have; it hurt too much, especially with his pride in play; and it was exactly the place where he was strong with Sofia: pride. As if reading his mind, in that moment the iPhone began to vibrate and the ringtone of a bird’s singing could be heard. It was the ringtone letting him know that Sofia had sent him a WhatsApp: Hi. How was the meeting? Are you coming home early? xoxo:) Pain started to swell up in his chest. The world was slowing down in front of him. He felt a bead of sweat tricking down his right armpit, and a light brush on his right shoulder from a runner passing by. Everything was slow. Like a slow motion camera … like as if the world was slowly coming to a halt, and soon would be at a complete standstill. Good. See you tonight, was all he could muster for a reply. In reality, he should have told her, I am afraid and humiliated. I fucked up and you were right. I don’t know what to do to make this right again. But he was not going to let the little bit of pride he still had intact go so easily. Fuck them; in 24 hours I will be getting offers…this is the best thing that could have happened to me. Those clients and that agency were way too conventional. The ones looking to change the game are going to come and find me … and they’ll see what I bring to the table!"

Vibration from the iPhone, and the sound of the beep indicating a WhatsApp, this time from Luciana. Wow! Fucking hell. What a way to get rid of you. Are you OK? Give me a call.

:) Smile on WhatsApp was his response to her and he also had a smile on his face. Luciana had something special that always came out at the right time and in the right place to paint a smile on his face. He texted, I’m fine. Grab a bite to eat? 1:30 ‘there?’ There referred to the same place as always: the place where great campaigns were born, where clients and the team celebrated, the place where she insinuated affairs. The place where they pretended to be friends and collaborators. The place where complicity surged and complicity was celebrated. OK, at two;" she messaged back.

Duda walked for hours, at times stopping to sip an espresso, or taking deep inhales from his cigarette. He bought a paper and read for a while under a veranda, as well as distracting himself reading the professions of love etched into the wooden bench, and watching the passersby: the old grandma that life had passed by because she had only seen life from above; the homosexual couple walking their elegant dog; the adolescent pretending to be a woman practicing her walk on the avenue; the vegetable salesman on his bike; the exec who wouldn’t take off his suit jacket, even though he was sweating from the quickened pace; the young mom with twins in the twins baby carriage; the cheery friends on their walk to the café; the policeman on his rounds. He tried to focus again on the articles but found himself distracted time and time again by these characters on stage in front of him. As his gaze attached itself to the next one coming, he followed and observed so intensely that it was as if his mind was out on a stroll of its own. Finally, he decided to focus his attention again on the newspaper. As such thoughts pass by, if we let them, we go with them; thereby losing our center that is which sustains us.

At 1400 hours, he turned at the Rua Barao da Torre corner and walked another block until arriving at the Satyricon Restaurant. You arrived early, welcome; your table is ready for you in the corner. A smile curled up on his face. He knew he was at home in this place. He knew that his table in the corner was always available to him. He had spent ten plus years in this place killing time one way or another. Something to drink sir? Shall we send your Bombay with cucumber? asked the most senior of the waiters … and Duda´s guardian of pleasures. Yes, and something for the center of the table as well, please. He took out his cigarettes and his brass lighter with JRT initialized into it, a reference for which he had no idea to what it meant or for whom. All he knew was that it was a No. 5 Brass lighter, circa 1950, and that it had been bought by an old friend who occasionally brought him watches and pens. JRT, who are you? he said out loud. He lit a cigarette and checked his iPhone. The inbox for the agency email had no new messages. Still there were messages from Friday, including the one with the following message: IMPORTANT, I need you in a meeting Monday at 9am.

The gin arrived and before lighting another smoke, he wet his lips on the glass. One thing he loved about the place was the music they played. Right then, beautiful Céu was singing Amor de Antigos. The smell and freshness of the drink took hold of him little by little like a wave rushing through his whole body. It was incredibly comforting. He glanced at WhatsApp and Sofia’s message was there: Good, I will see you at home. I will be home early. Done. He didn’t want to think about anything else right then except enjoying his cigarette and the Bombay tonic, the drink of love as he liked to say. While he was waiting, other diners began to arrive; sometimes an actor or politician would appear, as well as various models, and masses of professionals and friends who chose this place not only for the excellent seafood, but because they simply felt good there. They felt challenged by the more accomplished patrons, and comforted by those of equal or lesser status. Generally, the most successful were the ones arriving the latest. A fine line divided those between who they were and what they wanted to become. He lit another cigarette and took a long drink from his glass, which was disappearing a little bit at a time. Exhaling the smoke slowly, he made out the silhouette of Luciana through the smoky cloud. "How nice she looks in that dress," he thought. He smiled. "I always think the same thing," as he began to think it again.

