June 13, 1982 – Camp Nou, Barcelona, set the stage for the twelfth FIFA World Cup with a grand opening ceremony, heralding a tournament that would alter the trajectory of global football. For the first time, 24 teams took to the field, each vying not just for victory, but to etch their narrative into the sport's lore. It was destined to be a tournament defined by breathtaking goals, unforeseen drama, and seismic upsets—where legends faltered and underdogs thrived.
A young Belgian squad delivered the first shock by rendering Diego Maradona, then an enigmatic and unproven talent, ineffective and irrelevant. Isolated in Belgium’s tactical maze, the Argentine prodigy appeared lost—his brilliance yet to crystallize under the weight of expectations. Argentina’s opening defeat derailed their campaign, and Maradona’s frustration mirrored a nation still searching for its rhythm.
Elsewhere, the tournament continued to unravel preconceptions. Algeria stunned the reigning European champions, West Germany, while England humbled France, dismantling a Platini-led side considered among the favourites. Spain, hosts and hopefuls, faltered under the pressure, and Poland flickered with promise. Meanwhile, Italy wandered through the group stage like a ship adrift without a compass or course, their play uninspired and fragmented.
While established giants struggled with self-doubt and inertia, Brazil’s arrival in Spain felt like the appearance of football’s divine emissaries. Their squad, arguably the finest since the mythical class of 1970, embodied not just tactical prowess but the artistry and exuberance that enchanted fans across the globe. Accompanied by an army of joyous supporters who transformed the stadiums into carnivals of colour and sound, Brazil injected life into the tournament.
In Spain, Brazil did not merely play football—they elevated it to a form of expression, turning every match into a performance. They embodied the ideals of "Jogo Bonito" with such precision and flair that it was as if they sought to win and remind the world why football was a beautiful game at its core.
The Master of Brazil Football Philosophy - Tele Santana
After the glory of 1970, Brazilian football entered a period of decline—its artistry dulled and the spark of "Jogo Bonito" dimmed. Pragmatism replaced beauty, and the magic seemed to slip away. Yet it was Telê Santana who would rekindle that lost flame, revolutionizing Brazilian football in Spain. Santana’s philosophy was a return to essence: football not merely as a game to win but as a canvas for expression, harmony, and joy.
Santana’s managerial journey began humbly, cutting his teeth with Fluminense’s youth squads, where he nurtured talent and honed his vision. His first senior triumph came with Atlético Mineiro, guiding them to the Brazilian league title in 1971—a victory that stood for years as his solitary piece of silverware. Despite subsequent spells with various clubs, Santana lingered in the background of Brazilian football, refining his ideals while waiting for his opportunity to lead at the highest level. That moment arrived in 1980 when the call came from the Selecao.
The national team, weary of Claudio Coutinho’s results-first approach, longed for a return to the football that had captured the world’s imagination. Santana, however, did not offer immediate salvation. His tenure began shakily, with fans booing his team during his first match. His tactics bewildered many, and his selections raised more questions than confidence. Yet Santana remained resolute, asking for patience as he meticulously drilled his philosophy into his players.
Gradually, the transformation began to take shape. The 1980 Mundialito offered a glimpse of Santana’s vision: free-flowing, attacking football that breathed life into the team. Brazil was not just winning again—they were winning beautifully. Santana crafted his squad with maestros like Zico, Sócrates, Éder, Junior, and Toninho Cerezo, a constellation of talent given the freedom to express themselves. Each player was an artist, and the field became their gallery. The "Ginga"—Brazil's rhythmic, playful essence—had returned.
On tours across Europe, Brazil mesmerized their opponents, leaving traditional powers like Germany, England, France, and Argentina in disarray. Even the stoic defences of the USSR and Uruguay crumbled under Brazil’s fluid, unpredictable movement. By the time the 1982 World Cup began, Brazil’s dazzling display had made them the tournament's darlings and favourites, embodying the spirit of football at its purest.
Yet the story of Espana ’82 would forever be remembered for two entwined narratives: the radiant brilliance of Santana’s Brazil and the shattering inevitability of Paolo Rossi. In the end, Brazil’s dream of reclaiming the World Cup was extinguished, but not the legacy they left behind. Santana’s Selecao did more than play football—they reminded the world that victory without beauty is hollow and that in football, the soul matters as much as the scoreline.
