A dramatized account, inspired by real events. 1979, Campeonato Paulista, Santos vs. Portuguesa. Canindé Stadium, São Paulo. 30,000 people in the stands. 34 degrees Celsius. A tense atmosphere even before the opening whistle.
Pelé is on the field. Number 10 jersey, king of football, two-time world champion, the man recognized by the entire planet. But today, in this stadium, there is a man who is unfazed, who does not bow, who fears no king. Referee José Apolinário de Oliveira, 45 years old, 20 years of officiating. Known for being strict, for being tough, for not giving anyone any leeway, not even Pelé.
The game starts tensely. Portuguesa plays hard, with aggressive marking. Portuguesa is in a bad run of form, needs points, and their strategy is clear: stop Pelé with words or with punches. They prefer punches.
Minute 8, first foul. Pelé dribbling. The defender arrives late, catches him on the ankle. Pelé falls. The referee calls a foul. Yellow card.
15th minute, second foul. Pelé receives the ball with his back to goal, turns, is elbowed in the ribs, and falls. Foul called. The referee speaks with the player but doesn’t show a card. Pelé gets up, looks at the referee, and says nothing. Not yet.
Minute 23, third foul. This time it’s worse. Pelé jumps to head the ball, receives a knee to the back in mid-air, falls awkwardly. Sharp pain, the stadium roars. It’s not a mixed crowd, it’s 90% Santos fans. They came to see Pelé and they’re watching Pelé get destroyed.
Pelé takes a while to get up. The masseur comes in and treats him. Pelé tests his leg. It hurts, but he endures it. He always endured it. The referee calls a foul, but doesn’t give a card, not even a yellow. Now Pelé speaks:
—Referee, was that violence? Card!
Apolinário mira, expresión dura:
—I decide what is violence, but he could have broken me. He could have. He didn’t. Play.
Pelé takes a deep breath. He knows the game they’re playing. The referee is allowing it. He’s allowing them to hunt down the king.
31st minute. Pelé receives the ball in midfield, surrounded by three defenders. There’s no space, but there’s Pelé. He touches it with the outside of his foot. The ball goes under a defender’s legs. Pelé goes around him. He wins the ball back. Another defender comes in. Pelé dribbles, cuts inside. The defender loses his balance.
Pelé has open space, another defender runs. Short feint. It’s over, only the goalkeeper is there now. Pelé looks up. He sees the corner. He’s going to shoot. A defender comes desperately from behind. He can’t reach the ball. He reaches Pelé.
A violent tackle. It hits him in both legs. Pelé rolls in the air. He falls hard, very hard. The stadium erupts. Not in celebration. In fury. Pelé stays on the ground. He doesn’t get up immediately. He’s really hurt.
This time the Santos players run, surrounding the Portuguesa defender. Shoving, pushing. Confusion. The referee blows his whistle loudly several times, separates the players, calls a foul, and finally shows a card. Yellow. Yellow.
The stadium can’t believe it. That was a red card. A violent tackle from behind, far from the ball. A clear red. Pelé gets up slowly. He’s limping, he goes to the referee.
—That was an expulsion.
Apolinário turns around.
—I’m the one who decides. He could have broken my leg, but he didn’t.
Pelé feels something burning in his chest. Rage. A rage he rarely feels because he understands what’s happening. The referee isn’t just making bad calls. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s letting them destroy Pelé.
—You are letting them hurt me.
Apolinário da un paso al frente, cara a cara con Pelé.
—Be careful what you say.
—I’m telling the truth.
—He’s complaining about the refereeing. That gets him a card.
Pelé doesn’t believe it. He, who is being hunted, is going to get a card for complaining.
—A card? I’m the one being hit and I’m going to get a card.
Apolinário takes the yellow card out of his pocket and shows it to Pelé.
—Last warning. Shut your mouth.
Pelé looks at the card, he looks at the referee. Something inside him breaks. Not from fear, from indignation.
—Can’t you protect me, or don’t you want to protect me?
Silence. Apolinário puts away the yellow card, pulls out the red. Sent off.
