At its best, the World Cup encapsulates the best of our species. Because football is a simple, dynamic game that provokes complex, elemental emotions, it crosses borders and cultures with impunity, making the cross-border, cross-cultural imperative of its global expression the greatest show on Earth. All human beings covet joy, community and identity – we might just call it love – and football is the most reliable conduit of mankind’s finest facility.
But what constitutes the perfect World Cup? For most of us, the answer is obvious: our debut. Which means that for some, the simple thrill of unrelenting football means that Qatar 2022 will forever be where it’s at – despite everything – while the rest of us try to assimilate the devastating compromises we’re about to make.
This is a World Cup like no other. For the last 12 years the Guardian has been reporting on the issues surrounding Qatar 2022, from corruption and human rights abuses to the treatment of migrant workers and discriminatory laws. The best of our journalism is gathered on our dedicated Qatar: Beyond the Football home page for those who want to go deeper into the issues beyond the pitch.
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In a way, we’ve got off lightly: the World Cup provides a colossal captive audience and is Earth’s principal unifying force, so by rights it should’ve been commandeered by evil far more often. But we learn from the 1934 edition, hosted by Mussolini’s Italy – and also from Argentina ’78 and Russia 2018 – that much as we enjoy tickertape, no quantity of it should obscure to us football’s co-option as a tool of abusive regimes. And what words those are to write – words that those who’ve criticised the various oil clubs can confirm are more controversial than face value suggests.
Given all power corrupts, it’s hard to judge how much state violence is too much state violence, so let’s paint a line on the grass: if the host nation systemically and systematically perpetrates violence – against minorities, its own citizens or those in other countries – this should necessarily affect our feelings towards the football we hope to enjoy. Death, suffering and persecution do not a perfect tournament make.
The 1938 edition in France is generally held to be the first classic, showing the extent of the possibilities when arbitrary landmasses take to the pitch. But many invitees stayed home while others were excluded, so the quality and diversity required for an ideal iteration did not exist.
After breaking for war, in 1950 the World Cup visited Brazil, with the international collaboration required to defeat the Axis powers diluting prejudices – somewhat – and increasing entries, though African nations remained absent. Naturally, imperialist overtones remained – Stanley Rous, the Football Association secretary, realised that declining empire meant declining influence, so participation helped sustain some semblance of control – but the lesson of gathering to celebrate was established nevertheless.
After Mussolini’s overthrow, Ottorino Barassi, commissioner of the Italian Football Federation, had been concerned that the Nazis would melt down the trophy to aid their war effort. So he moved it from the bank to his home, and when he was duly visited, the shoebox under his bed was somehow missed, the Jules Rimet remaining there until armistice – a nice yarn, but also one which teaches that our perfect World Cup requires off-pitch folklore and mythology.
The football supplied similar. First, England lost to USA in the Miracle on Grass, then Uruguay became champions by beating Brazil in the Maracanazo, the Maracanã agony – the hosts’ national horror establishing the importance of location and likewise its football culture. Events such as these are essential not just because they were breathtaking but because they form part of an empowering, enveloping structure; a shared history with a shared language that transcends difference.
What 1950 also showed us is that format matters. Because Brazil is so vast, teams were split into groups, the winners of which formed a further group, the winner of which was the winner. The lesson never to do this again was learned but not fully – similar errors were made in 1974, 1978 and 1982 – but it’s since been agreed that the ideal competition requires the immediate jeopardy of knockout football.
Four years later, in 1954, the world convened in Switzerland, with West Germany – previously banned – now involved. And the first televised competition did not let down the global community it helped create, a succession of exciting games setting goals records that still stand. But most significantly, the later stages featured epic encounters of astounding drama and unimpeachable quality.
The quarter-finals were glorified by the Battle of Berne in which Hungary – who revolutionised the way football was played and discussed – eliminated Brazil in a vicious thriller before the teams reconvened in the dressing rooms for a good, honest, old-fashioned ruck. Then, in the semis, they beat Uruguay in a belter before, in the final, Ferenc Puskas – the world’s finest player – returned from injury and scored after six minutes as Hungary went 2-0 up in eight. But West Germany powered back to pull off an epochal shock and the tragedy of a historic side missing their moment while a troubled nation united in collective ecstasy were instantly enshrined in the annals of humanity. Though it wasn’t perfect, it was close.
If 1954 was partly about an icon who didn’t do what he was meant to, 1958 was about the birth of one who did all that and more. Pelé dominated the tournament, teaching us that the perfect World Cup needs an icon – ideally an unarguable immortal – and if he happens to incarnate youthfulness for evermore, so much the better.
Brazil’s win also showed us that, while surprises are good because we love a story, we’re also seeking a definitive answer to the question of which team are the world’s best. Ultimately, 1954 left that up in the air, and while 1958 did the opposite, the evidence shouldn’t be as emphatic as a 5-2 final blowout.
Or should it? Following tight contests in 1962 and 1966, Brazil’s 4-1 tousing of Italy in 1970 delivered football so luminous the margin of victory didn’t matter, flair suffusing achievement with a primal, carnal romance. It reminds us that our quintessential competition is not just about the present but the continuum; the moving certainty that we’re seeing the peak of human capability, not just in sport but in art; the unmatchable, almost unbearable feeling of proximity to greatness; of participating in greatness.
Similar is some of 1974, Rinus Michels and Johan Cruyff elevating the game to a different intellectual plane. Although 1970 showed the extent of the possible when amazing players express themselves in concert, it was predicated upon a unique collection of individuals. Netherlands’ Total Football, on the other hand, showcased a new way of playing whose inspiration moved the game forward and sustains through generations – another feature of the perfect World Cup.
The competitions of the 80s did not do this, but they did reinforce the lesson that the essential aspect of any competition is sudden-death matches that stand forever. Italy 3-2 Brazil and West Germany 3-3 France from 1982, along with Brazil 1-1 France and Argentina 2-1 England from 1986 are clashes that are not only among the most exciting but the most controversial, taxing us with moral debates of style v substance, ends v means, sport v politics, the world consumed and enraptured by extremes of emotions and thoughts.
And that’s before we consider Diego Maradona, whose mind-boggling genius and charisma taught us how it feels to watch the best player in the world dominate the world to become king of the world. But Mexico 86 was also significant because it was there that Morocco became the first African nation to qualify for the knockouts before, at Italia 90, Cameroon reached the last eight. Finally, the World Cup really was La Coupe de Monde, the cup of the world, with Italy’s wild atmosphere also making clear – especially when compared with USA 94 – that our perfect competition must be played in a country that is perfect for football.
Which brings us back to Qatar 2022: a repressive regime but not a football country, hosting no team likely to do anything new, no all-time great side and no all-time great player at his peak. Though we can still hope for legendary knockout matches, a scuffle or 73 and folkloric peripherals, what this competition contributes to our conversation depends on us. The perfect World Cup is an illusion, so too the perfect world, but that doesn’t mean we should abandon our quest for them. Rather, if we enjoy both we must take personal responsibility for both, infusing the glory of one into the other – all that joy, all that community, all that identity and all that love – because otherwise, what in the world are we?