Tele's Tactical Masterclass - Beautiful Football
Tele Santana’s Brazil may have been arranged nominally in a 4-2-2-2 structure, but on the pitch, it was a formation that transcended conventional tactics. It often resembled a chaotic, yet mesmerizing, 2-7-1 system. The two centre-backs held their ground while the full-backs surged forward, creating a five-man midfield brimming with creativity, fluidity, and movement. At times, this tactical freedom left just a lone striker at the tip of a formation that felt more like jazz improvisation than football orthodoxy. Brazil’s setup wasn’t merely a formation—it was a philosophy: an embodiment of freedom on the field.
This fluid 4-5-1 hybrid allowed for constant positional interchange, which disoriented and dismantled opposition defences. Players roamed without restriction, stretching the tactical imagination of even the most seasoned coaches. Sócrates could be seen orchestrating play as a deep-lying playmaker, only to surge forward and become the central attacking midfielder moments later. Zico, the team’s creative fulcrum, drifted into central spaces, but when man-marked, he seamlessly ceded ground to Sócrates or Éder, who exploited the vacated spaces. Careca, the spearhead of the attack, devastated defences with lethal finishing, while even the centre-backs would venture into advanced positions, adding yet another layer of unpredictability. Meanwhile, the full-backs—dynamic and relentless—operated almost as wingers, offering relentless width.
"Everyone has the freedom to play as they wish, provided they fulfil certain essential duties. As extraordinary as that sounds, it works. It comes from improvisation, but also from the understanding we’ve built over two years of working together," Sócrates explained, capturing the ethos of the team. This freedom was both calculated and chaotic—a delicate balance between artistic expression and collective discipline. "I play on the wing, as a centre-forward, a sweeper, or a holding midfielder—it all depends on the flow of the game. Even if we don't win the title, we’ll have reshaped the traditional templates—4-2-4, 4-3-3, and all the rest."
Since Santana's appointment in early 1980, Brazil had played 33 matches—losing just twice, both narrow 1-0 defeats to the Soviet Union and Uruguay. In that period, they failed to score only once, averaging an exhilarating 2.5 goals per game. Their football was an intoxicating blend of speed, one-touch passing, and fluid attacking movements. Every player was comfortable on the ball, and most were eager to surge forward, creating a ceaseless wave of attacks that overwhelmed their opponents.
Brazil under Santana was not just an attacking side—it was an ultra-attacking ensemble, where defence was an afterthought, if not an outright irrelevance. Goals were their currency, and entertainment was their mantra. It was a style that treated defending as an inconvenient necessity, sacrificing solidity for the thrill of creation. For Santana’s Brazil, the objective was never simply to win but to enchant—and in doing so, they altered the trajectory of football itself, pushing the boundaries of what the game could be.
Beauty moulded with silk and aggression - The Samba Boys of Tele Santana in Spain
Tele Santana’s Brazil entered the 1982 World Cup as both a spectacle and an experiment—an orchestra of flair and freedom, powered by a philosophy that defied convention. Yet, their journey began not without disruptions. The absence of Careca, the 21-year-old striking prodigy who had cemented himself as Santana’s first-choice forward, dealt an early blow. A cruel thigh injury during training, just days before kickoff, robbed Brazil of their most dynamic striker and forced Santana to rely on Serginho—an unpredictable figure whose talent was accompanied by a volatile temperament.
Serginho, though Sao Paulo’s all-time leading scorer with 242 goals, was never a natural fit for Santana’s elegant system. Where the team thrived on subtlety and grace, Serginho brought brute force, an aerial presence, and a penchant for confrontation. His behaviour had already cast a shadow over his career—he missed the 1978 World Cup due to a 14-month ban for kicking a linesman and sparked outrage the previous year by planting his boot in goalkeeper Leão’s face, a player now sharing the same dressing room. Santana’s delicate task wasn’t just tactical but psychological, engaging Serginho in multiple pep talks in hopes of containing his volatility without neutering his aggression—a balancing act that proved elusive.
The 1982 squad also marked a historic shift for Brazilian football. For the first time, Santana welcomed overseas-based players into the fold, including Roma’s Paulo Roberto Falcão and Atlético Madrid’s Dirceu. This policy change was significant; legends like Julinho Botelho, Evaristo de Macedo, and Dino Sani had once been excluded for playing abroad, a reflection of Brazil's staunch nationalism. Yet this new openness was not without its paradoxes—Reinaldo, the electrifying forward who might have been the ideal replacement for Careca, was left out, likely a victim of his unruly lifestyle.