The stadium freezes, then erupts. It’s impossible. Pelé sent off. Pelé, who did nothing. Pelé, who’s been hounded for 30 minutes. The Santos players surround the referee, shouting, protesting. Apolinário doesn’t change his mind, he points towards the locker room. Pelé leaves.
Pelé stands there, processing. He was sent off for asking for protection, for asking the referee to do his job. Santos captain Zito tries to explain:
—Referee, he only complained because they were hitting him and now he’s been sent off.
—Leave before I kick someone else out.
Pelé begins to walk slowly toward the locker room. His head is down, not from shame, but from absurdity. The crowd sees 30,000 people watching Pelé leave the field, unjustly sent off.
And then something happens. First, an isolated shout from somewhere in the stands, north section. An old Santos fan, his voice hoarse from shouting so much in stadiums.
-Thief!
The shout cuts through the air; for a second there is silence. Then another fan repeats: thief. Then another, and another, and more. In seconds, the entire stadium is screaming. 30,000 throats in unison.
—Thief, thief, thief!
The sound is physical, it vibrates in the stands, makes the concrete tremble. It’s collective fury transformed into decibels. The referee ignores it, tries to ignore it. He gestures for the game to continue. Portuguesa positions themselves, they want to play against 10 men, they want to take advantage, but the crowd doesn’t stop, it grows louder, more violent. It’s no longer a shout, it’s a roar: “Shameless, sellout, thief.”
The first bottle comes from the east side. An empty beer bottle, it spins in the air, falls near the touchline, and shatters into glass. A second bottle. This one is full, and it explodes near the linesman. Beer and glass everywhere. A third, a fourth, a fifth—now there are several. A shower of bottles and glass all over the field.
The referee looks around, starting to understand. He’s completely lost control. After the bottles, coins, hundreds of objects are thrown from the stands, some hitting the players. One strikes the referee in the shoulder, then stones, pieces of concrete. Someone has even run from the stadium itself to throw things. The violence is escalating.
Apolinário looks at the linesmen. They look back. Fear in their eyes. They want to leave too. He blows his whistle several times, temporarily stopping the game for safety reasons, but stopping doesn’t solve anything. The fans don’t want the game stopped, they want Pelé back.
Someone jumps over the fence, a man in his forties, wearing a Santos jersey. He runs down towards the field. Security tries to catch him. They can’t. Then another one jumps. A young guy, then an old man, then 10, then 50. In two minutes, hundreds of people are on the field.
They’re not going after the players. The Santos players are being hugged and protected. Portuguesa players too. Nobody wants to hurt the players. They want the referee. Hordes are advancing toward Apolinário, shouting and hurling insults, some with clenched fists.
—You’re going to pay! You stole our game!
Apolinário steps back. Eyes wide. This is out of control, completely out of control. Military police enter the field. Twenty, thirty of them form a human barrier around the referee. Batons raised, but the crowd isn’t afraid. They advance, they push, they try to break through the police line.
A policeman shouts over the radio: “We need reinforcements. Field taken. Critical situation.” The PM colonel decides: Immediate evacuation of the referee. Apolinário is escorted off the field, running, literally running. A circle of police surrounds him. The crowd tries to break through. Kicks, shoves, bottles still flying.
A bottle hits a policeman on the head. He falls. Blood. Another policeman helps. They keep running. They reach the tunnel, disappear, but the chanting continues out there. Louder now.
—Bring Pelé back! Bring Pelé back! Bring Pelé back!
The entire stadium was jumping, in sync, the concrete really shaking. The stadium engineers were worried. If this continued, the structure could crack. Over the loudspeaker, the announcer tried to calm everyone down.
—Fans, please return to your seats. The game will continue.
Deafening boos. Nobody wants to play. They want Pelé. Pelé, Pelé, Pelé, Pelé. The president of Santos looks out the window of the box, sees the chaos, sees the fury, understands. If Pelé doesn’t return, someone is going to die today.
In the locker room, Pelé sits alone. He hears the commotion outside, the roar of 30,000 enraged people. The door opens, the president of Santos enters, followed by Portuguesa officials. And further back, looking frightened, is the referee. The president speaks:
—Pelé, you need to come back.
