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Episode 246

Before the trophies, before the songs, before the stadiums learned his name, there is a man standing by a river.

No crowd. No noise. Just water moving slowly through Pau Grande, dragonflies cutting the air, and a fishing line held loose in his hands. He isn’t thinking about tactics or titles. He isn’t thinking about history. He’s thinking about nothing at all — and that’s exactly the point.

Mané Garrincha never set out to be a legend. He didn’t chase greatness, didn’t organise his life around ambition, didn’t seem especially interested in where football might take him. The game came to him, not the other way around — and when it did, it bent itself to his shape, his rhythm, his strange, beautiful way of moving through the world.

This is not just the story of one of the greatest footballers who ever lived. It’s the story of joy without calculation, of genius without intention, of a man who could make millions happy while never quite understanding why.

This is the story of Mané Garrincha — the little bird who taught football how to dance.

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Episode 245

Robert Maxwell was a man who seemed too large for the age he lived in. To some, he was a brilliant immigrant success story — a war hero who arrived in Britain with nothing and built a vast publishing empire. To others, he was a bully, a fantasist, and a man constantly one step ahead of collapse. He filled rooms with his voice, his ambition, and his need to be noticed. Power fascinated him. Respect obsessed him. And money — other people’s money — kept him afloat longer than anyone expected. His life was a blur of triumph and secrecy, influence and illusion, ending not in a boardroom or courtroom, but alone at sea. This is the story of how Robert Maxwell rose, ruled, and finally disappeared.

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Episode 244

Before the speeches and the salutes, there is a boy under the wide Venezuelan sky.

The llanos stretch endlessly—flat, dusty, alive with insects and heat. Life moves slowly here, and poverty is ordinary. Hugo Chávez is born into this landscape in 1954, raised by his grandmother, shaped by discipline, faith, and stories told at night. Tales of Simón Bolívar linger in the air, mixing with baseball dreams and the quiet feeling that something in the country is deeply unbalanced.

Venezuela is rich in oil but poor in fairness. Chávez senses it early—in worn classrooms, empty promises, and the distance between those who rule and those who wait. The army becomes his way forward, offering order and belonging. He reads, listens, and begins to imagine power used differently, not to protect the elite, but to speak for the forgotten.

This is not the sudden rise of a strongman. It is a slow gathering of belief. Long before Hugo Chávez finds his voice, Venezuela is already listening.

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