Sócrates is dead. It’s hard to see how anyone could be surprised. It’s also hard not to think that he died because he wanted to, since Sócrates always seems to have done what he wanted to. He smoked incessantly because it gave him pleasure; he seems to have ingested vast amounts of alcohol for the same reason. When people die from alcoholic poisoning — which is in effect what killed Sócrates — it’s usual to speak of their “demons”: he could never escape his demons, he could never conquer his demons, in the end his demons destroyed him. Few will use that language about Sócrates, in part because, according to much testimony, drinking didn’t really change his personality. He drank because he liked it, probably.
He was the anti-Bartleby: Melville’s scrivener went through life saying, “I would prefer not to.” Sócrates went through life saying, “I prefer to.” I prefer to drink; I prefer to smoke; I prefer to back-heel the ball; I prefer to take penalties without a silly run-up. I even prefer to get a degree in medicine, to be Doctor Sócrates. Though occasionally, it must be said, he did prefer not to: for instance, when playing for Corinthians he took no interest in celebrating goals, to the annoyance of the team’s fans, who expected more enthusiasm. Encouraged by the team’s coaches and owner to be more demonstrative, he complied by enacting absurdly over-the-top parodies of joy.
Brian Glanville once wrote of Sócrates that he seemed to be “strolling about the field in samba rhythm – never hurried, always inventive, occasionally breaking into a brisk trot.” The metaphor is too easy and therefore wrong. The samba is rhythmical and collective; Sócrates was fundamentally arrhythmic and idiosyncratic, both on and off the pitch. With his vision, passing precision, and imposing stature, he could control a game when he wanted to; he just didn’t always want to. He understood well his own unpredictability, saying of himself, “I am an anti-athlete. I cannot deny myself certain lapses from the strict regimen of a sportsman. You have to take me as I am.”
It might seem strange that so idiosyncratic a character would have been named the captain of Brazil’s national team, but perhaps because whatever he did or said welled up from some inscrutable interiority, he was believed to be incorruptible, un-shaped by external forces. Such a personality will be either a powerful leader or a completely marginal figure; Sócrates was sometimes one, sometimes the other. When he convinced his Corinthians teammates to rebel against the tyranny of their team’s organizational structure, to insist on Democracia — they wore this legend on their shirts — and they went on to win the state championship in São Paulo, he said that that was “perhaps the most perfect moment I ever lived.”
That’s something an artist might say, not a political leader — which is perhaps why he never ran for President of Brazil, though Muammar Qaddafi encouraged him to. Though he deeply admired Ché, he could never have been Ché, thank God: he lacked the ruthlessness, the libido dominandi. Preference was always more important to him than power. Oscar Wilde famously said that he had put only his talent into his work: it was his life that displayed genius. Surely Sócrates would have said the same for himself, or would have wanted to.
So perhaps he had a demon after all, in the sense that his namesake did: the Greek philosopher famously said that when faced with difficult decisions he took counsel from his daimon, his inner voice that told him what to do. Things always worked out well, he said, when he followed the instructions of that voice. The daimon of the Brazilian Sócrates, though, lacked the consistency and ethical earnestness of the one that drove the philosopher. It might at any moment tell him anything — anything except “Take care,” or “Would that be prudent?”
So as we think of Sócrates, perhaps it is best to think of the last time he was on the soccer pitch in any sort of official capacity: in October of 2004, playing briefly, at the age of 50, for Garforth Town Football Club in the Northern Counties East Division One league. Why did he do it? Because the team’s owner, Simon Clifford, asked him to manage, and he thought it would be worthwhile to teach, and perhaps fun to play as well. So off he went to West Yorkshire, a world away from Brazil but only a few miles from Leeds, trotting about on the pitch in front of a few hundred people. He had obeyed his unpredictable daimon once more, and why not? “It was much faster than the type of football I’m used to. It was a lot more competitive and keenly fought but I really enjoyed it and it was an interesting experience.”
After a few weeks he preferred to return to Brazil, where he smoked, and drank, and talked with wit and intelligence, and then died. Day by day, the daimon offered him the hemlock. So he took it.
Read More: Sócrates, Time Doth Transfix
by Alan Jacobs · December 6, 2011
recklessness. how unseldomly does it dictate life. and death.
