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Words and Images: Joey Corlett
A Club Hidden in Plain Sight
Reading through Chris Hylland’s seminal book Tears At La Bombonera, he dedicates a chapter to this club: “a short excursion to Excursionistas.” It was a passage that first introduced me to the existence of the club and the strange contrast in which it sits within Buenos Aires.
Excursionistas are based in the leafy barrio of Belgrano in the north of the capital, about a 20-minute walk from River Plate’s El Monumental. Just one block away, you’ll find Starbucks and McDonald’s, with beautiful bakeries and restaurants even closer.
Their home ground, Estadio Excursionistas, sits in surroundings that feel worlds away from the typical image of a third-division Argentine club. A golf course lies to the east, while multi-storey apartment blocks loom over the north and west sides of the stadium.
It wasn’t quite what I imagined when first reading about the club.
An Unexpected Fixture
I had hoped to visit the stadium, but the time of year I had chosen to travel to Buenos Aires meant that the lower-division seasons had already finished. I resigned myself to missing the ground.
What I had overlooked, however, was that Excursionistas had qualified for the Primera B promotion playoffs.
Earlier that day I had been touring La Bombonera. Later, while waiting for a bus back towards the centre of town, I realised I had no plans for the evening. On a whim, I opened the Futbology app to see if anything might be happening.
Refresh.
Excursionistas vs. Argentino de Merlo. Kick-off in two hours.
Suddenly, I was on my own excursion to Excursionistas.
A Slight Wardrobe Problem
On the bus journey north across Buenos Aires, there was one detail I had completely overlooked.
Argentino de Merlo plays in sky blue and white.
Thanks to my visit to Boca Juniors’ stadium earlier that day, I was wearing a blue coat with light blue shorts.
Arriving in Belgrano, the contrast with La Boca was immediate. Towering apartment blocks lined wide streets filled with cafés and storefronts. It felt like a completely different city.
Walking a few blocks towards the stadium, I spotted the queue for the ticket windows. The process was simple: tap the card, collect the physical ticket, and head through the turnstiles after a quick pat-down.
Game number eight of the trip awaited.
A Proper Argentine Ground
Despite its upscale surroundings, once inside the stadium, everything felt reassuringly familiar.
The pitch was ringed by fencing topped with coils of barbed wire. The stands were simple, functional and intimate. Whatever Belgrano might look like outside, this was still unmistakably Argentine football.
I found a seat in the tribune among a mix of supporters — young and old, men and women, and even the occasional fellow gringo groundhopper.
There were a few curious glances from nearby fans, which I initially dismissed as the usual “what’s a foreigner doing here?” look you sometimes get at lower-league matches.
Then the teams walked out.
Argentino de Merlo were wearing blue from head to toe.
The stares suddenly made more sense.
Internally I was apologising to everyone around me: “I swear I’m not an infiltrado.”
The Noise of the Popular
The popular stand was in full voice from the start.
Through the fencing, it looked like the entire barra brava had squeezed into a single terrace. Umbrellas bounced above the crowd while trompetas and bombos blasted out their relentless rhythms.
Even from the tribune, you could feel the energy rolling around the ground.
The crowd near me added their own theatre. Despite my limited Spanish, I could follow most of the jokes and jibes being exchanged.
One supporter arrived late after kick-off and was immediately greeted with a chorus of mock outrage:
“¿Dónde has estado?!” — Where have you been?
The star of the section was an older man in a flat cap who seemed to know everyone. He drifted between conversations and wasn’t shy about shouting at opposition players when they wandered too close to the fence.
The Mystery of the “Allegados”
Within minutes, Argentino de Merlo had struck the post, prompting a surprising reaction from one corner of the ground.
Normally, there are no away fans at most Argentine stadiums. But further down the pyramid, there is the curious phenomenon of the Allegados.
Roughly translated as “friends and family”, these are small sections reserved for relatives, staff and associates of the visiting team.
In theory.
In practice, as my Argentine friend and photographer Dani (@chicagoanalogico) later confirmed, it’s not uncommon for a few braver away supporters to slip in among them.
On this night, it appeared more than a few cousins and brothers had made the journey to Belgrano.
The result was a constant back-and-forth of chants and insults across the stadium — a running dialogue that the witty group around me enthusiastically joined.