Luciana had been working with him for five years; she came into the agency as an intern finishing her professional studies, and soon after garnered her place close to Duda due to her agility and good disposition to do things that others liked to leave aside: take minutes, write reports, find locations, investigate, etc. These were things that Duda paid close attention to and she was happy to go over those details with him. Now she was an Account Executive with confidence in her place close to Duda, one of the most important players in the agency and maybe even in Brazil. She knew she was attractive, and she knew who was attracted to her. Duda was one of them without a doubt. I love your freckles, Duda had told her one time as he was noting the finest details on her nose. Luciana wasn’t particularly tall, and she wasn’t Duda’s type which was tall and perfect. No. Luciana wasn’t sculpted or tall. Instead, she was kind of ordinary in both aspects; in fact, she did not have much of a chest either, although she did possess nice legs and a nice backside. Her skin was white and her hair was straight and what he liked best were her eyes, so green and penetrating. Today, she looked particularly beautiful in the steamy dress above the knee that moved in unison with her walk from side to side caressing her body and leaving it up to the imagination the figure of her normal body, which in this day and age, and especially in that Rio restaurant, was impressive and unique considering all of the almost perfect bodies and plastic filled models.

Mmmm, that looks good…I’ll have the same, she said to Duda as she drew close to the table to greet him with a tender kiss and smile that made it impossible to resist her. So what happened? How are you? Luciana removed the carrier style bag she had draped across her to hang it on the purse rack that the waiter had strategically placed at her side. All of this was very familiar; Luciana’s entrance, the Bombay drink, the waiter one step ahead, the playful smile … everything except the question she asked him: How are you?

"I don’t think she’s ever asked me that. In fact, nobody asks me that," he thought to himself. "Could it be that I am always well? Could it be that I live a life that everyone sees as a good one? Could it be a sign that something is going to happen? Am I fine? How am I? Duda’s mind, fast by nature and heredity (his grandfather was famous for his speed chess games), analyzed, or better stated, micro-analyzed everything in a second. He was sure that the answer he was about to give himself could define not only that afternoon, but had the potential to be life-changing. Hmmm, how am I? he repeated back earning a few extra seconds more. Gooood … it’s not a big deal. You? How are you doing? He retorted it back to her not completely devoid of feeling, but also not fully assenting either, causing a very recognizable discomfort to him in his gut. She responded with another smile, her face filled with intrigue and tenderness, knowing that the star sitting in front of her wasn’t all star, but knowing also that his reaction was the reaction of a true star. Well, cheers then, she answered, we toast to what is to come … that is sure to be even better. They clinked glasses and Duda immediately began to feel that sensation in his gut again. Cheers, he casually replied evading Luciana’s eyes that sought out eye contact with him while saying, Toast making eye contact, or face 7 years … to which they both chorused in unison … of bad sex." Clink went the glasses as he winked at her.

Lunch, a delicious Pesce Bianco, which was the focal point of the meal, and was washed down cleanly by another Bombay, was disappearing gradually until giving way to a pair of espressos closing a lazy afternoon meal with good conversation.

Surprising himself even, Duda opened up to Luciana after his third Bombay. Even though he knew that soon other agencies would be looking for him, especially Robbin and Partners that aggressively competed with the same brands that until this very day he had represented, he felt a certain uncertainty that they would not seek him out, and that his card as he referred to it, would fall in value. Don’t sweat it, Luciana told him. It’s a done deal that they are going to come fighting for you, and besides, I might have jumped the gun a bit, but I already leaked the rumor out to the press. Duda loved the guile of his young friend and collaborator. Only with her could it be that she would act without consulting him first; like this for example, in leaking his firing. Not only did it not bother him, but instead it surprised him and made him feel proud. You go girl, he said to her, knowing full well that this was exactly what he needed to confront his ghosts that had been present long before that moment of being fired. Maybe I’m not indispensable, so I don’t want to be without a team too long, he continued right after checking an SMS text from Edson, his friend and Brazilian soccer star. Fiesta tomorrow at my place…it’s going to be off the hook. See you then. Duda smiled.

The singing bird ringtone sounded again. Whatsapp from Sofia: Finally at home..xoxoxo…waiting for you.

It’s time to go … you need to get home and talk to Sofia, Luciana said as she simultaneously flagged down a waiter to get the check. Her words hinted of frivolity. For Duda, this was a sort of a turnoff to see Luciana like this, normally so audacious and independent, beautiful, young and with life in front of her; but not fighting a little bit more to win him. He would have liked her to say, Don’t go. Let’s go somewhere. But Luciana, more than friend and collaborator, could never see a Duda without Sofia. For her, Duda had his path and she had hers. She saw theirs as rivers running into each other but then branching out later on into others. Their river, after five years, was about to divide into two, even if neither of them knew it for sure, but they both had suspected it. She asked, So, once and for all, how are you? and for the second time he answered, I already told you I was fine. I’m out of here. Sofia is waiting for me. They gave each other a warm embrace, though they both seemed to know that something new was going to happen. I’ll call you tomorrow… hey… thank you for these years. I loved every moment,