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My love letter to Bruno Guimaraes, the Newcastle United hero who led Geordies to the promised land… See more
We didn’t realise we needed you. Now we can’t live without you. The dreamer with a smile as wide as the Tyne, the magician with a football brain to crack the Enigma code, a heart that beats in sync with ours, and veins that run black and white.
Fate brought Newcastle United and you, Bruno Guimaraes, together – and now, because of Sunday – your names will forever be entwined. No love affair, this is football’s version of a marriage made in heaven. When you walked through the door, you were like an alien, beamed down into Newcastle United’s midfield to add some samba flair to a unit sleepwalking its way to the second tier. Your performances were otherworldly. You brought skill, flair, vision not seen since Yohan Cabaye, goals not seen since Rob Lee and a football brain rarely, if ever, seen before.
When you talked of taking the team to the Champions League, with the club sitting 18th, there was some considerable disbelief. No one had heard ‘the champions’ round these parts since 2003. When you then talked of winning a trophy and writing history, more incredulity ensued. And, in fairness, it was OK to feel like that. Newcastle had, until you arrived, become a place where success came to die, where hope burned bright until it left NE1 and hit HA9 0WS. Success was framed in derby dominance, largely – the last one was fun, mind – the odd European odyssey or under-the-lights St James’ Park blitzkrieg. Before PSG, it was Barca. Or it came in the form of black and white images of men lifting trophies, fewer and fewer were old enough to have witnessed.
You knew all of that, though. You knew it when you signed. You knew it when you made those promises. Back then you maybe sounded like a poet, now you look more like a prophet. You are the man who carried the weight of 70 years of hopes and dreams, defeats and disappointment on your shoulders, and came back with silver. It must have been five magpies you spotted on the way – about 250,000 people – who you will meet them on the 29th – were just looking for two last weekend. So now, I use these words to speak to you, Bruno. Everyone has their own story. This is mine.
You’re my fave player. I adore your attitude, heart, and skills. To me, only Alan Shearer comes close. You are my son William’s favourite player, and he has your name on his bedroom walls. He’s 11 and wants to be just like you. You are my eight-year-old daughter Freya’s favourite. She asked me once. “Are you friends with Bruno Guimaraes, Daddy?”. I obviously said ‘no, I know him but not like that, beautiful’. You signed her matchday programme once and gave me your phone to spell out her name so you could write her a message. Suppose there aren’t too many Freyas growing up in Rio de Janiero. I want you to know, she cherishes it, years on. It meant so much. You are my Dad’s favourite player. He was there in ’74, ’76, ’96, ’98, ’99. He took me, as a 12-year-old in 2000, Cardiff in ’05 and then missed the last one in 2023 after a heart attack weeks before your own heart ache. I just knew it couldn’t happen without him. We walked Wembley Way together for the first time in 25 years on Sunday. It was just meant to be this time.
When you spoke of people who’d died and never seen Newcastle win a trophy, and others who’ve grown up the same, it struck a chord with everyone. Every one of the Newcastle fans there could relate to that. It had been so, so long. I know friends who have lost loved ones – Newcastle daft – who’d lived their whole lives and not seen black, white and silver combine, or even if they had, the memories were faded. Just before Christmas, I lost my grandmother, Brenda, my father’s mother. She would tell about the days when Newcastle actually won things. She loved NUFC and, to put it mildly, disliked Liverpool, so Sunday would have been a special celebration in paradise for the Kennedys in their absence.
My story is just one, everyone could tell their own. That’s why our tears were your tears on Sunday. It all came spilling out. Joy supressed for years, a volcano of emotion on 45′, 52′ and 101′. Our history, our heritage, the pride in our city, our language and customs, everything.
You are just like us, and we love you for it
We get you and you get us, because you’re just like us. You’re the daft lad with a bucket hat, dancing, smiling. You could be from Byker or Benwell, Walker or Westerhope. You could be any of us. You act like a Geordie. In the heat of battle you play with your head and your heart. At Wembley the 32,000 in the stands would have given their right arm to be leading out the Geordie nation, you had the privilege – and we know that is not lost on you. We trust you.
Too often, Newcastle United surrender at Wembley, they never leave their mark. ‘Til now. You could tell the way you orchestrated the celebrations at West Ham with brother-in-arms Joelinton that you meant business. Your words when baited by Jamie Carragher in the post-match Sky interview, whether you realised it or not, showed you were not overawed by the task ahead. You knew how to set the tone – and set it right, in such a crucial week.
And the words were not hollow. You believed we would win, we could win. You believed the seemingly impossible could become possible. You made it possible. You brought every one of those players with you, you taught the Geordie people how to believe again, how to win again.
Tell us our next Newcastle United chapter
I love you, Bruno. We all love you. We know you love us, too. You are one of us now, you always were just you never knew it, nor did we. From the days of Vila Isabel and begging for autographs on napkins at the Maracana, this was always meant to be. You were always destined to be the man who ended it all, who delivered joy to a city, a people, so starved of it for far, far too long.
You are our saviour, our leader, our hero, our legend. You are part of the club’s story. You are its history – its future for, hopefully, a very long time. And so too are every one of the players – and manager and coaches – who gave their blood, sweat, tears, life and soul for the badge, the shirt and the people, on that little patch of green in North London.
One for grief, two for joy (2023 and 2025), three for a girl, Ana, and four for a boy – make that two, Geordie Matteo and Pietro. Five for Carabao silver, six for Olympic gold, and seven for a secret that will never be revealed. It is no longer a secret that the narrative of Bruno Guimaraes, this trophy, the No.39, and March 16 will be told on Tyneside long after we are both gone. Geordies who haven’t even been born will one day sing your name. Now it’s time to write the next chapter. I can’t wait to find out what you have planned; I’m sure you’ll let us know soon.
