Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts? Is God to blame?
Somewhere between the haemorrhaging madness of trying to write a book, barely summoning the breath to tend to the ghost-embers of a relationship, and earnestly failing to cobble together a living wage, I had a moment of clarity watching the Rio Pro.
It came to me like a divine rain from the heavens, through the falling tears of Miguel Pupo, inconsolable after his round of 16 victory over Filipe Toledo.
They weren’t simply the welling tears of ordinary joy, relief or sadness. Nor the brief, sucked back sniffle of escaped emotion. But real, chest heaving, down on your knees, spittle, muck and spew tears.
It appeared to be something deeper than the sum of its parts. Something horrifying in its humanity.
But what, I wondered?
Surely not just a Round of 16 victory over Filipe Toledo? The King of Rio, Joe “Kingmaker” Turpel, still insisted. Despite the fact he had just been unceremoniously dethroned by a prototypical journeyman.
Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts? Is God to blame?
What was at stake for Miggy here? Not a world title, not a livelihood, not a top five spot. Not much that I see. And yet something in him split open.
So why the tears, Miguel?
Are Brazilian men born with a predilection for weeping? Do they have larger tear ducts?
Is it all the steroids and growth hormones washed from Brazilian bloodstreams to waterways?
Is god to blame?
Maybe there’s just something missing in me.
And then came the clarity: I have nothing to love. Not like that.
No purpose in life I truly believe in. I love my children, obviously. But that’s a kind of ordinary, bootstrapped love.
I’m not sure it’s comparable with Miggy Pupo’s love of a quarter final berth in the soft slump of Saquarema.
Yet there he was, radiant in his surfering and his suffering, anointed by god (probably) to chip away at a pro surf career, to miss the births of his children and shed real tears at a meaningless victory in the sad, soul-sucking warbles of the Rio Pro.
Aside from writing vaguely satisfying sentences like that, what am I missing from life?
What is this thing that others have and I do not?
Do you have it? I’d love to know.
Please sir, won’t you tell me how to feel!
Yet irregardless of emotion, performance or even pestilence, Mitchell Salazar and the rest of the clown commentary brigade blessed the broadcast with adjective upon adjective upon wild and untrue assertion upon othercompletemince.
Salazar is like a man trying to summon conviction from thin air. He said “potentially” six times in ten seconds.
Such is his fantastical obscurity, if he’d run into the booth shouting “there’s a troll in the dungeon!” Cote and Guerreo and Turpel would raise barely a brow.
He reckoned the wave Colapinto caught in the final for a single turn and 8.23 points was “the biggest wave we’ve seen in Saquarema” during the whole history of the event. He was so sure he said it twice.
Far be it from me to be pedantic enough to trawl through the nine year back-catalogue of the Rio Pro (which moved to Saquerama in 2017) in order to prove Mitchell Salazar wrong, but I’m happy to channel house-style (assertions without research) to say the barely head-and-a-half wall ridden by Colapinto was not the biggest wave we’ve ever seen in this competition.
In addition, and further contradiction to Salazar, I’ll say that Miguel Pupo does not have one of the most underrated careers in professional surfing, as Mitch claimed.
Rather, I might suggest he’s rated quite precisely: a solid, occasionally stylish pro with one event victory to his name in fifteen years.
“Hall of famer, for sure,” replied Cote, being sucked into the mire.
Pupo’s tears were the single notable event of the entire contest, which somehow felt like it lasted for a month. At least they were a reminder of the fact that this matters to someone, somewhere.
If you want the proverbial boot stamping on the surf fan’s face, then consider this: a heat total greater than fifteen was achieved only four times in the entirety of the event. Twice by Houshmand (semi and final) and once apiece by Ewing and Dora in the elimination round.
To add insult to Brazilian fans, the final was contested by the two whitest, all-American boys on Tour, Griffin Colapinto and Cole Houshmand, and played out to the discordant, hushed harmony of why-is-god-so-cruel on the Saquarema sand.
To be fair to Colapinto (freestyle rapping aside) he’s white in the same way a Bichon Frise is white. He knows not what he is, only that he is.
Cole Houshmand: 6’2”, 225 pounds, hair like Dennis Rodman. Just in case you’d forgotten, or misheard it the umpteenth time Joe Turpel reminded us.
Bit of a character, you say, Joe? Number 91, you say? Just like…Dennis Rodman?
Tell us again how big he is!
Tell us again why he dyes his hair and what a wild, fun-loving, Tate-suckling guy he is!
Turpel offered some partisan solace in claiming that Griffin Colapinto was “Saquerema’s adopted son”. Though evidence was so thin as to be non-existent in this regard.
And then, the final. A 9.40 for Cole Houshmand that was massively overscored, even by the often confounding metrics of WSL judging.
Houshmand had one turn that justified his existence, but probably not mine in watching.
Colapinto did one closeout smash that scored a low-eight to make it not entirely a walkover for Houshmand.
“It might be the best final we’ve seen all year long outside of Pipe, Joe,” slavered Mitch.
But it really wasn’t.
It’s just boot-meets-face, comp-after-comp.
For what?
Points? (Largely irrelevant for a world title.)
Money? (Paltry.)
Audience? (Disinterested, absent, imaginary.)
Salazar’s praise? (Enough said.)
Watching this parade of half-lit personalities and absent narratives, I found myself staring inwardly again (my specialty) and outwardly at the man I’ve been writing about – this mountain athlete of uncompromising drive. His life distilled to connection with landscape, egoless excellence, and an absence of compromise.
And love. Real love.
Miguel Pupo’s tears sort of love.
I’d like just a little of that to believe in.
