Letter to Brazilian team.

Boys,

(yes, boys, because when a team is eliminated in the World Cup, no more men on the field. Boys there. With empty eyes, aimless and without any hint of shame or modesty.)

I write only to say thank you.

Thank you because you made ​​us feel that long not felt there.

The nervousness. The voice cracking. Tension. Joy. Throat. Sore throat. Explosion. Sadness. Disillusionment. A whirlwind of feelings condensed into 4 weeks.

I thank you because you managed to stir a lot of emotions that went charts. Flags in the window for the sake of a country (and not just a team), above any other issue.

Because you did more than put hearts to beat faster. You absolutely put Brazilian hearts to beat.

I am grateful because each game passed, I felt more like strangers in the street. Closer to my country, my people.

Thank you because the outcome does not nullify the joy experienced.

And to know that you will have to face those Brazilians of time, which until yesterday had pride and today we find that "it is Brazil."

But do not worry, it is also difficult for us to support them. We are together.

And the fact is that sadness is general: the field, the bench, the stands, the living room couch, the bar stool, the gutter.

But please understand, we're not sad with you, we are sad TOGETHER with you.

So much so that I can ensure that thousands of Brazilians wanted to be able to hug you today that David Luiz gave the James after removal of Colombia.

Thank you, boys.

Thanks for reminding me that I never wanted to be European. German, Dutch, French, Belgian ... Not to give me a nice pair of blue eyes.

What I want is always my yellow shirt, my emotions gaping, want drunk crying today, schizophrenic proud to be who we are when we are picking up as we catch.

Embrace your parents. His children. Their wives. His friends.

Do it for us, we wanted to hug them maybe even more than we would want if we won the Cup.

And continue to be so, Brazilians, above all.

On curly hair, dances in the locker room, in real hugs, the cries suffered in sincere prayer and sure, good or bad, we move on.

7 - 1? Fuck it.

You represent me. And it is not for playing the ball, is for beeing the guys who you are.

RUTH MANUS