—Look, I was expelled, I know.
“But if you don’t come back, they’re going to destroy the stadium. They’re already tearing down the fences. The police can’t control it.”
Pelé looks at the referee. Apolinário is pale, scared.
—And him? —the president looks at Apolinário—. He’s going to reverse the expulsion.
Apolinário doesn’t speak immediately. Pride battling fear. Fear wins.
—I’m going to reverse this. Arbitration error. You’re coming back.
Pelé remains silent. He could humiliate the man, he could refuse, make the referee pay. But there are 30,000 people out there. People who paid for tickets, people who came to watch football, people who could get hurt if the violence continues.
—I’m coming back, but you’re leaving too.
Apolinário parpadea.
-In that way?
—You’re out of the game, I’ll put in another referee. I won’t referee with you on the field anymore.
The officials look at each other. An unprecedented situation. A player dismissing the referee. But what to do? The stadium is in chaos. The president of Portuguesa agrees.
—Okay. Another referee will take over.
Apolinário is about to protest. The president of Santos interrupts him.
—If you stay, no one can guarantee your safety. The fans want your head, literally.
Apolinário, bring it dry. Asient. Saldrá.
Pelé gets up. He puts on his jersey again. Number 10. It weighs more now. Not from the fabric, but from the weight of responsibility. He ties his boots slowly, each movement precise, as if preparing for war. He walks to the door. Before leaving, he looks at Apolinário. The referee is leaning against the wall, sweaty, pale, defeated.
—You didn’t expel me because I made a mistake. You expelled me because you didn’t want to do your job.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He opens the door. He goes out. The tunnel to the field is dark, old concrete, moldy walls. Pelé walks, he hears the roar outside, it sounds like a storm. He reaches the end of the tunnel, sunlight floods in, Pelé stops, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, he takes the first step outside.
Someone sees him and shouts. It’s him, Pelé. The shout spreads like wildfire, section by section. Pelé. Pelé is back. He’s back. And then something happens that no one who was there will ever forget. 30,000 people, many still on the field, stop completely. Absolute silence for 3 seconds.
Three seconds of deafening silence. Then, an explosion. Not a scream, an eruption. 30,001 voices, all at once, releasing everything they had held back for 30 minutes of injustice. The sound is so loud that a crack appears in the glass of the VIP box. It is so intense that birds flee from the surrounding trees. It is so deep that residents 2 km away feel the ground vibrate.
Pelé stands in the middle of the field, barely stands, looks around, sees faces, faces crying with joy, with relief, with justice served. He sees grown men embracing like children. He sees old men on their knees, hands raised to the sky in thanks. He sees boys jumping, shouting his name until their voices fade.
And understand. It’s not about football. It never was. It’s about what’s right. It’s about not accepting injustice. It’s about the people rising up when power fails.
A fan jumps the fence again and runs toward Pelé. Security goes to intercept him. Pelé raises his hand. “Let him go.” The man reaches him, hugs Pelé tightly, very tightly, and cries on his shoulder.
—Thank you. Thank you for coming back.
He doesn’t give thanks for football, he gives thanks for dignity, for not letting injustice win. Others come. Pelé embraces everyone, one by one, until security gently asks them to leave. The game must go on. The people on the field slowly leave, returning to the stands. Order restored, not by police, not by threats, but by Pelé, because he returned.
But before the game restarts, the announcer announces:
—By decision of the board and for everyone’s safety, referee José Apolinário de Oliveira has been replaced. The new referee is Armando Marques.
The stadium erupts. Applause, shouts, celebration. Not for the substitution itself, but for justice. For the first time, perhaps in the history of Brazilian football, injustice was righted. Apolinário leaves the stadium escorted through the back door, hiding like a thief. And perhaps that’s what he was. A thief of justice.
The game restarts. New referee. Different approach. He calls fouls. He protects his players. He controls the game. Pelé plays not with anger, but with class, because anger doesn’t win games. Talent wins.
60th minute. Pelé receives the ball in midfield. The defender is pressing hard. Pelé turns, passes. Another defender. Short dribble, passes. Open space. Run! Ball under control, the goalkeeper comes out. Pelé delicately chips it over. Goal! Santos! 1-0.
