As part of our buildup to the 2026 FIFA men’s World Cup in the United States, Canada and Mexico, we are publishing excerpted chapters from The Soccer 100, The Athletic’s definitive book on the 100 greatest players of all time, courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers.

The 10 players we will feature are the highest ranked World Cup winners of our 100. Today we look at a Brazilian icon.

The paper is yellowing. The pages, for all the effort that has gone into preserving them, are a little dog-eared. They contain black-and-white advertisements for a cabinet supplier, the local zoo (“Wife trouble Saturdays?”), and Ron Dewdney’s pasties, plus a few outmoded stereotypes. It is a document of its time— 1973 — but also of its place: Plymouth, a faded jewel of England’s southwest coast, about as worldly as a crisp sandwich and only slightly more glamorous.

It is that context that makes the rest of this little booklet all the more surreal and magical.

It is a souvenir program from a Plymouth Argyle match. The color scheme of its cover — green and an evocative sunshine gold — immediately signals that this was no run-of-the-mill Division Three fixture. The visitors to Home Park on that March evening were not Scunthorpe United or Southend United, but, as the program has it, “SANTOS of BRAZIL,” capital letters nonnegotiable.

And there, above the text, gazing serenely out across the decades, is Edson Arantes do Nascimento — Pelé to all but his closest relatives — regarded almost unanimously at that juncture as the greatest footballer of all time.

The tone of the editorial a few pages later is, as you may well imagine, feverish. Pelé in Plymouth! Even at the time, there was a palpable sense of disbelief to it all. My dad attended the game aged 14 — the program, now one of my prized possessions, was once his — and still talks about it like a Christian might about bumping into Jesus at a gas station.

Pelé dribbles past a defender during a friendly between Brazil and the Swedish club, Malmo, in 1960 (Central Press/AFP via Getty Images)

Any account of Pelé’s brilliance will alight on the big-ticket stuff: the controlled explosions of his teenage years, the four-figure goal tally, the indelible mark he left on the World Cup, culminating in the Technicolor dreamscape that was the 1970 edition. We will circle back around to all that. But there is another aspect that often gets lost when we assess his career from the pedestal of modernity. It is there in that program and in a million memories, lovingly passed down through the generations in Plymouth and Port of Spain, Casablanca and Cádiz, Bangkok and Baltimore.

The best footballers today have global reach as standard. They all play for the same handful of European clubs, whose matches are broadcast weekly on every continent. It was different for Pelé. Despite offers from abroad, he remained at Santos — a relatively small, provincial outfit, both then and now — for 18 years, only undertaking a new adventure, with the New York Cosmos, in the twilight of his career. The World Cup, yes, made him famous, but it was as a touring attraction that he really secured a place in people’s hearts.

Pelé had never left Brazil before the 1958 World Cup in Sweden. Between that tournament and his retirement in 1977, he played matches in 74 different countries, as well as in every conceivable corner of Brazil. The vast majority of those were exhibition games for Santos, who — at least during their imperial phase, in the early to mid-1960s — could lay claim to being both the best team in the world and the busiest.

Autograph hunters swarm around Pelé (Central Press/Getty Images)

It is hard to underestimate the extent to which Santos spread the gospel of Brazilian football during that period. It was a miniature national
team, full of World Cup winners — Zito, Pepe, Gilmar, Mauro Ramos, Coutinho, and Mengálvio in the early days, then Joel Camargo, Clodoaldo, Carlos Alberto, Edu — and their play lived up to that billing.

At the heart of it all was Pelé, gleaming goal emissary, the Platonic ideal of a Brazilian footballer made flesh before the eyes of a different public, night after night.

It stands to reason that there has always been an anecdotal, even mythical flavor to Pelé’s genius. When it comes to placing him in the pantheon, that can work against him: Set against rigorous statistics and huge bodies of recorded footage, anecdotes and myths can be easy to dismiss.

But we should embrace them. The stories — even those that have been lovingly embellished — are the whole point. Sport exists to elevate our souls. It does that best when it is happening not on a screen, but right in front of your face. Pelé put himself in front of more faces than anyone.

He was, more than any player before or since, available.

This point extends beyond the never-ending fixture list. One of the first things that becomes evident when you go through some of the old newsreels is that Pelé existed in the center of a mob, forever being grabbed, hugged, yanked this way and that. People groped at his skin as if they expected it to confer magic powers.

This was not the strain of celebrity we know now, mediated by security guards, press officers, and social media strategies. Pelé was public property, a tangible public good. That he smiled his way through it all only added to the charm.

Pelé was not just the most gifted footballer of his generation, possibly ever; he also perfected the art of genuine connection. He was a globetrotting ambassador — for his sport, for his nation, for his own talent. Unlike any player before or since, he took the transcendental and made it local, in Plymouth and in countless other towns that have been dining out on the experience ever since.

A statue of Pelé at Rei Pele pier, Sao Vicente, Sao Paulo state in Brazil (Nelson Almeida/AFP via Getty Images)

To fully comprehend what Pelé means to Brazil and Brazilians, you have to understand “mongrel complex.”

