It was a good time to be a young man looking to break into the big, bad world of football writing. I started a week’s work experience at the Sunday Telegraph sports desk on the day England lost on penalties to Germany at Euro 96. It turned into another week and so on. I had no journalistic training, did not know shorthand and was completely winging it, but ended up staying for five years.

In the summer of 1997 the internet was in its infancy – people used to buy newspapers – and if you wanted to work in sports journalism, the Telegraph was highly regarded. The sports editor, Colin Gibson, was a former chief football writer, and he knew everyone. Rumour has it that Sepp Blatter once held up a Uefa press conference as Colin was late in arriving, saying: “Ve vill vait for Mister Big.”

Football-wise, the close season in 1997 was pretty quiet. The only action of note was in France, where Le Tournoi was being held as a warm-up for the World Cup a year later. Remember that free-kick Roberto Carlos smacked in from nearly 40 yards against Fabien Barthez? That was at Le Tournoi.

Brazil were the world champions and their team oozed class. After the tournament, they were off to Bolivia for the Copa América. I looked at the schedule. No one was covering it for the paper so I asked Colin whether there I could go out there for a month if I paid some of my expenses. Mr Big said yes.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Conmebol were faxed for accreditation and off I was to Madrid, then Buenos Aires and then La Paz, the capital of Bolivia and the host city. I was about to see Roberto Carlos, Denílson, Leonardo, Romário – all of these fantastic players – in South America. I couldn’t wait. But the player I wanted to watch more than any other was Ronaldo. The original.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Denílson, Ronaldo, Roberto Carlos and Bebeto amuse themselves after a chat with Brazil coach Mario Zagallo. Photograph: Antonio Scorza/EPA

Bobby Robson had just finished his one and only season in charge of Barcelona. When he had arrived to replace Johan Cruyff in the summer of 1996, one of his first tasks was signing a forward. Rather than bringing in Alan Shearer or other household names, he plumped for a young Brazilian who was tearing up the Dutch league with PSV Eindhoven. Ronaldo arrived at Barcelona aged 19 and, in his one season at Camp Nou, he scored 47 goals in 49 games. He was dubbed “Il Fenomeno” for good season.

So, off I went to live the dream. But between Buenos Aires and La Paz, all of my luggage went missing. After a day or so trying to get some sense out of the hotel manager, I mentioned that I was there to write about the football. So impressed was he with this English kid making the effort to cover what was a big deal for Bolivia, he eventually picked up the phone. Within a few hours, my luggage and I were reacquainted.

For anyone who has not been to La Paz, a warning. Walk slowly, very slowly. On my first day, trying to get hold of my hallowed laminated press badge was far from easy. The language barrier didn’t help. No one spoke English. Feeling a tad whoozy, I looked in the mirror. My lips were blueish and I felt terrible. A kindly English girl in my hotel confirmed I had altitude sickness. La Paz is 12,000 feet above sea level. I prescribed myself with the best medicine in the situation: the local beer. Plus I was told to chew coca leaves and take taxis everywhere. Bingo.

It was finally time for business: I was here to watch Brazil, after all. I flew to Santa Cruz where Brazil were playing most of their group games. Funny place, Santa Cruz. It was a very dusty city, dominated by gleaming Mercedes and dodgy geezers. The Bolivian “marching powder” trade was flourishing in Santa Cruz and yes, in case you were wondering, it is very strong indeed.

Costa Rica, an invited team, were Brazil’s opening opponents. Brazil were 5-0 up before an hour when a familiar pattern emerged: Ronaldo, who scored twice, tended to be substituted as soon as the result was safe. Even then there were clearly concerns regarding his fitness.

As soon as he was replaced, he would simply sit on the sidelines staring intently at his mobile phone, always looking stressed. Little did I know that after the tournament he would leave Barcelona to join Internazionale for a world record fee of $27m. He rarely looked happy. Not until hours after the games had passed, that is.