A Goal Out of Nowhere
Sadly for the home fans near me, the breakthrough went the other way.
After a loose pass in midfield, Merlo’s Lucas Scarnato noticed the Excursionistas goalkeeper off his line and launched a hopeful looping effort toward goal.
The ball sailed high into the Buenos Aires night sky. As it dropped, the goalkeeper scrambled desperately back toward his line.
He failed to reach it.
For good measure, he collided with the post as the ball bounced into the net.
The reaction around me was immediate and colourful, with far stronger language than the ever-present “La concha de tu madre.”
A Long Night for the Goalkeeper
The second half brought little relief.
Excursionistas briefly pulled themselves back into the game at 2–1, but moments later disaster struck again.
A simple backpass was misjudged completely by the same unfortunate goalkeeper. Slipping as he made contact, he effectively presented the ball to the Merlo striker, who calmly rolled it into an empty net.
The scorer celebrated by gesturing to the home crowd to calm down.
A braver man than me.
Even after Merlo were reduced to ten men, the match finished 3–1 with Excursionistas clearly second best.
Authentic Fútbol
The popular stand, however, never stopped singing.
At one point the chants turned into a demand for the team to show more courage — expressed, of course, in language far less polite than that.
Despite the defeat, the evening had delivered exactly what I had hoped for: a wonderfully raw and authentic football experience in one of Buenos Aires’ most unlikely neighbourhoods.
The tie would end badly for Excursionistas. They lost the second leg 4–0, crashing out of the playoffs 7–1 on aggregate.
Hopefully, only a few Allegados were present to witness that.
There was no fairytale comeback, but there was something just as memorable: a small stadium, a passionate crowd, and a reminder that the soul of Argentine football lives far beyond the famous grounds.
THE ATLANTIC DISPATCH STUDIO
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The Atlantic Dispatch Studio is the creative arm of our publication — a full-service content studio built on storytelling, design, and culture.
The Buenos Aires Dispatch: Belgrano Under the Floodlights: An Unexpected Night with Excursionistas
Words and Images: Joey Corlett A Club Hidden in Plain
Saint-Étienne: More Than a Club, A Family: Life in Le Chaudron
Words and Images: tonpotdemoutarde In Saint-Étienne, football is rarely a
Heart of Midlothian: The Fairytale of Tynecastle
All words and images by Guirec Munier Guirec Munier made
THE ATLANTIC DISPATCH STUDIO
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All words and images by Guirec Munier
Guirec Munier made his way to Tynecastle Stadium, home of Heart of Midlothian, to witness a club who are in the midst of a dreamlike campaign, which could see them break the Old Firm monopoloy which has existed in Scotland for over 40 years.
Usually, we don’t choose our family — but we do choose our friends. In the case of Hearts, the two are one: inseparable, intertwined, beating with the same pulse beneath maroon scarves and winter skies.
As I stepped off Lothian Bus number 25 and walked up Gorgie Road towards Tynecastle Park, something unspeakable — almost unfathomable — hung in the air, as though the bricks themselves carried memory. A quiet sense of fraternity was palpable — not loud or ostentatious, but steady and enveloping, like a familiar embrace. The warmth of the Scottish people isn’t an empty phrase or a tired cliché for visitors; it reveals itself in passing words and knowing smiles — and goes beyond politeness to become something closer to communion.
To be honest, I hadn’t done my homework before heading to Hearts v Livingston. I had no idea that Heart of Midlothian is the largest fan-owned club in the UK. The atmosphere around the stadium suddenly made perfect sense, as if the stands themselves were breathing with collective ownership and pride. Hearts is a family affair — not metaphorically, but structurally, spiritually, almost genetically. And family is sacred.
Transgenerational, and with a strong feminine presence, the crowd of the Gorgie Boys resembles a photograph taken at a family reunion — slightly chaotic, deeply affectionate, wonderfully ordinary. Men, women, and children gather not merely to watch a match, but to share a slice of life, to pass down traditions, to stitch memory into the fabric of a Saturday afternoon.
All words and images by Guirec Munier
All words and images by Guirec Munier
First Sight
Standing on the footbridge spanning the railway line that separates Harrington Street from Cleethorpes Beach, my gaze falls upon a stadium nestled in a sea of terraced houses.
