Winning the FIFA World Cup™ once demands excellence; winning it twice requires a rare dynasty. But to lift the trophy three times in succession borders on the impossible, a feat so improbable that no nation has yet achieved it. And yet, twice in history, teams stood on that precipice—Italy in the late 1930s and Brazil in the 1960s—only to fall short. Of the two, it was Brazil, shimmering with brilliance and expectation in 1966, that came closest to turning the impossible into destiny.
The Weight of Legacy
Italy’s bid for immortality perished in the chaos of war. Vittorio Pozzo’s squadra had conquered in 1934 and 1938, only for the Second World War to steal their chance at a third. By 1950, the spell was broken. The torch of history passed to Brazil, who arrived in England in 1966 not merely as champions, but as artists, philosophers, and bearers of a new global footballing gospel.
Having dazzled the world at Sweden 1958 and Chile 1962, Brazil entered England with their aura mythologized. “We thought we could simply arrive and win,” recalled Djalma Santos, the veteran full-back. The Seleção were viewed less as a national team and more as a traveling exhibition of inevitability. That perception, ironically, became their undoing.
A Team Torn Between Generations
Brazil’s preparations betrayed their confusion. Instead of clarity, there was indulgence. A bloated squad of forty was paraded across Brazil in a grand, near-farcical national tour. When Vicente Feola finally named his 22, it was a mix of declining icons—Djalma Santos, Garrincha, Gilmar, Zito—and untested youth. The spine of two world champions was still present, but eroded. The cohesion that had defined Sweden and Chile had dissolved into indecision.
Tostão, the cerebral forward, later observed: “We did not have a settled team. The champions were declining, except for Pelé.” It was a damning epitaph for a side that seemed to rely on myth rather than form.
England 1966: A Tournament of Disillusion
Brazil’s campaign began with deceptive promise. Against Bulgaria, Pelé and Garrincha—football’s twin magicians—scored with free-kicks in what would be their final act together. Across forty games as teammates, Brazil had never lost. That evening at Goodison Park was their last shared triumph.
But victory came at a cost. Pelé was mauled by Bulgarian defenders, sustaining a knee injury. Forced to sit out the second match against Hungary, Brazil wilted. Without their talisman, they looked disjointed, beaten 3–1 by a Hungarian side of fluid movement and icy discipline.
The decider against Portugal carried the weight of fate. Pelé, still limping, was thrown back into the fray. Garrincha was dropped. The result was tragic theater. England’s refereeing decisions, harsh challenges unchecked, and Eusébio’s brilliance combined to extinguish Brazil’s flame. A 3–1 defeat ended their campaign, and with it, the dream of a hat-trick.
Politics, Power, and Paranoia
To many Brazilians, the losses were not merely footballing failures, but evidence of something darker. FIFA, under Sir Stanley Rous, seemed determined to ensure a European triumph on European soil. The referees of Brazil’s matches—German against Bulgaria, English against Hungary, and English again against Portugal—fed suspicions of bias. The pattern was too neat, the brutality too unpunished.
The conspiracy widened in hindsight. Argentina, eliminated by England, saw a German referee dismiss a player for “violence of the tongue,” despite a mutual lack of shared language. Uruguay, undone by West Germany, endured two controversial expulsions under an English referee. The semifinal quartet—England, West Germany, Portugal, Soviet Union—were all European. Coincidence, perhaps. But to South American eyes, collusion seemed more believable.
Pelé’s Wounds and Brazil’s Resurrection
No figure embodied the scars of 1966 more than Pelé. Hacked down, injured twice, and denied his stage, he left England disillusioned. “It was the toughest experience I ever had in football,” he admitted. So bitter was the taste that he vowed never to play for Brazil again. Only his sublime form with Santos in 1970 persuaded him otherwise, and the world was rewarded with his apotheosis in Mexico.
Yet the ghost of 1966 lingered. The tournament revealed that even giants could be undone—not just by tactical missteps or aging legs, but by politics, complacency, and the invisible hand of power. Brazil, the team of inevitability, learned that history never gifts crowns.
Epilogue: The Hat-Trick That Never Was
In the end, Brazil’s failure in 1966 was more than an upset; it was a turning point. They regrouped, redefined themselves, and reemerged in 1970 with perhaps the greatest team ever assembled. But the chance to etch an unassailable record—three consecutive World Cups—was lost forever.
History remembers victors, yet it also lingers on “almosts.” Brazil’s 1966 stands as football’s greatest almost, the closest humanity has come to a feat that remains tantalizing, impossible, and eternal.
