Editorial: Brazil's allure is simply irresistible

All Whites striker Rory Fallon breaks down in tears after the final whistle against Paraguay this morning. Photo / Brett Phibbs

So it begins with an own goal.

Not the start the Brazilians or football fans were hoping for.

Said first goal of the 2014 Fifa World Cup came yesterday about 10 minutes after the opening game's anthems.

It's where the passion began.

The young Brazilian team, without exception and akin to a boy band auditioning for Portuguese Idol, belted out Hino Nacional Brasileiro. It was our first glimpse of the infamous Samba Boys' gusto.

(As an aside, compare it tonight with the All Blacks' anthem farce, where self-conscious nationalism will manifest itself in something that looks like 15-guys anticipating a cavity search).

Unlike the previous football world cup, the current tournament is sans All Whites. So, in lieu of our national 11, I've taken the populist option and sided with the Brazilians to win. Yes, I know, it's the soft bet.

But the team in the classic yellow and blue strip simply hold too much allure.

The fascination began for me in 1982, with Arthur Antunes Coimbra. Colloquially he was dubbed the "white Pele", but better known as Zico. His skill in Brazil's 4-0 win against the All Whites in Spain's 1982 Fifa World Cup culminated in his bicycle-kick goal. It left an indelible mark on a young rugby-head.

The team's infectious.

Lithe and sleeker than their robust European opponents, they rely on rhythm, pace and creativity. That's significant, given they're the only team to have qualified for every Fifa world cup, bagging five tournament victories for their efforts.

Playing in front of a home crowd underscores the fact the sport is as endemic in Brazil as rugby is here.

But it'd be folly to compare the hunger.

If sport is a religion, then All Black fans are devout and Brazilians are zealots.

I'm told the republic's banks shut three hours before a world cup match. I'd love to see it, but doubt we'd take the same liberty here.

While most in my generation grew up clutching an oval leather ball, smudged with fat from the previous night's roast mutton to keep it waterproof, we simply can't match the Samba Boys' devotion. Which, I suspect, is why such passion is universally irresistible.