Love at first sight.
The exact representation of what a stadium is — or should be. A ground deeply rooted in its community, one that hasn’t sacrificed its soul on the altar of prosperity.
Blundell Park.
Grey Skies, Haddock and Anticipation
In the windswept streets of Cleethorpes, the colour of the sky seems to have rubbed off on everyday life. Grey. On this day, only Grimsby Town appear capable of brightening reality.
As the minutes tick by, Mariners supporters converge on McDonald’s on Grimsby Road and the local chippy, The Gr8 White Fish. Cleethorpes obliges: haddock and chips are on the menu.
Sated — my thumb and forefinger still greasy — I take Blundell Avenue back towards Harrington Street. There, Bradford City fans disembark from coaches specially chartered for the match and head towards the second impasse leading to the away section. In front of the wooden façade of the Main Stand, sandwiched between back gardens, four turnstiles reserved for Bantams supporters sit beneath coils of barbed wire.
From the outside, Blundell Park seems frozen in the pre-Hillsborough 1980s. From the inside as well.
An architectural gem to be preserved for some; the ugliest stadium in Britain for others. Blundell Park divides opinion.
“The Ugliest Stadium in the World”?
How can a stadium arouse such contrasting feelings?
In 2016, talkSPORT put the cat among the pigeons when it published a ranking of the worst and ugliest football stadiums in the world. Blundell Park placed a dismal second.
According to GiveMeSport, with stands of completely different sizes and lengths, the ground looks skewed and poorly conceived. In desperate need of refurbishment, with parts appearing to crumble, it is deemed unattractive and unfit for modern football. Considering it opened in 1899, they argue, it is remarkable that it is still standing.
In short, talkSPORT and GiveMeSport advocate standardisation and endorse the quiet sterility of modern football.
Character Over Comfort
Standardisation and sterility? Nothing of the sort.
Mighty Mariner, Grimsby Town’s mascot, greets me with open arms. The Main Stand — a vestige of football’s early days and the oldest stand in the English Football League — brims with character. Admittedly, the view is restricted by timber framing and wooden pillars, but what pleasure there is in sitting on a folding wooden seat on a cool spring afternoon.
To the left stands the Osmond Stand, financed by proceeds from the 1939 FA Cup semi-final at Old Trafford — an attendance record that still stands. Its L-shape, formed at the junction with the Main Stand, reflects periods of sporting success: promotions to the First Division in 1902 and 1929, and that famous 1939 cup run.
To the right, the Pontoon Stand was also built with funds raised by Grimsby Town supporters. The Findus Stand, financed by the frozen food brand that sponsored the club between 1979 and 1984 and served as a major local employer, offers a panoramic view of the Humber Estuary, where trawlers once returned laden with cod, pollock and haddock.
Even the floodlights tell a story. Standing 128 feet tall, these second-hand pylons illuminated Wolves’ first floodlit match at Molineux in 1953.
“It was the floodlights that made football magical for me — it turned football into theatre,” recalled a seven-year-old boy who attended that evening. His name was George Best.
Every element of Blundell Park carries its own narrative. Together, they crystallise the essence of the town.
A Town and Its Image
The town of Grimsby — and the bleak image that clings to it — mirrors the trajectory of its storied stadium.
The former largest fishing port in the world has indeed endured economic decline. But should we draw a line through its past to improve its present and future?
Like talkSPORT, one could imagine a tabloid peremptorily declaring that Grimsby is unfit for the modern world, that its horizons would be clearer after the arrival of bulldozers, or that Parliament should consider re-enacting the New Poor Law of 1834 for this corner of Lincolnshire.
But progress without memory is amnesia.
What Is Profit Worth?
If Grimsby Town ever decide to turn its back on more than 125 years of history by building a stadium resembling a shopping centre, the soul of the local community will have been traded for a vast car park, an unobstructed view, and shorter queues for overpriced pints.
It is not all profit, for fuck’s sake.
Blundell Park opened in the same week in September 1899 as White Hart Lane, Highfield Road, Hillsborough and Fratton Park.
Will it share the fate of the first two?
All words and images by Guirec Munier
All words and images: Luca Miscioscia
Luca arrived in Florence for the Fiorentina–Pisa derby, but not for the match alone.