Coined by playwright Nelson Rodrigues, the phrase referred to an enduring inferiority felt by many Brazilians when they looked out into the world. Theirs was a young country, not long liberated from the tentacles of the Portuguese empire. From there, after a brief interregnum, Brazil had lurched into dictatorship, acquiring the attendant psychological scars. Democracy arrived in the wake of World War II, but it did not immediately spark an upturn in the nation’s mood.

Even good things turned to rot. Brazil hosted the World Cup in 1950. It was a chance to display the country’s feathers to European visitors and to make a statement on the field. But the national team fluffed its lines, losing to Uruguay in the final match when a draw would have secured the title. It was a historic embarrassment, made worse by the staggering levels of hubris that had preceded it; two newspapers and the mayor of Rio de Janeiro had declared Brazil champions before the game had even kicked off.

“Our Hiroshima,” Rodrigues called it, a distasteful epithet that nonetheless captured the depths of the ensuing despair.

It is no great exaggeration to say that Pelé helped Brazil to feel good about itself again.

The 1958 tournament was the start of that process. Pelé was a late bolter for the squad, a 17-year-old wild card. He missed Brazil’s first two games due to a knee injury, then missed his first two chances after being selected against the Soviet Union.

From that point, however, he was electric. Pelé set up Vavá’s decisive second goal against the Soviets, then scored the only goal in the quarterfinal against Wales, prodding into the corner after a sumptuous turn inside the penalty area. He netted three more times against France in the semifinal, then twice in the 5–2 final victory against Sweden.

A 17-year-old Pelé bursts away from two Wales defenders in the World Cup quarterfinal of 1958 (STAFF/AFP via Getty Images)

Brazil were mongrels no more. Pelé, young and fearless, did not so much represent his country’s newfound self-confidence as embody it. Indeed, it is revealing that no less a cultural icon than Gilberto Gil, one of Brazil’s most respected musicians, at home and abroad, has described Pelé as “the symbol of Brazilian emancipation.”

It hardly needs restating, but he was also just a breathtakingly talented footballer. To watch those 1958 games now is to be struck by just how inevitable Pelé was, even in his rawest form. He was at once Mensa-smart, two-footed, technically faultless, a physical marvel — seriously, has anyone ever looked healthier than he did in those coltish early years? — and about as likely to take prisoners as a hurricane. His opponents never stood a chance.

He burnished his reputation at club level as Santos established themselves as South America’s preeminent force in the years that followed. From 1960 to 1965, inspired by their talisman, the seasiders won five national championships, five São Paulo state trophies, and two Copa Libertadores titles. They also lifted the Intercontinental Cup twice, overcoming Benfica over two legs in 1962 and AC Milan over three the following year. Pelé scored seven times in those five matches.

His overall goal tally for Santos and Brazil has been the subject of significant debate over the years: There is no real consensus over whether to include goals scored in friendly matches and unofficial internationals or for the Brazilian military. Pelé himself famously counted them all — insert joke about backyard kickarounds with his grandkids here — and put the total close to 1,300. Even the most conservative quotes are well north of 700. But there can be no doubt that he was a finisher of the very highest order, with both feet and with his head.

Yet, in some ways, the focus on the raw numbers diminishes Pelé. He was a startlingly complete forward, a creator as much as a finisher. He could hold his own in the midfield battleground. In a pinch, his physique would probably have made him a decent stand-in defender, too. “I have gone through my memories looking for any kind of deficiency in his game, but I haven’t found one,” his former Brazil teammate Tostão once wrote.

It was really only injuries — or the timing of them — that threatened to slow Pelé down. He won his second World Cup in 1962, but it was a frustrating tournament on a personal level. He scored in Brazil’s first game, against Mexico, but aggravated a long-standing groin injury in the following game against Czechoslovakia and missed the rest of the campaign.

He was still only 21, but already there was a sense that his exertions were catching up with him. Santos filled stadiums around the world, but there was little time for rest; Pelé played 80, 90, even 100 games a year as standard. “We were in demand and the suits were very keen to cash in,” he once lamented. On one “ridiculous” tour of Europe, Santos played 22 matches in six weeks; little wonder Pelé ended it feeling “bruised and drained.”

Worse was to come in 1966, when Pelé was kicked out of his third World Cup. After just about surviving a tetchy game against Bulgaria — “I was kicked to pieces, especially by (Dobromir) Zhechev, who seemed to mistake my ankles for the ball” — he was further targeted by Portugal, ending the match limping and helpless to prevent Brazil being knocked out of the tournament.

Pelé was so angry at the violence and at the lack of protection from referees that he vowed never to play at the World Cup again.

Pelé is helped from the pitch by Brazil’s team doctor Hilton Gosling (left) and trainer Americo at the 1966 World Cup (PA Images via Getty Images)

Pelé added at least two memorable phrases to the Brazilian football lexicon.