The introduction of Falcao, however, was transformative. His arrival added an entirely new dimension to Brazil’s midfield, injecting structure and sophistication without compromising flair. “As soon as he came in, things changed drastically,” Santana reflected. “He made playing for the Selecao a joy. He wanted us to play intuitively, not systematically. He urged the fullbacks to attack and sought midfielders who could do more than just break up play—he wanted them to create, to perform, to entertain.”
Santana’s captain was the enigmatic Sócrates, whose contradictions made him one of the most compelling figures in football history. A trained physician, chain smoker, and occasional alcoholic, Sócrates had chosen football over medicine for the thrill of the "greatest show on earth." Standing almost 6’4” with his trademark headband, he glided across the pitch with an elegance that defied his lanky frame. His ability to dissect defences with no-look passes, feints, and perfectly-timed back-heels made him the linchpin of Brazil’s attack. Yet, behind the elegance lay indulgence. Telê Santana lamented, “If Sócrates took care of himself like Zico, he would be the best player in Brazil. But he compensates for his physical shortcomings with youth and undeniable class—for now.”
Socrates had, however, made a personal sacrifice in the lead-up to the World Cup, giving up cigarettes under the guidance of trainer Gilberto Tim, a nationalist who believed Sócrates could conquer the world if he embraced discipline. The transformation was striking—after months of hard training, Sócrates shed weight, built muscle, and became a stronger, faster version of himself. His fitness testing results surprised even the medical team, revealing a player ready to shoulder the demands of a global tournament.
While Sócrates embodied the philosophical soul of the team, Zico was its beating heart. Known as the "White Pelé," Zico was the consummate playmaker—graceful, creative, and devastatingly precise. Whether deployed as an attacking midfielder, forward, or second striker, Zico’s versatility and technical mastery made him a constant threat. His free-kick technique, a masterpiece of physics and artistry, allowed him to score from even the tightest of angles. "You couldn’t even get close enough to foul him," recalled Graeme Souness.
Brazil’s roster brimming with talent. Eder, the explosive left-footer known as "The Cannon," terrorized opponents with his long-range strikes. Toninho Cerezo formed a poetic partnership with Falcão in midfield, blending artistry with industry. The fullbacks, Junior and Leandro, played with a fluidity that redefined their roles, operating almost as attacking midfielders. Junior, who famously released the samba anthem "Voa, Canarinho" before the tournament, embodied the spirit of Brazil's joyful football, while Leandro’s technical prowess belied his role as a defender.
Even the opening match against the Soviet Union became a metaphor for the tension between artistry and adversity. The game started disastrously when goalkeeper Waldir Peres let a speculative long-range shot slip through his legs, gifting the USSR an early lead. Without Cerezo, who was suspended, the Brazilian midfield initially struggled to find rhythm. Dasayev, the Soviet goalkeeper, stood tall, frustrating Brazil’s relentless attacks.
It was Sócrates who finally unlocked the game in the 65th minute with a moment of individual brilliance. With two defenders closing in, he danced past them with feints, creating just enough space to unleash a shot that soared into the top corner. Dasayev got a hand to it, but the strike was simply too powerful and precise to be stopped. "It wasn’t just a goal—it was an endless orgasm," Sócrates later recalled, capturing the ecstasy of the moment.
Brazil’s victory was sealed in the final minutes when Éder, with characteristic audacity, flicked the ball into the air and volleyed it past Dasayev from outside the box—an audacious goal befitting a team that treated football as art.
Their next challenge came against Scotland, a side that had previously stymied Brazil in 1974 and delivered a shock against the Netherlands in 1978. When David Narey gave Scotland an early lead with a thunderous strike, the pressure mounted. But Zico responded just before halftime, curling a free-kick so precisely that it clipped the post on its way into the net. It was a masterpiece of precision and poise, awakening the dormant Brazilian carnival.
Oscar and Éder added to Brazil’s tally, the latter scoring with a sumptuous chip that left goalkeeper Alan Rough helpless and bemused. Falcão rounded off the 4-1 rout with a powerful finish following a slick interplay between Cerezo and Sócrates.
