'To Be Is to Be Perceived'
Is this even real life?
When I was a teenage boy who had yet to know true religion or the love of a woman, soccer stood at the front and center of my life. Most weekends, I sat with Nono at his kitchen table and listened for hours as he told me stories of the game’s legendary heroes, like the Black Chief, the great Uruguayan who led his nation to its last and greatest victory in the 1950 World Cup Final against Brazil.
Among the many important things done and said by the chief—birthname Obdulio Varela—was a line he uttered in the locker room as his men were about to face not just the best footballing nation in the western hemisphere but 200,000 rabid Brazilian fans stuffed like sardines into the Maracanã Stadium awaiting coronation as World Champions.
“When we walk out onto the pitch, don’t look up,” the captain shouted as the ceiling bounced from the weight of the fans. “The ones in the stands are made of sticks!” (I chronicle the entire story of the final and Varela’s life in “The Night of The Black Chief.”)
When professional sports returned in the summer of 2020, months after the COVID-19 pandemic upended nearly everything, the image that the Black Chief painted for his teammates became a dystopic reality.
In Germany, where people were barred from attending games in person, administrators placed cardboard cutouts of fans throughout the stadium.1 To motivate players running about in the eerie silence, clubs installed speakers hidden behind billboards along the sidelines. For those watching at home, cheers and boos were layered into the transmissions, with the EPL even offering a viewing option that featured audio from the FIFA video game. “It was horrendous, to be honest,” one fan said. “Not because I don’t enjoy the sound of crowd noise, but the fact it was fake.”
In a story he wrote many years ago about his love for Jorge Luis Borges, Hernán Casciari said that every answer to every question we might have about the modern world can be found in the writings of El Ciego.2 But while I enjoy the works of Borges that have been translated into English, his being born in an educated upper-crust family makes his Spanish impenetrable to me. So, instead, I read Casciari, whose language is more accessible. In the next day or two, I even plan to write the man himself an email as I explore a new project to translate more of his archive into English. (For those of you who have no idea who it is I’m talking about in every other post I make here, Casciari is the writer/real-life protagonist of Hulu’s The Best Heart Attack of My Life, which I sort of translated as “Good Things to Good People.”)3
The version of “Esse est percipi,” (“To Be is to Be Perceived”) that I translate below is actually a “cover” Casciari performed in 2019 for a book he later published in which he took 100 of his favorite short stories, adapted and shortened them to be read or listened to in under 5 minutes.
So this is an adapted translation of a cover of a short story that was actually pseudonymously written by Borges and his friend Adolfo Bioy Casares in 1967. The date will be important to consider by story’s end.
There is more that I could say here about the digitalization of society, the absurdity of sports fandom—particularly in the U.S., where our teams are easily bought up and moved by wealthy owners (though this didn’t stop the same from happening in England two decades ago with Wimbledon FC being moved up the road and turned into MK Dons).
But I’ll let the words of Borges and Casciari speak for themselves.
One day in 1960, the famous writer of detective fiction, Honorio Bustos Domecq, was bored and in search of inspiration for his next great novel. So he set out on a long stroll through Buenos Aires when he observed something curious. At the intersection of Figueroa Alcorta and Udaondo, rather than the enormous Estadio Monumental—the 80,000-seat home of powerhouse Club Atlético River Plate—was a giant vacant lot.
But it was just here, Domecq thought to himself, remembering the last time he’d passed by the stadium months earlier.
Now, that giant block of brick and cement where countless important league and World Cup games had been played was somehow gone. And the strange thing is, not a single person Domecq asked on the street about the disappearance had the faintest interest in discussing it.
Both frustrated and confused, the writer called up an old friend, Gervasio Montenegro, the chairman of the Argentine Academy of Letters, who knew everything about football and Buenos Aires. “If you want to resolve this, go see Savastano,” his friend said. “He’s the president of Club Abasto, a few streets over. Surely, he’ll know what happened.”
Fortunately for Domecq, Savastano’s secretary, Ms. Ojeda, said he had an opening that very afternoon.
Ms. Ojeda met the writer at the front entrance to the club. When he was let into the Savastano’s suite, a cup of tea, a glass of vermouth, and a tray of biscuits were waiting for him on a small table beside the ornate presidential desk. “I didn’t know which you’d prefer,” Savastano said. He was bouncing around the room and smiling through his teeth, still on cloud nine after the club’s team’s dramatic win against Newell’s Old Boys the night before, which put them in contention for the league title for the first time in a decade.
“What a player that Renovales is,” Bustos Domecq said, taking a seat across from the president. “And Musante—what a pass!”
The center-forward and winger had combined perfectly in extra time to seal Abasto’s victory, 1-nil. Savastano took pleasure in the greeting.
“Ah yes, it was quite the finish,” Savastano said. He implored the writer to sip of his choice beverage, then stared philosophically out the window for a few moments. “And to think, I came up with those names myself.”
“Musante and Renovales are nicknames?” Domecq asked, favoring the tea to the liquor. “I assumed those were their real names, listening to the fans sing them every weekend.”
