The date: November 17, 1895. The place: the hallway of an old collective housing house, located at 22 Flamengo Beach. The characters: Nestor de Barros, Mario Spindola, José Agostinho Pereira da Cunha, Napoleão de Oliveira, Lucci Cólas, José Maria Leitão da Cunha, Carlos Sardinha, Eduardo Sardinha, Desidério Guimarães, Felisberto Laport, George Leusinger, Maurício Rodrigues Pereira, Egydio Pereira, José Felix da Cunha Menezes, and Domingos de Azevedo Marques, who had arrived by chance, without even suspecting what was about to happen there. The event: the founding of a rowing club, which they called the Flamengo Regatta Club.
Those who, by chance, had attended the meeting, on a splendid Sunday morning in Rio, would have been certain that it was a mere and inconsequential adventure of a small group of young athletes, and that it would last the fleeting time of a summer dream.
After electing the first Board of Directors and inaugurating the President, precisely the midshipman Domingos de Azevedo Marques, the Assembly's first decision, and unanimously, was to retroactively, for the purposes of official celebrations, the date of the club's founding to November 15th, a national holiday, in honor of the Proclamation of the Republic.
Nothing could be more prescient or wise. Flamengo's anniversary had to fall on a day of celebration, of civic exaltation, a holiday that would last into the future, since, in the opinion of the founders, the Republic, proclaimed six years earlier, "was here to stay."
On Flamengo's birthday, whatever day of the week it fell on, one could celebrate, in a moving celebration, the perpetuation of the dream come true.,,,,,,
From then on, November 15th would no longer be identified, in social memory, only with the birth of the Republic, but also, and mainly, with the creation of another nation, which will remain forever, the red-black nation, of which we are faithful and dedicated subjects and to which we surrender ourselves with the volcanic passion of those who give themselves completely, with the devotion of those who have faith, with the pride of those who perceive the greatness of their feelings.
The initial meetings of the Board of Directors, elected by acclamation by the small group of apparent visionaries, were held on a bench in Largo do Machado, in the dim light of gas lamps, often in the wee hours of the morning. Minutes and attendance books were filled out on the knee of the Secretary, Nestor de Barros.
Not even the most romantic of optimists, or an inveterate gambler, would bet on the survival of the new club.
Only later did it become clear that something magical had happened, one of those moments, for reasons unknown, that build eternity, that break the monotonous chronology of time, that merge past and future. A spark of energy that makes and writes the history of nations.
Later, once the regatta club was consolidated, they opened their doors to football, under the leadership of Alberto Borgeth, who had broken with the Fluminense board, abandoning it along with almost all the other players, and taking refuge at Flamengo.
The red-and-black mystique spread throughout the country. Like an epidemic in reverse, the epidemic of good, the uncontrollable contamination of the pride of being Flamengo, with the delicious feeling of always having someone to love, viscerally, as its symptom.
Today I am absolutely certain that Flamengo was born to break the routine of life's common facts.
Being a Flamengo fan, for example, is not a simple matter of choice in the face of some subsequent circumstance that affects us, as happens with those who choose other clubs.
Being Flamengo is a biological determinism, a mystery that rational logic has yet to explain. We are born Flamengo fans, we grow up Flamengo fans, and we die Flamengo fans.
Being Flamengo is like personality itself, which begins at birth and is a natural attribute of human beings, guaranteeing the preservation of their dignity.
We don't need to explain to anyone the reason we became red-and-blacks. After all, we don't even know it.
Flamengo didn't offer itself to us. We offer ourselves to it. Flamengo doesn't give us anything materially. We give it everything. Flamengo doesn't charge us for our lives. We give it our bodies and souls.
Flamengo makes us proud, but not arrogant, generous and understanding with others who did not have the luck or good sense to choose it to love.
Because of him, we feel like heroes of battles we haven't even fought yet, pilgrims on paths yet to be trodden, and we discover that we are people, and not just fans.
Today we celebrate more than just another anniversary of our founding. Its 113 years: the age of Flamengo is not measured chronologically or by its glories.
Every November 15th we celebrate life itself, the reason for our most sincere and eternal feelings, thanking for the happiness of having been born red-black, and reaffirming our commitment to serve it, ever more dedicatedly and passionately.
Flamengo makes what would otherwise seem incoherent lucid. Who among us hasn't sworn never to watch another Flamengo game after a defeat that seemed humiliating? And there we are, the following Sunday, even more enthusiastic, cheering like we're drunk on love. And if they demand we keep our promise, we attribute it to a lapse of absolute insanity, thankfully now cured.
Flamengo democratizes because it recognizes no classes, much less races; Flamengo takes to the streets, doesn't stay confined to its headquarters, climbs the hills, crosses borders, overcomes physical distances, and brings everyone together.
The red-blacks become brothers, not by blood, but by feeling, by passion.
Flamengo is a dream dreamed every day in the stands and palaces. And the sound, heard from any distance, is a call that is always answered.
Flamengo is our family, our promised land, the estuary of our most cherished dreams, the river through which our life flows.
Flamengo is the backwater and the rapids; reality and utopia, yesterday and tomorrow, because it is everything.
I am fully aware that I was unable to define Flamengo.
He is like time and longing, which also cannot be defined.
Time simply passes, the longing only hurts, but Flamengo, you can feel it!
I tried to put on paper what we all here, united under the protection of the “sacred mantle”, are feeling, in moving union. I tried to be the interpreter of a passion, the spokesperson of a nation.
As long as there is time, as long as there is human dignity, as long as there is love, Flamengo will always exist.
AND THIS IS WHY “ONCE FLAMENGO, FLAMENGO UNTIL DEATH!!!!!!”.