Against New Zealand, Brazil reached the pinnacle of their brilliance, dismantling the opposition with a 4-0 victory. Zico's bicycle kick from a Leandro cross was the crowning moment—a goal so sublime that it would have graced any match, against any opponent. With three wins in three matches and ten goals scored, the Selecao marched triumphantly to Barcelona for the second round, carrying with them not just a nation’s hopes but the promise of fantasy football fulfilled.
Thrashing Argentina in Style
A raucous welcome awaited Brazil in Barcelona, where their path to the semifinals would demand victories over two formidable opponents: Argentina and Italy. The stakes were high, and both adversaries arrived with narratives rich in drama and redemption.
Italy’s journey to this point was marred by the lingering stench of scandal. In 1980, Italian football had been rocked by the Totonero match-fixing debacle, implicating five top-flight clubs and leading to arrests, bans, and public disgrace. Paolo Rossi—once the most expensive player in the world—had been among those punished. His initial three-year ban was later reduced to two on appeal, but it left him exiled from the game for nearly two years. With barely two months of football under his belt before the World Cup, few expected Rossi to feature, let alone thrive. Yet, manager Enzo Bearzot stood by him, naming Rossi not only in the squad but also in the starting XI.
Rossi, however, looked a shadow of his former self. Italy laboured through the group stage, drawing all three matches and advancing only by the narrowest of margins—on goals scored—at Cameroon’s expense. Derided by the press and drowning in public scepticism, the Italian camp imposed a media blackout, isolating themselves from the hostile scrutiny. Still, a flicker of life emerged in their second-round opener: a gritty 2-1 victory over Argentina hinted that Bearzot’s side might have found their footing.
But for Brazil, Argentina remained the more immediate threat. Beaten by Italy, Diego Maradona’s squad was now cornered, needing a victory over their South American neighbours to keep their World Cup hopes alive. The match promised to be a ferocious contest. Just before kickoff, Argentina’s Daniel Bertoni—who shared a collegial bond with Falcão from their time in Serie A—offered a sinister warning: "Mind your legs, mate!" It was a reminder that desperation could turn even familiar faces into ruthless foes.
The game unfolded with Brazil asserting control through a blend of artistry and precision. Early on, Éder nearly delivered a moment of magic with a thunderous, swerving free-kick from 35 yards. Argentina’s goalkeeper, Ubaldo Fillol, just managed to tip the shot onto the crossbar, and Zico narrowly missed tapping in the rebound—an extraordinary free-kick that would live in memory, despite not finding the net.
Brazil's dominance soon manifested on the scoreboard. A fluid sequence in transition saw Zico thread a pass through Argentina’s defensive lines, releasing Falcão down the flank. The midfielder whipped in a cross, and Serginho outmuscled Fillol to slot home the opening goal. Moments later, Zico again orchestrated Brazil’s attack, splitting Argentina’s defence with a sublime pass that sent Junior through on goal. With poise and flair, Junior slipped the ball between Fillol’s legs, celebrating with samba steps that delighted the crowd—a fitting display of Brazil’s joyful spirit.
Though Ramón Díaz pulled back a consolation goal in the 89th minute, reducing the deficit to 3-1, it arrived far too late to alter the outcome. Argentina’s campaign ended not just in defeat but disgrace, as Maradona, overcome by frustration, was shown a red card for a reckless kick at Batista.
Yet, amidst the triumph, Díaz's late goal sounded a warning bell. Brazil’s defence, so far untroubled, had shown vulnerability under pressure. As they prepared to face Italy in the decisive next match, that moment of lapse hung ominously in the air—a reminder that against a side awakening from slumber, even a fleeting mistake could prove fatal.
Paolo Rossi Wakes Up - Beautiful Football Dies
In the dressing room before the fateful match against Italy, Tele Santana reminded his players that a draw would suffice to secure their place in the semifinals—but only to caution them, not to relax. "He would never tell us to hold back," Zico later reflected. "Our mission was always to go for the win. That was the true Brazilian way." Santana’s philosophy was an embodiment of attacking football as if pragmatism were a betrayal of Brazil’s soul. Victory wasn’t just a goal—it was the only acceptable form of expression.
