But even the volcanic Miranda outdid himself at Rio’s So Januario stadium on Dec. 30, where Vasco was hosting So Caetano in the finals of the national tournament. At the 23-minute mark, with no score, the referee stopped the game after a fight in the stands nearly ended in tragedy. Spectators fleeing the fracas toppled a fence, sending hundreds of fans tumbling onto the field. Nearly 170 fans were injured and 100 hospitalized.
As ambulances howled and civil-defense helicopters hovered overhead, rescue teams scrambled to treat victims lying on the field. But Miranda had the trophy on his mind. He charged onto the body-strewn pitch yelling at officials to restart the game. “Clean up the field,” he bellowed to paramedics. When he learned that the game had been suspended after a phone call from Rio Gov. Anthony Garotinho, he was livid. The governor, an evangelical Christian, was, in his words, “incompetent”, “weak-kneed,” and “a faggot,” who “sat there offering false prayers to Jesus.”
Strong stuff but vintage Miranda–only the most outrageous member of a clubby coterie of men who run Brazilian football. Known as cartolas, or big hats–the kind once favored by the sharp-dressing sports elite–they make the game happen. Ironically, they are now seen as perhaps the biggest threat to it, steeped in the arrogance and avarice that have put the sport in the dock. The Brazilian press overflows with stories about Miranda flagrantly breaking football’s rules, slandering elected officials and trying to intimidate referees. Now in the wake of December’s mayhem, he is being sued by the governor, investigated by the Senate and reviled by fans.
In his zeal for Vasco, Miranda knows few limits. “He will do anything,” says Arthur Antunes Coimbra, the great Zico, who became a legend playing for Flamengo. Just ask referee Paulo Cesar Oliveira. During a 1999 match, Oliveira sent off three Vasco players for faults. At the third red card, Miranda charged the field, a sea of Vasco fans in his wake. Oliveira had to be rescued by police. After a game last December when his coach, Oswaldo Oliveira, embraced opposing coach Luis Felipe Scolari–Miranda’s sworn enemy–Oliveira was summarily sacked. To anyone who dares challenge his authority, Miranda lets go with: “At Vasco, no one tells me what to do.”
Until now, that is. Vasco’s cartola may have thrown one fit too many. Governor Garotinho, who was watching the Dec. 30 game, has instructed the Rio attorney general to file suit against Miranda for defamation. Nearly 100 injured spectators have also filed for damages against the club. And that may not be the last of his woes. Legislators have asked to examine his banking records. As it happens, Miranda is also a congressman who sits on the special panel investigating professional football. Legislators are now threatening to strip him of his parliamentary immunity. This week he is scheduled to testify before the Senate. That may be more attention than even the showy Miranda wants.