Covering Brazil in South America is a very different experience to watching matches in England. For a start, I spent the whole month sitting with the Brazilian TV and radio guys, the ones that holler “Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaallllllll” for 90-odd seconds at a time. I found out later that I was supposed to sit with the print journalists but this was more my cup of coca tea and, as I say, no one spoke English so I didn’t know any different.

Despite the language barriers I got on with the Brazilian radio lads. We were staying in the same hotel and they called me “Inglês” or “Gringo”. After the first game they made a gesture recognisable to all journalists across the globe: lifting an invisible glass to the mouth, with a raise of both eyebrows; they were going for a beer and I should join. Rude not to, really.

Bars and clubs in Santa Cruz, Cochabamba and other Bolivian cities all followed a familiar theme. Until midnight things are fairly normal. People eat and drink, and there are kids playing around. But after midnight a different theme emerges. What seemed to be a fairly innocuous drinking den became more of a nightclub. More of a nightclub with girls wearing less and less clothing – and doing crazy shit on stage with massive snakes. We didn’t have this at the Hammersmith Palais, I can assure you.

So there I am at 2am in this very odd Bolivian nightclub, in the middle of nowhere, wondering how the hell I will make it back to my hotel. Wondering what the name of my hotel was. Still, the drink flowed and more girls danced in all sorts of outrageous mannerisms. When one brought the snake out, I burst out laughing. The three blokes next to me were in agreement, falling to the floor in hysterics. It was then that I looked a little closer and saw they were all wearing the same Nike tracksuits.

Slowly, I realised I was sitting next to Ronaldo, Denílson and Flávio Conceição. I clocked Ronaldo again later as I staggered out the bar, counting at least three girls on his lap. Suddenly he didn’t look so stressed. I would like to say this was an isolated incident, a one-off, but no. I followed all but one of Brazil’s games (missed due to an exceptional headache/altitude sickness/hangover) and the same pattern emerged. Bar became club, club became dodgy club, Brazil national team would turn up, and Ronaldo would be flattened by gorgeous Bolivian ladies of all sizes and shapes. The boy was relentless.

None of this did him any harm on the pitch. Brazil breezed through the group stages with Mexico the only side offering any resistance, taking a 2-0 lead through a Luis Hernández brace before the big boys woke up. Leonardo, formerly of Milan and Paris Saint-Germain, eventually sealed a 3-2 victory after running off the pitch to steal the ball on the touchline from a Mexican defender, cutting past two defenders and comfortably beating the keeper.

For the final, back in La Paz, Brazil faced hosts Bolivia. No one fancied Bolivia but the altitude always gives them an advantage over unwitting opposition. Brazil took the rare step of flying into the capital shortly before the game and literally played at walking pace, winning 3-1 without breaking sweat.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ronaldo, Cafu and Denílson show off the trophy. Photograph: Andrew Winning/Reuters

Mario Zagallo, the coach, decided to pair Ronaldo with Edmundo rather than Romario. Edmundo was a very naughty chap. One of his greatest claims to fame was being accused by animal welfare groups for getting a chimpanzee drunk on whisky – at his son’s first birthday party.

Golden Goal: Edmundo for Vasco da Gama v Manchester United (2000) Read more

Needless to say, he got in on the act during the final. With 67 minutes on the clock and the score tied at 1-1, he elbowed a Bolivia defender very clearly and rather recklessly. Luckily for Brazil, the Uruguayan referee failed to spot the incident. Zagallo didn’t, however, and Edmundo was immediately substituted and scolded before Ronaldo put Brazil back in front. Zé Roberto wrapped things up in the 90th minute as Brazil won the title for the first time since 1989, the last time they hosted the tournament.

They are hosts again in 2019. If you can find the time and money, you should make the effort to go – especially if you are a young, impressionable football journalist. I could not recommend it highly enough; it has only taken me two decades to get over it.

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