As Santana concluded his team talk, he turned to Falcão, the only Brazilian with intimate knowledge of Italy’s game. "You play there. Is there anything you want to say about them?" he asked. Falcão, caught between jest and sincerity, recalled how his teammates had teased him: "They said it must be easy earning a living in Serie A." But beneath the banter lay anxiety. He knew these Italians were far better than their sluggish group-stage performance suggested, and facing them on the pitch meant confronting the weight of divided loyalties and personal stakes.
On the other side, Italy was in crisis. Paolo Rossi, still scoreless, was a lightning rod for public criticism, and the press clamoured for Bearzot to bench him. Rossi himself later confessed to feeling out of place. "That Brazil side didn’t seem from this planet," he admitted. "Those players could have worn blindfolds and still found each other. Meanwhile, I was learning to play football again after my two-year suspension." Yet Italy, ever the tacticians, saw an opportunity—if they struck first, Brazil’s relentless pursuit of goals would leave their defence vulnerable.
And the plan worked. In the early minutes, Bruno Conti sliced through Brazil’s midfield with surgical precision, creating space before releasing Antonio Cabrini on the left flank. Cabrini’s cross floated into the box, and Rossi, as if stirred from slumber, instinctively found his mark, scoring his first goal of the tournament.
Though Claudio Gentile clung to Zico like a shadow, tugging and tearing his shirt, the Brazilian playmaker slipped away once—just enough to deliver a brilliant assist. In the 12th minute, he threaded the ball to Sócrates, who galloped forward with elegance, slotting it coolly between Dino Zoff’s legs. A goal of immense class, befitting the man who scored it.
Italy, however, continued to disrupt Brazil’s rhythm. Their pressing, calculated and relentless, was unsettling the fluidity that had made Brazil so enchanting. And in the 27th minute, disaster struck. Toninho Cerezo, harried by Italy’s swarm, mis-hit a pass straight into the path of Rossi, who pounced with deadly precision, restoring Italy’s lead. It was a gut-wrenching moment, and Cerezo broke down in tears at halftime, inconsolable until Sócrates talked him back from the brink.
The second half unfolded like an epic duel. In the 68th minute, Zico and Cerezo combined brilliantly, pulling Italy’s defence apart and freeing Falcão. With the weight of expectation on his shoulders, the midfielder unleashed a ferocious left-footed strike that roared past Zoff. His celebration—racing toward the bench, nearly choking on the gum in his mouth—became as iconic as the goal itself. "The Italians thought I was scowling at them, but I was just trying to clear my throat," Falcão would later joke.
With the score tied once more, it seemed Brazil might finally pivot toward caution, mindful that a draw would be enough. Yet there was no sign of restraint. Santana’s men pressed forward as if the thought of settling for a stalemate was an affront to their ethos. Leandro, the right-back, ventured so far forward that he appeared more striker than defender, leaving Italy’s midfield maestro Giancarlo Antognoni free to orchestrate in the space left behind.
In the 74th minute, Antognoni earned Italy’s first corner of the match. His delivery was only half-cleared, and the ball fell to Marco Tardelli. His shot, far from remarkable, nonetheless found its way into the chaos of the Brazilian box, where a misjudged attempt at an offside trap left Rossi alone and unmarked. Given time and space, the striker completed his hat-trick, becoming only the second player in history to score three goals against Brazil in a World Cup match.
Even in the dying moments, Brazil fought to salvage their dream. Oscar rose for a powerful header, but Zoff, like a man possessed, pulled off a stunning save, ensuring that Italy held firm. And just like that, it was over. Brazil—the favourites of fans, romantics, and neutrals alike—were out. The shock was universal, leaving both sides in disbelief. Even the victorious Italians could not fully revel in their triumph, sharing in the melancholy of having extinguished such brilliance.
It was a match that transcended result and narrative, a game where artistry collided with strategy, joy with pragmatism. A contest that embodied the beautiful tension between risk and reward, and one that ended with hearts broken on both sides. It remains one of the finest matches in World Cup history—worthy of far more than mere recollection, deserving instead of a chapter of its own, written with reverence.
The World Was Sad
At the post-match press conference, Tele Santana entered to applause—first upon his arrival, and again upon his departure. The ovation was not merely out of respect but a recognition of the beauty his team had embodied. Santana made no excuses for the loss, offering credit to Italy with quiet grace. Yet behind this public composure lay a deep sorrow. In the devastated Brazilian dressing room, Santana addressed his shattered players, not with criticism but with pride: “The whole world was enchanted by you. Be aware of that.”
