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About Porto

I remember this one time—my cousin Jimmy, he had a beat-up ‘86 Escort, blue, rusty as hell. Thing sounded like a lawnmower with asthma, but it got him to his factory job every damn day. One winter, it slid into a ditch—Jimmy laughed, said, “She’s got character, Bern!” Character! Like Margot Tenenbaum smokin’ on the roof—“You’re a genius, huh?”—that’s the Escort, scrappy, real, not some polished Tesla for Elon’s buddies.

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Then, I get a call on the radio. “We need backup at Rua da Liberdade!” What? I’m like, “What’s happening now?” So, I rush over, dodging people and balloons. Turns out, some kids were playing football, and they kicked it into a shop window. Classic! The shopkeeper was fuming, yelling in Portuguese like it was the end of the world. I mean, it’s just a window, right?

Raoni Barcelos: ‘I Hope My Opponent Is Ready’