He came to walk the streets of the Renaissance, to sit at a traditional Florentine table, and to feel how a city of art responds when football becomes urgent. Because in Tuscany, rivalries stretch beyond ninety minutes, they are written into bread without salt, into civic pride, into history itself.
This is his experience of Florence: the food, the view, and a derby decided by fine margins.
We’re in Tuscany, central Italy, in the legendary city of Florence, cradle of the Renaissance, a city of art and history that welcomes millions of visitors from all over the world each year.
The Ponte Vecchio stretches across the Arno like a symbol of permanence. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore dominates the skyline. The Uffizi Gallery holds centuries of artistic genius. These are just some of the treasures you find here.
From Piazzale Michelangelo, in the upper part of the city, Florence opens up completely. You can admire it in full — rooftops, domes, towers, and the Arno River dividing the city into two. It’s a view that reminds you how much history lives within these streets.
But Florence is not only art and architecture.
It’s also food.
At the Table
I visited Trattoria Da Mario, a traditional Florentine restaurant where the atmosphere feels unchanged by time.
I started with ribollita.
Florentine ribollita is a rustic dish of peasant origin — a “lean soup” made with vegetables, legumes, and stale bread. It comes from a tradition of wasting nothing, especially bread. Originally, peasant women prepared large quantities of vegetable and bean soup, often on Fridays, the traditional day of fasting. The following day, the leftovers were “reboiled” in a pot with a drizzle of olive oil — hence the name ribollita.
Even the bread tells a story. Stale bread, known as pane sciocco, became popular in Florence when Pisa held a monopoly on salt. In response, Florentines began making unsalted bread — still called “sciocco” or “raffermo” today.
Even in cuisine, the Florence–Pisa rivalry runs deep.
Next came the rib-eye steak — locally called ciccia. Rare and delicious, just as it’s prepared in Florence. Paired with baked potatoes and a glass of red wine, it was simple, direct, and deeply satisfying.
To finish, I had a typical Florentine dessert: cantucci col Vin Santo, dry almond biscuits dipped into Vin Santo, the Tuscan dessert wine made from carefully selected grapes. It’s not just dessert; it’s ritual.
Before leaving, I stepped into the kitchen to watch the chefs at work. A memorable moment in a traditional restaurant where the air carries the scent of history and regional identity.
If you’re passing through Florence, this is a place worth seeking out.
The Derby
And then, football.
Not just any match — Fiorentina–Pisa. A true Tuscan derby between two historic cities.
This season, Fiorentina has struggled and sits in the relegation zone, as does Pisa, who returned to the top flight after 34 years away. The stakes felt heavy before kickoff.
I was seated in the Maratona stand, opposite the press box. Due to maintenance work, the Curva Fiesole has temporarily relocated to the Curva Ferrovia, but the intensity has not diminished.
For this match, maximum support was required — and the fans delivered, pushing the team forward without pause.
Fiorentina won 1–0.
It wasn’t just three points. It was a derby victory. A step toward survival. In Florence, the idea of relegation to Serie B is not something anyone wants to contemplate.
The opening choreography, with red and white flags — the historic colours of Florence — was striking. Simple, powerful, popular. Working-class in spirit.
The visiting ultras were absent due to the limited away allocation of 300 tickets and the requirement of a fan card — a system the Pisa ultras have consistently opposed.
Florence offers beauty, history, and culinary tradition in abundance. The city is well connected by train to other destinations such as Bologna, making it easy to explore the wider region.
But if you want to understand Florence beyond the postcards, combine the art and the food with a match at the Artemio Franchi.
In Tuscany, culture and football are never separate. They live side by side — in the streets, at the table, and in the stands.
All words and images: Luca Miscioscia
Words and Images: Joey Corlett
From Middle of the Road to Champions
Watching on from Europe in May 2025, as Club Atlético Platense finished sixth in Group B of the Apertura season, it wouldn’t have been shocking to miss the news in Argentina — let alone anywhere else in the world.
They ended the group stage with a record of six wins, five draws and five losses — about as middle of the road as you can get — yet into the knockout rounds they went all the same. By finishing lower in the table, they were burdened with the pressure of playing away from home, without the support of their fans in the stands.