The first is “the goal Pelé didn’t score,” a reference to his audacious attempt from the center circle against Czechoslovakia in 1970. The best part about this is that the same description could easily have been used for — and, indeed, may even have better suited — the madcap, run-the-long-way-around-the-goalkeeper effort against Uruguay 14 days later. Pelé’s misses were cooler than most people’s goals.

The second dates back to 1961, when Pelé netted for Santos against Fluminense. No video exists of the goal, but reporters from local newspaper O Esporte named it the most beautiful ever to be scored at the Maracanã and installed a plaque to commemorate it. Even now, commentators are apt to describe a particularly fine strike as a gol de placa — a plaque-worthy goal.

Then there is the visual iconography. There is the Gordon Banks save, the embrace with Bobby Moore, the celebration atop a platform of shoulders at the Azteca — and that was all in a single summer.

In Brazil, a couple of others are up there on a similar level. One is a picture of Pelé holding a football high above his head, surrounded by radio aerials. He has just scored for Santos against Vasco da Gama, and although the match is not yet over, everything has stopped. There are reporters on the pitch. Soon the night sky will be full of white balloons. Pelé’s facial expression is equal parts ecstasy and relief. He has just scored his 1,000th career goal.

Pele is lifted by his Santos teammates after scoring the 1,000th goal of his career in November 1969 (Pictorial Parade/Archive Photos/Getty Images)

The other is a photo from a charity match between the Brazil national team and club side Flamengo in 1976. Pelé, now moving inexorably toward retirement’s embrace, is holding his right arm out, seemingly calling for a pass. There are three big patches of sweat on his canary-yellow jersey. One is around his armpit, another just below his collar. The third is the curious one. It adorns his chest. It is the shape of a heart.

By the end of the 1960s, the great tropical utopia — heralded by a wave of cultural expression as well as those two World Cup wins — had curdled into a nightmare. As an authoritarian military government tightened its grip on Brazil, Pelé’s position as national treasure began to carry uncomfortable new connotations.

Images of him shaking hands with General Emílio Médici, the head of a regime that normalized the torture of its own citizens, were quietly damning. A footballer who had once represented progress — not least as a prominent Black athlete in a nation with a complex history of racial dynamics — came to be viewed in some quarters as part of the problem.

“He was a ‘Yes-sir’ Black man,” former Brazil teammate Paulo Cézar Caju said in Netflix’s 2021 documentary, Pelé. “One statement from Pelé would have gone a long way.”

Pelé was always evasive on the topic. He would have been justified in fearing the consequences of speaking out at the time, but it is interesting that he did not hide behind easy excuses later in his life. “I was never forced to do anything,” he admitted in the same documentary. “I always had an open door … even when things were bad.”

That political neutrality might have tainted Pelé’s legacy were it not for his 1970 World Cup campaign, a definitive statement of his excellence told in six chapters.

Even the most casual football fan will be familiar with those glorious images from Mexico, but the context adds to the emotional pull. Pelé had been persuaded to return to the Brazil setup after the trials of 1966, but the lead-up to the tournament was not straightforward. He clashed with the coach, João Saldanha, only settling when Saldanha was ousted and replaced by Mário Zagallo, a former teammate. Even then there were doubts over his fitness, plus mounting pressure on the team from the Médici regime.

A lesser player, a lesser character, would have caved. Pelé bore the weight with customary poise and inspired his team to victory. He did so with just the right amount of swagger, in the process cementing his place as the world’s most beloved player.

Pelé died in December 2022. The public grief that ensued left little room for doubt about the degree to which he touched the lives of Brazilians. Hundreds of thousands of people lined up to pay their respects at his coffin, which was left open, at Santos’s Vila Belmiro stadium. The funeral procession was broadcast in its entirety on multiple television channels — the kind of coverage usually reserved for heads of state.

Crowds follow Pelé’s funeral procession through the streets of Santos (Mario Tama/Getty Images)

In the days that followed, fresh eulogies jostled for space with quotes from Pelé’s contemporaries, dating back to the 1970s and beyond. Many blended together, as can happen in these cases. A few stood out, cutting through the layers of cliché.

Johan Cruyff: “Pelé was the only footballer who surpassed the boundaries of logic.”

Mário Zagallo: “Pelé was everything. Everything you could imagine.”

Ferenc Puskás: “The greatest player in history was Alfredo Di Stéfano. I refuse to classify Pelé as a player. He was above that.”

At this point, we are firmly back in mythic territory and not only because the precise origins of those Cruyff and Puskás lines seem to have been lost to history.

Some people will squirm at this way of paying tribute to a player, consider it imprecise or even cloying. Maybe Pelé — Brazilian football, even — is not for them.

The rest of us, though? We can luxuriate in the warm glow of the words, safe in the knowledge that their subject — the King, the first (and still only) man to win three World Cups as a player, a one-man memory factory and a globetrotting ambassador, both for his nation and for a romantic ideal of football — was
worthy of the poetic license.

Excerpted from The Soccer 100 by Oliver Kay & James Horncastle with The Athletic Soccer Staff, published by William Morrow. Copyright © 2025 by The Athletic Media Company. Reprinted courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers.