Ken Jones: Fighting the cliche about Brazilian brilliance on the beaches

A friend in football told it this way. Speaking at a convention of league managers, Bobby Robson enthusiastically offered an explanation for Brazil's pre-eminence in football. Recently back from Rio, he said: "It's the beaches you know, it's the beaches." Up spoke Jim Smith: "Bobby, if it's the beaches, why haven't Bournemouth won the First Division?"

Brazil and beaches form football's most irksome cliché. Pele did not visit Rio until his teens but where else could his stupendous talent have been formed if not on the sands of Copacabana? Actually, on the rutted streets of a railway junction but no matter, the beaches sound better. They fit an image of unique spontaneity, a style beyond emulation.

One cliché leads to another. Brazil's march on a fifth World Cup, after almost failing to qualify, prompted in several commentators the patronising conclusion that football provides poor Brazilian boys with their only escape from poverty. "Where would most of these players be without the game?"one asked. Hence, he added, the passion, the desire, the sumptuous artistry. Predictable? I think so. But let us move on.

Scanning the letters page on Tuesday, I came across one from Brazil. It bore the signature of Mike Brady, the name suggesting that he originates from these shores. "Ronaldo and the team are heroes," he wrote, "and the party in the street outside my window shows no sign of stopping, but Brazil is much more than slums and the world's best football team."

Brady went on to add that his wife, a paediatrician, grew up close to Ronaldo in Bento Riberio, a district of Rio. "Her sisters: a solicitor, a history teacher, a personnel manager and a director of her own nursery school. Her brother is an X-ray technician. Brazilians are hard-working and value education as a way out of poverty – as well as playing great football."

What struck me before I was halfway through Brady's letter was how it difficult it is to persuade people that the things they see before their eyes may not be the true story, simply the one they want believe. Shortly before Brazil defeated Italy in a penalty shoot-out to win the 1994 World Cup, a fellow toiler in this trade argued that no good could come from an Italian victory. "It would leave the game in the grip of coaches," he said. A former player of some repute, he had never taken kindly to instruction, found it boring.

When it was suggested to this argumentative fellow that Brazil probably were the best organised team in the tournament, he got personal. "You are blind to the obvious," he said. "Well," I replied, "is this the Brazil of 1970, of 1982, of 1986? Is it the Brazil of 1958, of 1962?" Intensely coached, relying heavily on Romario and Bebeto who struck form at the right time, Brazil in 1994 fell somewhere between their best and worst teams. They did not set many pulses racing.

Shortly before the recent World Cup began, not thinking much of Brazil's chances, certainly not enough to take the odds laid against them, I contacted Brazilian friends whose opinions are widely respected in their homeland. There was no hint of optimism. Little faith was placed in Brazil's coach, Luiz Felipe Scolari. Scolari's nickname, "Big Phil" made him sound like a Mafia soldier. "Don't expect much from us, Scolari is an insult to our tradition," one of my friends said. "There is no sign of another Tele Santana (Brazil's manager in 1982 and 1986). Turning out for Brazil has become a chore for our players."

Armed with this information, and taking Brazil's qualifying struggles into account, I steered clear of them in betting only to discover that they had taken Terry Venables' fancy. It was his view that if Scolari was able to sort out the defence, Brazil had enough flair to see off any team out there.

The notion that Scolari suddenly decided to liberate his players does not ring true. It is more likely that Ronaldo opened the door for them, his form persuading Scolari that no defence could confidently deal with their attackers. Even for Brazil, that is the way football works.

As some of us expected, the World Cup was won by a half-decent team playing to its full potential, boosted by the goalscoring of a centre-forward who was only 65 per cent fit. England were a half-decent team but ended up playing the worst 45 minutes seen from any in the tournament.

On the day after England's elimination, George Cohen received a call from a Sunday newspaper. "Do you agree with a parade for the England squad?" Cohen was asked. "A parade," Choen replied. "For reaching the quarter-finals? We didn't have a parade in 1966 and we won the bloody thing!"