Despite that disadvantage, they produced a remarkable run, defeating three of Los Cinco Grandes — Racing Club, River Plate and San Lorenzo — all in their own backyards, to set up a historic opportunity: their first-ever Primera División title.
They headed north to the province of Santiago del Estero for the showpiece final against Huracán. In a nail-biting contest, they snatched a 1–0 victory to become Apertura champions.
A Decade of Transformation
Just ten years earlier, Platense had been battling in the metropolitan third tier of Argentine football and only returned to the top division in 2021.
Seeing them put together such a grand run and celebrate with an open-top bus parade through their barrio felt incredibly heartwarming in this era of predictable winners and expectation-driven modern football.
However, fast forward a few months, and I arrived in Buenos Aires. Their title-winning managerial duo had left the club, and they sat bottom of Group B in the Clausura campaign with just two wins in fifteen games.
With the league phase of the Clausura coming to an end — and hopes of reaching the knockouts long gone — I made it a priority to visit the Estadio Ciudad de Vicente López.
One Last Chance
The fixture list offered one final opportunity: the closing match of their dismal run, with Gimnasia de La Plata visiting. Gimnasia themselves weren’t certain of a knockout place, with five teams separated by just three points.
Linking up with Amos Murphy, we hopped into a taxi and headed north. Platense’s home ground is located in the neighbourhood of Florida, right on the northern border where the capital ends and the greater Buenos Aires province begins. Situated alongside one of the main motorways out of the city, we arrived quickly.
A Quieter Corner of Buenos Aires
It was immediately noticeable that this was a quieter, more residential part of town.
Wandering towards the ground, there was a calm atmosphere as we searched for refreshments. We stumbled upon a large group of fans preparing for the evening — trumpets in hand, drums resting at their feet. They were curious about where we were from, made sure we were okay getting tickets and warmly welcomed us. A brief but lovely encounter.
We grabbed refreshments from a corner shop called The Martini’s, draped in brown and white flags. With a busy grill out front and fans snacking on choripán, it did the job perfectly for us. Two cans of Schneider before kick-off.
Welcome to the Home of the Champions
Following the waves of fans over the bridge, we could hear the barra brava already in position. The beautiful musical noise spilled back out of the stadium — the perfect appetiser.
We collected our tickets from a classic little window in the wall, handing over pesos for two paper stubs slid back to us. A small ritual you don’t experience much anymore.
Passing through police and ID checks, the man tearing tickets smiled:
“Where are you guys from?”
When we answered, he ripped the tops of our tickets and simply said:
“Welcome.”
Two gringos were welcome in Platense.
Underneath the popular terrace, we looked out over the green turf. The advertising boards and scoreboard both displayed the message:
“Bienvenidos a la Casa del Campeón.”
(Welcome to the Home of the Champions.)
After a few rounds of chants, we tuned in more closely to the barra brava.
“Are they singing about calamari?”
Yes. Yes, they were.
El Calamar
Platense picked up their nickname back in 1908. Their pitch at the time was close to a river and prone to flooding. Uruguayan journalist Antonio Palacio Zino wrote that the team played its best matches on muddy fields:
“Are they going to play against Platense? In the rain and mud? Then we already know who will win! Platense, in the mud, are like squid in their ink!”
And so, they became El Calamar.
Sunset and Defeat
Despite relentless effort on the terraces — one fan in front of us spent the entire match perched atop the crush barrier, seemingly with calf muscles of steel — the match itself didn’t live up to its side of the bargain.
Both sides struggled for control, but Gimnasia capitalised on Platense’s mistakes. The home goalkeeper failed to claim a simple cross, and Manuel Panaro nodded home after just 20 minutes, setting the tone.
We were treated to one of the best sunsets of my month in the Argentine capital — a stunning backdrop in stark contrast to the lack of quality on the pitch.
The visitors added two more without reply.
As the third went in, right in front of us, one Platense fan turned, wincing, head in his hands:
“This team is horrible.”
Yet when the final whistle blew, contradictions defined the night. That same fan was singing his team off as:
“¡Campeón!”
From the Neighbourhood to the Continent
We watched as banners were taken down — perhaps for the last time as reigning champions — before heading out to finish the night with cervezas and milanesas in a local spot. The perfect way to round off a Monday night in Buenos Aires.