Pelé doesn’t celebrate effusively; he barely raises his arm. A restrained gesture, because it’s not about the goal, it’s about the message. You can send me off, you can catch me, you can hit me, but you can’t stop me.
The game ends. Santos 2-0. Pelé scores both goals because, of course he does.
After the match, journalists surround Pelé. They want a statement about the absurd incident. Pelé chooses his words carefully.
—The referee made a mistake. To err is human, but to persist in error out of pride is a choice.
—Do you think the expulsion was intentional?
Pelé thinks.
—I think some referees forget that they’re not who the public came to see. They came to see football, and football needs fairness.
—And the riot, the invasion?
“I never condone violence, but I understand the revolt. When justice fails, people rebel. It’s natural.”
—Did you have the right to demand the referee’s removal?
Pelé looks directly at the camera.
“I didn’t demand anything. I offered a choice. Either he leaves or I don’t come back, and without me the chaos would continue. He chose to leave; he was wise.”
Days later, the Paulista Federation opened an investigation. They wanted to understand what had happened. They heard from witnesses, players, officials, and Apolinário himself. The conclusion: Pelé’s expulsion was unfair and hasty. The referee acted with excessive force and failed to protect the player from violent fouls. Apolinário received a 90-day suspension and was banned from refereeing.
Pelé doesn’t comment, doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t need to. Justice was served, but the story doesn’t end there.
Months later, Apolinário asks to speak with Pelé. A private meeting, no press present, just the two of them. Pelé agrees. They meet in a private room at the CBF (Brazilian Football Confederation). Initial silence. Awkward. Apolinário speaks first.
“I came to apologize. Pelé, listen. You were right. I was letting them hurt you. And when you complained, I took it personally.” —Pause— “My pride wouldn’t let me admit it at the time, and it almost caused a tragedy.”
Pelé remains still, then speaks:
—Why did you do that?
Apolinário thinks for a long time, then answers honestly:
“Because I was tired, tired of everyone seeing me as Pelé’s referee. Every time I officiated one of your games, people said I was biased, that I was afraid of you.”
—And you wanted to prove that you didn’t have any?
—Yes. And I tried wrong. I tried being unfair. That’s worse than being afraid.
Heavy silence. Pelé extends his hand.
—I accept your apology.
Apolinário gripped firmly, gratefully.
-Thank you.
—But I’ll give you some advice— Apolinário listens. —The referee doesn’t need to prove anything. He needs to be fair. If he’s fair, nobody will remember his name. And that’s a good thing, because a referee who’s remembered is a referee who made a mistake.
Apolinário smiles, sadly, but he understands.
-You’re right.
They separated. They didn’t become friends, but they made peace.
Years later, in an interview, Pelé is asked about that day, the day he was sent off and came back on. The day a referee was ejected from the stadium. Pelé laughs.
—It was crazy, but it was necessary.
—Don’t you think forcing a referee off the field went too far?
“I didn’t force it. The public forced it. I only offered a solution. And look, I’m not proud of the confusion, I’m not proud of the violence.” —Pause— “But I am proud that justice prevailed. Because football without justice isn’t football, it’s a circus.”
—And the referee, did they make peace?
—We did it, because holding a grudge doesn’t change the past. And he had the courage to admit his mistake. That’s worth more than expulsion.
—Would you play with him as referee again?
Pelé thinks. He smiles.
—If he whistles right, yes, no problem.
Today, the story is remembered as one of the strangest in Brazilian football. The day Pelé was unjustly sent off, the day an entire stadium rebelled, the day a referee was forced off the field, and the day Pelé returned to the pitch, not out of privilege, but for the sake of justice. Because in the end, no matter who you are—king, player, referee, fan—justice is justice.
And when justice fails, people rise up. On that day in 1969, 30,000 people literally rose up, and a king returned to the throne. Not because he was king, but because it was right that he should return. And sometimes, just sometimes, justice triumphs over power. That was one of those days.
If this story touched your heart, tell me in the comments what you would have done in the protagonist’s place.
