It’s one of those cases that makes Brazilian football shake in its boots. Flamengo, the Rio de Janeiro giant that calls itself “o mais querido” — the most beloved — is facing a lawsuit that demands R$100 million in damages. Not for match-fixing, not for dodgy transfers, but for structural racism.

The lawsuit, filed by the Educafro Brasil organization and the Center for Articulation of Marginalized Populations (CEAP), accuses Flamengo of perpetuating systemic racial exclusion. Their evidence is blunt: of the club’s 259 directors and council members, only one is Black. In a country where over half the population identifies as Black or mixed-race, that ratio doesn’t just look bad; it looks like the machinery of power locking its doors.

This is where the pitch meets the street. Flamengo, whose fan base is historically rooted in Rio’s working-class and Black communities, is now cast as an emblem of the very inequalities football once promised to transcend.

From the Stands to the Courtroom

Flamengo isn’t just any team. It’s a club that has traded on mass appeal, with a mythos built on Maracanã terraces full of poor, Black, and migrant fans who turned football into Brazil’s social glue. But in the boardroom, the demographics shift. The same club that parades Zico, Adriano, and Gabigol as icons has a leadership structure that looks closer to an old gentlemen’s club than a reflection of its torcida.

The lawsuit argues that this imbalance isn’t an accident but a symptom of structural racism: the inherited scaffolding of colonial history, economic exclusion, and elite gatekeeping.

“If Flamengo is the people’s club, why is its leadership almost entirely white?”

It’s a question that echoes far beyond Rio. It speaks to how Brazilian institutions — even the ones wrapped in drums, flags, and chants — are still barricaded against those who built them.

The Numbers Game

For outsiders, the figure — R$100 million — might sound like a headline-grabbing stunt. But for Educafro, the money isn’t just punishment. It’s leverage. They want it funneled into scholarships, training, and racial inclusion projects that could tilt football’s balance of opportunity.

The damages sought are symbolic too: in football, numbers matter. Scores, transfer fees, attendances — all are markers of power. By putting a nine-digit price tag on racism, the plaintiffs are forcing clubs to treat inclusion as more than a slogan on a jersey.

Image vs. Reality

This isn’t the first time Brazilian football has been accused of whitewashing its image. For decades, the marketing of the Seleção has leaned on the myth of “racial democracy,” parading Pelé and Garrincha as proof of integration while ignoring who sits on the boards, who owns the clubs, and who gets sponsorship deals.

Flamengo’s lawsuit rips open this contradiction. The club sells itself as a global brand with a fan base in Africa, Asia, and the diaspora, but its governance is stuck in the colonial mode: white, wealthy, male. The Maracanã drums beat Black rhythms, while the executive boxes look like corporate boardrooms in Zurich.

Bahia’s Different Playbook

Not every Brazilian club is stuck in the past. Esporte Clube Bahia, in Salvador, has carved out a reputation for something rare in South American football: openly welcoming LGBTQ+ supporters into its terraces and culture.

The club has supported organized LGBTQ+ fan groups, promoted anti-homophobia campaigns, and even ran ticket discounts for same-sex couples on Valentine’s Day. While elsewhere in Brazil homophobic chants still ring out, Bahia positioned itself as a pioneer of inclusivity, showing that football culture doesn’t have to be hostile to difference.

The contrast with Flamengo is glaring. One club waves the flag of the povo while its boardrooms remain locked; another dares to show that a people’s club can actually look and feel like the people it represents.

The Beautiful Game’s Ugly Truth

Football has always carried contradictions. It is both carnival and corporation, resistance and reinforcement. The lawsuit against Flamengo doesn’t erase its history, nor the millions who see the club as their lifeblood. But it does puncture the myth that football is automatically progressive.

Because the reality is harsher: on the field, Black talent is celebrated; off it, Black leadership is almost invisible. The lawsuit makes visible what the chants, shirts, and marketing slogans work so hard to hide.

Whether Flamengo pays the R$100 million or not, the bigger debt is harder to settle: the unacknowledged labor, history, and presence of Black Brazilians in a game that would not exist without them.