Thanks to their Apertura heroics, El Calamar will play Copa Libertadores football, with “Del Barrio al Continente” (From the Neighbourhood to the Continent) currently emblazoned across the stadium.
After a disastrous Clausura campaign, a fascinating South American adventure awaits.
For one final match, Platense were champions — and they took every second of that last opportunity to celebrate it.
If you get the chance, head north and experience this authentic slice of Buenos Aires football.
Words and Images: Joey Corlett
Words and images: Markus Blumenfeld
For Markus Blumenfeld, football is more than a spectacle; it is a shared language spoken across continents. As the creator of The Global Game, a docu-series dedicated to capturing the stories, fans, and fleeting moments that make football special, Blumenfeld uses the sport as a lens through which to understand the world. His work explores the idea that football is an unspoken dialect, one capable of connecting people across borders, backgrounds, and belief systems. A uniting force in a divided world.
In Brazil, that language takes on its purest form.
From the concrete pitches of Rocinha to the thunder of the Maracanã, from São Paulo’s Várzea grounds to the red earth of Vila dos Sonhos in Minas Gerais, Blumenfeld traces football not as entertainment, but as inheritance — Patrimônio Brasileiro. Here, the game is survival and celebration, escape and expression. It is passed from father to son in the favelas, sung into the night by thousands in the stadiums, and defended fiercely by those who believe in the enduring spirit of Joga Bonito.
Through personal encounters — with young dreamers, devoted ultras, and barefoot street players — Blumenfeld reveals a country where football does not simply reflect culture; it shapes it. In Brazil, the beautiful game is not just played. It is lived.
Every generation has a Brazilian legend who made them fall in love with football. Before my time, it was Pelé. For me, it was Ronaldinho. Next came Neymar. The way they play — with flair, improvisation, and joy — turns football into a love story. Football is the “Brazilian heritage” (Patrimônio Brasileiro).
Brazil had always been a dream of mine — a football pilgrimage to the birthplace of Joga Bonito. I started my journey in Rio to experience the different layers of that history. In Rio, life and football bleed into each other. You feel it in Rocinha, the largest favela in Latin America. I went there to understand what the game means to people in these communities, and it was through personal stories that it began to make sense.
Through the eyes of Vitinho, a young father, football becomes the ultimate connector — a passion he is already passing on to his son. For him, the game represents freedom, community, expression, and opportunity.
He told me:
“The difference with football here in the favelas is that children need to have a dream to survive. And of course, the dream of every kid in the favela is to one day be a great player, to have the opportunity to improve life for your family. This is the Brazilian heritage, the culture of dreaming, to live with hope.”
Following Vitinho and his son gave a voice to Rocinha. We climbed narrow alleys and steep staircases to a concrete pitch hanging over the city. There, I played barefoot, witnessing a level of joy and intensity I had never seen before. Football here is both escape and pathway — a way out of poverty and violence in a place where there are so few other routes.
But the game does not live only in the favelas. It is the heartbeat of the carioca lifestyle, and in the stadiums, it feels unlike anywhere else. Outside, a sea of people — drinking, grilling meat, singing for hours before kick-off. On this trip, I saw SPFC, Santos, Corinthians, Fluminense, Botafogo, Vasco, and Flamengo. The Maracanã shook as Flamengo won, the whole of Rio spilling into the night. I experienced Corinthians’ infamous Gaviões da Fiel, one of the most intense and intimidating ultra groups in world football.
Still, it was Vasco da Gama and the iconic São Januário that stole my heart — intimate, historic, and beautiful. The stadium is carved into the working-class bairro de Vasco, in the heart of a favela. The club and its home ground are built on resilience and diversity in a way that feels deeply Brazilian. At half-time, you slip through a tunnel into a tiny Portuguese restaurant hidden inside the stadium walls.
In São Paulo, you feel a different rhythm: pelada on concrete courts, Corinthians shirts everywhere, and then Várzea on the edge of the city — muddy pitches, smoke from barbecues, local heroes who will never be on television but play as if their lives depend on it. I played pickup with some of the most talented street footballers I have ever met. There, Vinni tried to explain what Joga Bonito means to him and his friends.
