FLAMENGO THE RITUAL:A CALM FROM KNOWING THE STORY ISN’T OVER

April 10, 2025

Berlin-based photographer Lucas Dill writes for The Atlantic Dispatch about his experiences in Rio, taking in the famous Maracana and watching Flamengo.

A religion, a declaration of self

Rio is, perhaps unsurprisingly, known as the cidade maravilhosa—the marvelous city.

Brazilian poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade once described it as a flower, blooming not only in its gardens and parks but in its spirit.

Indeed, one could say that Cariocas were made by God on a sunny day.

You feel it in the rhythm of the city—the way people walk, laugh, and linger.

Above all else, Rio is a microcosm—its own solar system, with football at the very center.

Time feels slower here, like it’s drunk on sunlight and doesn’t really want to leave. The city moves to its own cadence, unbothered by urgency—except, maybe, on matchday.

On any ordinary weekday, you already feel it. You might suddenly find yourself in what you thought was an improbable conversation about Marcelinho Paraíba and Brazilian Bundesliga greats, as I did in a barbershop one afternoon.

People here don’t just remember. These days, they also lament. They list names like prayers: Dejan Petković, Romário, Edmundo, Adriano, Jorge Jesus.

They’ve all found their place in the iconography of this city, becoming stories passed between generations—memories of simpler times.

Taxis, bars, barbershops, corner shops—everywhere you look, someone is wearing a football kit. And chances are, it’s red and black.

Flamengo isn’t just a football club here. It’s an institution, a religion, a declaration of self.

It feels like the club’s resurgence in recent years has awoken something massive.

This is a sleeping giant that never truly vanished—but now, it walks taller than it did not too long ago.

You’ve never really suffered with this team

When Flamengo hosted Internacional, the city was buzzing in a way that felt almost ceremonial. Season kick-off at the Maracanã—the beautiful game’s cathedral.

I couldn’t help but make a mind map in my head: Pelé’s 1000th goal, Germany’s World Cup triumph, the Maracanazo of 1950—all those moments that had taken place right there. The weight of history.

From the first whistle, the noise never dipped. Supporters were already on their feet, singing, locked into something that felt more like a ritual than a routine. Banners waved like gospels, and chants poured out like prayers.

The match itself didn’t quite match the fever. Flamengo dominated possession and circled the box for most of the game but lacked output.

Inter held their nerve and, almost unfairly, scored first—a quick counter before half-time. Just like that, they silenced the saints.

When Flamengo equalized in the second half, the stadium erupted—not just in noise but in belief. That buzz, that communion, flooded the stands.

You’d think they’d just won the league. But no—it was just 1–1, an equaliser. Yet at that moment, the possibility was alive. It was real.

And then—prayers unheard—the final whistle blew. Draw. Disappointment, sure. But nobody left angry.

The crowd thinned out slowly but peacefully. Nobody kicked chairs or cursed at the sky.

There was a quiet understanding—the kind that comes from experience. A calm from knowing the story isn’t over. This, too, was part of the ritual.

There was faith in the air. Faith in the team. In time.

On the metro ride home, I stood near a father, his son, and the father’s friend. The friend asked the boy how old he was.
“Fourteen,” the kid answered.

The man smiled: “Then you’ve never really suffered with this team.”

Must be something, I thought.