Sorry, Mrs. Cobb - your husband is a vegetable. There's nothing more we can do. We're going to butter him up for surgery now... let's get the water boiling!
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Growing up in the favelas around Sao Paulo, owning a football was a pipe dream. Mostly we used an old sock filled with scraps of paper we found stuck to fences or dead bushes. Once in a while though, Robinho would steal a cabbage and cut some hexagons into it. We used to call that playing with a real ball and those matches are the stuff of lore in our neighborhoods today.
These days, our lifetime supply of the highest quality footballs is nothing next to our million dollar contracts, flashy cars, beautiful wives, mansions that would hold 40 families in the world we grew up in. Every year though, after the season ends, we all get together for old time's sake. Robinho steals a cabbage and we head out to some forgotten lot on the far side of town. That's where the game gets serious, and though you'll probably never find us, if you do happen to be passing by, by all means stop and cheer us on. Hell, we may even give you the ball when we're done.




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