Brazil’s fans echoed his sentiment. Thousands flooded Rio de Janeiro’s international airport to greet the returning team, not in anger but admiration as if their dazzling campaign were a victory in itself. Santana, usually stoic, was moved by this heartfelt reception. But his grief remained unspoken. Though he consoled his distraught players in public, the heartbreak lingered within him, unresolved. Unable to bear the weight of the defeat, he accepted a job in Saudi Arabia just weeks after returning from Spain—a quiet exile born of emotional exhaustion. "It was a self-imposed exile," his son, René, later explained, "because that loss truly shook him."
For Socrates, the defeat felt like the death of something far greater than a football match.
“We had a hell of a team,” he reflected bitterly.
“We played with joy. Then came the Italians. Rossi touched the ball three times and scored a hat-trick. Football, as we knew it, died that day.”
It was a sentiment shared by many—a belief that Brazil’s beautiful game, "O Jogo Bonito", had been sacrificed on the altar of pragmatism. Yet there was also a sense of bittersweet pride.
“We lost that game but earned a place in history,” Falcao later wrote.
“All of us suffered from that defeat, but it was still a privilege to be part of one of the greatest games ever played. And it was an even greater honour to share the field with those teammates, in a team that became synonymous with great football.”
Zico, too, reflected on the paradox of that loss.
“We had a fantastic team, recognized around the world. Everywhere we go, people remind us about the Brazil team of 1982,” he remarked at a Soccerex conference years later.
“But if we had won that game, football would be different today.”
In his view, Brazil’s defeat marked the beginning of a shift—a tactical and philosophical change that reshaped the sport.
“After that game, football became about results at any cost. It became about disrupting the opposition, breaking up play, and tactical fouls.”
He lamented this new pragmatism as a betrayal of football’s essence.
“That loss did not benefit world football,” Zico reflected somberly.
“If we had scored five goals, Italy would have found a way to score six. They always capitalized on our mistakes.”
The match was more than a defeat; it was a moment of reckoning for Brazilian football, ushering in a more physical, pragmatic era that Zico believed stifled creative talent.
“Brazil is still fertile ground for talent, but the mentality in the junior divisions has to change,” he warned. He doubted that players like himself would thrive in the current system, where physicality had replaced artistry as the dominant criterion for success.
“If I went for a trial at a club today, I’d be rejected for being thin and small.”
He pointed to Romário, the diminutive genius of Brazil’s 1994 World Cup triumph, as the last vestige of a fading tradition.
“You don’t see Romário-type forwards coming through anymore,” he observed. “Clubs are obsessed with producing big, powerful players. That’s where the deterioration of Brazilian football begins—clubs care more about winning youth titles than nurturing talent.”
Some critics would later claim that Brazil’s 1982 squad lacked defensive discipline, faulting the absence of a proper holding midfielder and tactical awareness at the back. But those were the analyses of hindsight, looking to rationalize a defeat that was, in truth, decided by moments of opportunism and tactical precision. For all the romanticism that surrounded the Selecão, on that day, Italy was the superior side—cool, clinical, and unyielding.
The legacy of Brazil’s defeat, however, transcends scorelines. It was a tragedy not just because a brilliant team lost but because their defeat marked the end of an ideal. The match against Italy symbolized the moment when football’s purity was eclipsed by pragmatism—when flair gave way to caution, and artistry was subordinated to results. It remains a defining moment in football history, a moment when dreams died and the world awoke to a game forever changed.
Conclusion
In their five matches, Brazil netted 15 goals, with seven different outfield players contributing to the tally. Yet, the brilliance of that team was never just about statistics or the sheer volume of goals. It was not the number that mattered, nor the variety of mesmerizing, almost poetic ways they found to place the ball in the net. What truly defined them was the philosophy underpinning every movement, the spirit woven into their play. Their football was a tapestry of fluidity, freedom, and artistry—a declaration that beauty and joy belonged on the pitch.
Yes, they may have been unlucky at times, and perhaps reckless at the back, but to focus on those imperfections is to miss the essence of what they embodied. Their style was more than a tactical approach; it was an ethos, a commitment to playing with expression and without fear. In the grand narrative of football, questions of defensive lapses and misfortune seem trivial when held against the memory of such transcendent play. For Brazil in 1982, success was not just measured by goals—it was measured by the way the game could make you dream.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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