The writer took a big sip, ready to move the conversation forward to the issue of the missing stadium before his time ran out. But Savastano stopped him abruptly.
“Mr. Domecq, do you mean to tell me that you still believe in fans and idols?” he asked, surprised by his guest’s naivete.
Just then, the secretary walked into the room with an announcement. José María Ferrebás, the most important commentator in Argentine football, was outside.
“Let him wait,” Savastano ordered. “Our friend here has a more pressing matter, but he seems a bit confused about the reality of our situation.”
Domecq was bewildered, both by the response and that the president would have Ferrebás, one of the most important figures in Argentine football, linger.
“It’s okay, Mr. President,” Domecq said. “Perhaps I need to rest. The truth is, I’ve been feeling a bit disoriented. We’ll reschedule for a better time.”
“Stay right there,” Savastano responded, halting him. “Ms. Ojeda, please tell the gentleman to join us.”
The commentator ambled in jovially and sat in the leather chair beside the writer’s. Savastano offered him tea, but he instead took the vermouth from Domecq’s tray and inquired for a cigar. The president had one waiting for him in his pocket.
“Ferrebás, we’ve already met with the Association,” Savastano said, sitting back and stroking his mustache before gesticulating. “It’s decided. The next match, Abasto wins again, 1-0. But it’s going to be a physical one, back-and forth, a dozen yellows, a few missed penalties. In the second half, just when the draw seems certain, their center forward will be ejected for a studs-up tackle on the keeper. In the 89th minute, Musante and Renovales will combine again to break the deadlock. And finito.”
Ferrebás took in the instructions.
“But listen here,” Savastano said. “We don’t want the same goal as always: ball to the right, dribble, cross, header. This time we need something special. Be creative. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Ferrebás said, downing his drink and pocketing his gift. He nodded to Domecq, who was frozen, holding an unbroken biscuit in his right hand, and left the room.
“So the results are fixed?” Domecq said, more to himself than to Savastano.
The president was surprised again by Domecq’s innocence.
“There are no results, my friend.” He poured another vermouth and offered it to the writer, who refused. “There are no teams, no games.”
“Mr. Domecq, I’m sure you noticed our stadium out front. The stands are falling to pieces. It’s due for demolition next Thursday. El Monumental was knocked down last Friday. Now everything in football takes place on TV and the radio. All that singing and dancing, the hyperbole of the commentators—that never gave away that it’s all a farce?”
Domecq let his head dip. No, he had no idea.
“The last football match was played in Buenos Aires on June 24, 1937,” Savastano said. “Since that day, football has become just another genre, a sort of drama. The games are written by screenwriters and performed by actors. And it’s not just our sport, you know. Much of what you believe in today doesn’t exist.”
“The space race?” Domecq asked.
“That’s a U.S.-Soviet co-production, very well done, too,” responded Savastano.
“Evita?”
“Ah, yes, a terrific actress,” Savastano said. “She’ll be up for an Academy Award next year.”
“Mr. President, you’re frightening me. You mean to say that, in the world, there is not a single thing that’s real?” Domecq inquired.
“Very little,” Savastano responded.
“But I’m surprised it’s bothered you so much, Domecq. Humanity is at home, relaxing on the sofa, eating chips, and attentive to what happens on the TV screen. What else do you want? This is the great march forward, the rhythm of progress imposing itself on the world.”
“And if the illusion is exposed?” Domecq asked.
“Who would bother themselves to do such a thing?” Savastano reassured the writer.
The conversation paused as Domecq finished his tea and moved to get up. Surely, he was still asleep.
“In any case, I won’t say a word after I leave,” the writer said. “I’ll keep this to myself, pretend this conversation never happened.”
Savastano smiled. “If it’s for my sake, friend, say what you’d like. No one out there will believe you.”
The phone rang suddenly, breaking the awkward tension.
“I must take this,” Savastano said. “We still have many details to resolve before kickoff.”
The president buzzed his secretary and indicated the way out. Domecq stood, unsure what else to do but finish his walk and go straight to bed, praying it was all a dream.
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In South Korea, rather than inserting the cardboard cutouts used in Europe, the administrators of FC Seoul placed sex dolls in the stands with signs cheering their boys to victory. (It didn’t work; the team finished 8th of 12 teams in K League 1 that season.)
Some compare Borges to the character from his epic short story, “Funes, the Memorious,” of a boy who, after suffering a head injury in a horse-riding accident, can remember absolutely everything. Casciari says Borges' memory was so epic because, after he’d lost his sight completely, his brain stored only text archives, not JPGs and MP4s. Read the full text of that story in English here.
Last month, Good Morning America featured a promo for the Hulu series. It does make me giggle that the only reason they did so is because Hulu and CBS are both owned by Disney, which has it in its best interests to promote the series. Casciari, like a shrewd player, makes fun of this shadiness in modern media in much of his writing while also exploiting it to make his writing ad-less and free for his faithful readers.