“Don’t kill Joga Bonito,” he said. “Joga Bonito and street football in Brazil — it’s almost like our soul, you know? It’s our way of playing. We’ve been doing this since we were kids, when we didn’t have shoes. I think now Brazil is trying to follow the European way of playing, but we must remember we won five World Cups playing Joga Bonito — playing with joy, just expressing ourselves. I think we can win and play beautifully. And for those of us who came from poor backgrounds, it’s tough, because this is the only way we know how to express ourselves.”
Outside the cities, I travelled with Marcos Vinícius and Terra FC. We drove into the hills of Minas Gerais to Vila dos Sonhos — the Village of Dreams. It is a small football sanctuary where kids from the favelas come to play, learn, and breathe a different kind of air for a few days. No glamour, no stadium lights — just red earth, green pitches, and the sense that the game can still build something instead of simply selling it.
If Rio’s favelas and São Paulo’s Várzea show football as survival and expression, Vila dos Sonhos reminds you that it can still be a tool for possibility. Together, they form a full picture of what Brazilian heritage truly looks like: a ball, a dream, and a country that still believes in the soul of the beautiful game.
Words and images: Markus Blumenfeld
Markus Blumenfeld is the creator of The Global Game, a docu-series that captures the stories, fans, and moments that make football special. Using the beautiful game as a lens to view the world, the series explores football as an unspoken language—one that connects people from different places, backgrounds, and cultures. A uniting force in a divided world.
You can also find The Global Game on YouTube
All words and images: Gaetano Bastone
For Naples-born photographer Gaetano Bastone, football has never simply been a game. It is a language, a ritual, and a way of understanding people. Raised on street football and later combining that early passion with photography through his project INT ’O STREET, Bastone has long been drawn to the raw, unfiltered spaces where the sport truly lives.
In this piece, he turns his lens toward Brazil’s Várzea football scene, a vast and deeply rooted grassroots movement played far from the glamour of elite stadiums. What he discovers is not just competition, but community: Sunday gatherings where entire neighbourhoods come together, where children improvise with makeshift balls, elders grill meat on the sidelines, and organised supporters create an atmosphere as electric as any professional arena.
Through his experience at Campo do X do Morro and his immersion in Brazilian football culture, Bastone reflects on warmth, belonging, and a version of the game untouched by commercial pressures. His story is not just about Várzea football; it is about the enduring soul of football itself, and why, in Brazil, the sport feels less like entertainment and more like life.
I’ve loved street football since I was a child. At 18, I started managing futsal tournaments in my city. I then decided to combine this passion with photography, and the project INT ‘O STREET was born. In the first chapter, I documented the Scugnizzo Cup, the most famous street tournament in my city.
When I arrived in Brazil, I had only one idea in mind: to document Brazilian street football. Várzea football is a huge movement in Brazil — professionally organised tournaments where the protagonists aren’t famous players, but ordinary people with one shared passion: football. Sunday is a day of great celebration. On the sidelines, you can find old men grilling meat, children playing with a can or anything that resembles a ball, and organised supporters cheering on their team. It’s a unique spectacle for football lovers.
It was a truly unique experience. When I arrived at Campo do X do Morro, my first approach was timid. I was there with my close friend, photographer Rafael Veiga (@rveiga_), who explained to the organisers that I was a photographer from Italy. From that moment on, I received a star-studded welcome: direct access to the sidelines, a free official tournament jersey, and interviews. What I love most about Brazilians is their emotional warmth. I immediately felt at home.
If you love football and are in Brazil, you cannot miss the opportunity to attend a Várzea football match. It’s the best way to experience the purest side of the game, free from political or financial interests. Seniors, adults, and children all come together to enjoy a Sunday of football and fellowship. It’s a unique experience that can only truly be had in Brazil.
There’s no real comparison when it comes to football culture in Brazil. Football is everything there, and it’s experienced with immense passion. I used to believe that my city was among the most passionate in terms of football, but after visiting stadiums in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, my perspective completely changed. In Brazil, they sing before, during, and after the game — it’s a constant celebration to the rhythm of samba. People wear the colours of their favourite team throughout the week, not just on matchday. And there is always respect; if you wear a different jersey to mine, you are still my brother. Brazil is different. I’ve missed it since the day I returned home.
All words and images: Gaetano Bastone