I enjoyed this but not too sure about making claims about his “daimon” or that “It’s also hard not to think that he died because he wanted to”. That would defeat his whole “rush to the hospital for treatment” situation.
Beautiful text!
A beautiful text, no doubt. Emphasizes Socrate’s peculiar character in the pitch and outside it , under many aspects also, no doubt again, a brilliant character.
The fact, however, that “he smoked incessantly because it gave him pleasure; he seems to have ingested vast amounts of alcohol for the same reason” is not exactly a justifiable point of his life.
To the contrary it is a point that clearly contributed for his premature death, at the age of 57, with evident signals of physical decadence.
Really enjoyed it. Great writing!
RIP Socrates
He captained Brazil 82, one of best football teams ever. Unforgettable.
Marcus Aurelius preached moderation. Obviously Socrates was less interested in this philosophical perspective. Truth be told, there are worse ways to go, and in my opinion it’be better to live on your own terms and dictate the life that you live.
Reading this makes me wish I was old enough to watch him play. My father was a huge fan of his. What an interesting character who all soccer fans will mourn the passing of. Rest In Peace.
Tim Vickery’s article about him is a good one. He lived a life of fulfilment and excess, said a lot, yet there was a feeling that he could have done and said more too in the future, and you don’t say that about too many dudes at age 57. Vickery says he could have been the voice against the whole “Don’t speak ill of the WC preparation unless you don’t love Brazil” vibe. It’s sad.
Good read. Born in the year of the Brazil ’82 squad all I really know is the legend of Socrates. My memory of him playing is limited to the clip of a screaming volley to the upper corner from 30 or so yards out, courtesy of a 1001 Goals VHS tape worn thin during my younger years.
So, is there a player out there today comparable to Socrates, on and/or off the pitch? Or has the player of his like been ruled irrelevant by the “modern game”? (And, normally I hate this sort of era/player comparison but I feel from what I’ve read he may be an extinct breed and would like to see if anyone can support that hunch or prove otherwise…)
@bahns There’s really no such thing as a “screaming volley”. There’s a screamer, and there’s a volley. But not a screaming volley.
@Alexander Who is it, exactly, who prohibits the use of the adjective “screaming” with the noun “volley”? I need to know because I don’t want to get on the wrong side of those dudes.
@bahns – That I can think of and this is only on the pitch, Paulo Henrique Ganso comes close in terms of style. And even that is when he was fit a year and a half ago.
WOW! I haven’t been around here in quite some time…. but I really hope this isn’t what the RoP comments section has become.
@Alan Jacobs You need to give me a heads up about that lot; I’m clearly out of line with my choice of unacceptable soccer nomenclature.
@Ziggy Thank you for the thoughtful comment, I do appreciate it.
Reflecting on Socrates for me now seems to be like experiencing an over-stylised dream about the 80’s – the kind of dream that heavily romanticises a past whose only real romance was distinctly modern. His rolled down socks, his long hair, his one-step penalty (that eventually caught him out) and his effortless grace were a joy to behold for a young boy just falling in love with the game. In ‘82 he made the world see that heroes can be real and although they might not always win, they ALWAYS fight the good fight ……… right upon till the very end.
Rip Socrates. You were my hero as a kid!
I think this is very true because if you are doing something you love and are good at it, people are going to love watching you and love you to.
Liked this.
I went to see him play for Garforth and I’d guess more than a thousand people were there.
Slightly surreal viewing, it was a truly Arctic climate at the Genix Healthcare Stadium and he was wrapped up in about 15 un-matched layers – he looked like a tramp.
If I recall correctly, Garforth actually got a penalty around the hour mark, and you could see Simon Clifford desperately wanting to bring him on so he could make his bow with a goal.
Unfortunately he didn’t arrive quickly enough (rumour was the ref wouldn’t let him on until he found some shinpads) and the penalty was wayward.
Great occasion though, and I thought it was fantastic that he came over, presumably from pure curiousity.
Always sounds like an unusually intriguing footballer.
I enjoyed this article about Socrates. I do also know that Socrates always seems to have done what he wanted to because of his pleasure. May be this is the reason of his death. May be It’s funny, Or May be It’s the truth
Great piece on one of the finest footballers d game has ever known