It was late October, 1994. I was at a Cuban restaurant in an open mall off Tropicana Avenue in Las Vegas. I looked up from my conversation and noticed other customers becoming excited almost one by one and suddenly rushing to surround someone I could not see. The restaurant was not full, it was not dinnertime, but there was definitely something going on. Everyone else had stopped eating.
That was unusual. In Las Vegas, people are used to seeing celebrities in stores and restaurants, and they hardly ever react because it is understood that when they are off the city’s famed entertainment Strip, they are private people. Besides, stoic respect is the American norm in such situations.
But then came something that never happened in Las Vegas and seldom in America. The cooks and kitchen personnel ran by, having lost their senses and weak at their knees, rushing to stand there and stare at a person who had just walked in.
Somehow, I heard the word Pele, and everything made sense. Instinctively, I, too, made it my business and walked towards the group at the front of the restaurant. Then, in an instant, there he was, the great Pele from all those black-and-white clips of goals and celebrations. He was laughing and joking, speaking English in a measured pace, in a voice that was woody and dignified, conveying a sense of confidence and royalty without any hint of arrogance. Humble, I thought.
Feeling hit by a thousand memories of my childhood at once, I just stood there, said nothing, somehow trying to hide the effect of the sudden spell that had struck my afternoon.
Though to most Americans the name meant nothing and even fewer would recognise him―as it would happen to Messi in Los Angeles years later, when a security guard was non-plussed by the superstar―the Latin Americans in the restaurant just knew the moment was even more important than their jobs or American propriety.
Pele was smiling, well-dressed in a shirt and jacket, but no tie. That was not a time when people had a camera within reach, but there was a glossy 8x10 black-and-white picture of Pele, perhaps from an earlier visit, that he signed. He was smiling and at ease, generous with his time and interactions.
I remember thinking that he was taller than I had imagined him from those clips. I could see him almost eye-to-eye. He was perhaps four or five centimetres shorter than me.
Pele reached out to shake the hands of people around me, and I stuck out my hand. His smile would for fractions of seconds flash beautiful teeth. At the time, it was 17 years since he had left the spotlight and I had almost forgotten about him.
In less than a minute, it was over and I was back at my table, waiting for our order as if nothing had happened. I had met the great Pele without even realising it. It was a moment that would take decades to process.