Two days after the England coach had told Paul Gascoigne that his World Cup was over before it started, his Brazilian counterpart allegedly telephoned Hoddle and said: "Glenn, I see you have sacked Gazza. I have to give Romario the same bad news tonight. Any tips? Move the furniture?"

Zagallo's fractured, reluctant English is some way better than Hoddle's Portuguese but, even so, the hunting pack of Brazilian journalists swear the unlikely transatlantic exchange took place.

Observing them in action at Brazil's training ground a half-hour south-east of Paris, it is easy to see why such scraps of unsubstantiated whispering are heartily consumed. Fully an hour before the team bus arrives, more than a hundred scribesjostle for space against a crush barrier separating them from the staff and players, who emerge from the dressing room with imperious indifference.

The sweating pack stand their ground, refusing to surrender hard-won bridgeheads until they sight and nail their quarry. `Mario! Mario!'screams one, proffering a mobile phone to Zagallo and imploring him to talk to the party on the other end, perhaps his editor. The coach smiles, hitches up his bright blue tracksuit bottoms under a satisfied belly and waddles regally on, touching other palms on his procession. He has work to do.

Bebeto stops for the swiftest of audiences. Dunga signs an autograph. Ronaldo drapes an arm over one reporter's excited shoulder and relates a triviality. Another rumour? A suspension of critical faculties has always been central to the appreciation of the way football is played in Brazil -- the historical acceptance, for instance, that method does not matter, only style. In another era, it was not hard for all of us to believe theimpossible. They could do what they wanted, these Brazilians, and still win. Four World Cups, only the last one tainted by expediency and good fortune. There is no other team for true romantics.

Joao Saldanha, who crafted the incomparable 1970 team before being sacked in favour of the more pragmatic Zagallo, used to say: "I don't care if they are all the same type of player or if Rivelino and Gerson are both left-footed. They're the best, they're geniuses, they'll know what to do."

Pele says these players are still great ones, but the team is not. "Technically, no," says Pele. "As a team, no."

It is a piercing criticism. But then there have been poor results, indifferent performances, squabbles, controversy. Wives back home write to O Globo to push the case for their husbands to be included at the expense of rivals, as stories of shouting matches within the camp are logged and not convincingly denied; the notorious Edmundo, `O Animal', secures a place; Juninho, although nearly fit, does not; Romario isleft behind; Denilson, Zagallo's Beckham (perhaps he should ring Hoddle again), is not an automatic starter, despite wide recognition as a genius in progress and, with a 27 million Pounds price tag, the most valuable footballer in the world. There is much for the old coach to worry about, but he seems unfazed. "He plays tennis all day,nothing worries him," his confidante says.

Brazil's players, meanwhile, perform for the faithful in training, going through their repertoire with a seal-like elegance that separates the truly gifted from the manufactured. But -- and this is the weird thing -- it is a mere loosening-up session, a bit of jogging and stretching, a little ball-work, a few treats, and yet, as they lap this unprepossessing little ground in groups they are greeted with unsettling fervour each time they pass their few hundred supporters, happy fanatics who have been sitting in the uncovered bleachers for several hours, even though they knew precisely when the players were due to appear. They sing,clap, scream, smile, laugh. There is something eerie about it. It is celebrity and adoration on a scale probably unmatched in sport.

Brazilian football is also a master class in sporting philosophy. "You can learn a lot in Europe," Ronaldo said recently, "especially if you're Brazilian. When you take a naturally gifted Brazilian and make him understand the importance of marking, then you're not far short of invincibility."

Occasionally, they have looked wonderful, but not invincible, at France '98. Scotland shocked them, of that there is little doubt; and Morocco, although thoroughly outmanoeuvred, had their moments. The key is speed. Brazil clearly like it hot and slow, conditions likely to prevail in the coming days and weeks, so they can impose their rhythm on the rest if Zico and Zagallo work their alchemy and the players respond to the demands of the tournament.

As they dance their samba for the press and the people, you can see Brazil winning this World Cup. They undeniably carry with them thatair of "invincibility", as Ronaldo identifies it -- but you wonder if they are so comfortable in their development that they can give free expression to all their talents.

We wander away, eventually, the small, sated gathering. The millionaires in shorts are ferried back to the nearby, heavily guarded, Chateau de la Grande Romaine; those carrying either laptops or yellow flags walk -- along Avenue Maurice Chevalier, would you believe -- to the station. A small boy, a local, jogs. He is wearing a Brazilian shirt, with No 9 on the back and front. He lopes like Ronaldo. Nearby, a Brazilian of maybe 60 or so, perhaps a businessman, chatters away in Portuguese. He, too, is wearing a No 9 shirt. I might be wrong, but I'm sure I hear him say something about, `Hoddle, eh? Ha!'