As you all may know, yesterday a plane crash killed around 75 people, including most part of a Brazilian football team called Chapecoense. They were from a small town down south called Chapecó. I happen to have a good friend from there, almost a brother, I am godfather to his daughter. He wrote me a message, which I will translate. He would hate me now if he knew I posted it, but it is a beautiful message, it shows the (for me) completely incomprehensible way sports move people. As any good piece of writing, it belongs out in the open, not hidden in a drawer, or in a single mailbox. I translated it to English, I might have made a mistake here and there. My friend´s name is Daniel. "To begin with, Chapecoense´s nickname was always "Furacão do Oeste" [Western Hurricane]. I was born in 74 [Chapecoense was founded in 73]. December the eleventh, at 18:00 hours, a Chapecoense home match ended in victory. I was born. Fireworks and fireworks. The doctor told my mother that they were for me. My mother said they signaled the end of hard living. Hard living took a little longer to end. My father also took his time to show up. He was Chapecoense´s masseur. Obviously he knew shit about massage. He was there because he was part of the mass who helped the bourgeoisie found the team. When the match ended he went out to get drunk. He showed up a day later, with the match´s ball, and gave it to me. I guess it was the only present he ever gave me. I grew up looking at that ball. Chapecoense was the only link I had with my father. Today I feel he died again."