I first saw Pele in the flesh near the check-in counter of a hotel in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where he was to address a seminar way back in 1997.
It was an alluring sight.
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There was, to my mind, the most recognisable face on the planet. Probably, in terms of numbers then, the most of all time.
What is amazing is that Pele’s visage has not changed from the pictures and videos of his exploits as a 17-year-old in the 1958 World Cup to those sad images of him fighting hard for survival in a hospital bed.
Pele delivered striking lectures at the seminar called The Future of Soccer. I’ve always known him to be modest, besides being a humanitarian, and for one moment, I thought he had changed.
For, during one lecture, he said: “No, there will never be another Pele.” But in a flash, like many of his electrifying moves on the pitch, he continued after a pause: “Because after I was born, my parents shut the machine!”
The guffaws he drew probably matched the decibels that accompanied the goals he scored.
The media were privileged to meet Pele one-on-one after the seminar and given the priceless opportunity to have a photo clicked with the great man.
I was one of the lucky ones. But, last in the queue, and not exactly presenting a very physical sight, the organizers brought the curtains down on the interaction much to my horror.
I yelled as though my life depended on it. Pele on his way to the exit, half-turned and stopped right in his tracks. The smile, of course, never left his countenance. He realised what had happened and beckoned me onto the stage.
He made sure I was compensated by spending more than the 30 seconds each he spent with the other journalists.
I took the opportunity to tell him that besides his amazing play on the football pitch, I admired him for what he said moments after he scored his 1,000th goal, for Santos against Vasco da Gama, in front of 80,000 at the Maracana Stadium in Rio de Janeiro in 1969.
Mobbed by hordes of journalists, both print and TV, and with dozens of microphones thrust into his face, Pele, realizing the breadth and depth of a global audience, barely spoke anything about football. Instead, he appealed for help to the needy, the aged, the invalid…
My wide-eyed blabbering may have stretched his capacity to follow what I was saying, but he smiled and nodded graciously.
I daresay that moment is the best in my journalistic career and has compensated me for the unfavourable lifestyle replete with odd hours and the graveyard shift that is part and parcel of the job.
Rest in peace, Edson Arantes do Nascimento, or simply Pele. Not just Brazil’s treasure but also the world’s.
