By Pelé

1940's 1950's 1960's 1970's

The side that would go on to be called the ‘beautiful team’, the best that ever played the game, was through to the World Cup Final, the fourth time Brazil had reached the summit of the world’s greatest tournament. Our opponents would be Italy, twice World Cup winners.

Over 100,000 were actually inside the Azteca Stadium on that sweltering June day. Our first goal came after only 18 minutes, with Rivelino crossing into the box where I was waiting. I timed my jump to perfection and headed past the outstretched hands of their goalkeeper, Enrico Albertosi. Gerson and Carlos Alberto both had a lot of space, and we created problems throughout, with the Italians seemingly content to hang back and thwart our efforts. After 37 minutes, though, it looked like their tactics might have been right after all – we had had all the play, but when Clodoaldo foolishly back-heeled into empty space it was snapped up by Boninsegna, who passed the desperate Félix and scored. Italy had poached an equaliser – could it be that catenaccio and counter-attack would win the day?

But in the second half we reasserted our control, as Italy failed to press home any psychological advantage they may have had. Gérson made the most of the space afforded him and scored with a long, low shot from outside the box after 66 minutes; Jairzinho added another five minutes later, becoming the first person ever to score in every round of the World Cup Finals in the process. The final verdict on who would win this contest between attack and defence was delivered four minutes from time, with one of the most glorious plays of the tournament and one that I was proud and privileged to be a part of – flowing, forward movement, flexible but remorseless, Jairzinho to Pelé, a stabbed pass over to the right to Carlos Alberto, steaming down the right wing like a man possessed, finding the ball arriving at his flying feet in a perfect intersection and driving it past Albertosi like a thunderbolt.

Moments later the whistle blew. We had won, 4–1. Pandemonium. People ran on to the pitch from all over, and in seconds our shirts and even our shorts had been whisked off by souvenir-hunters – I made sure to take my shirt off myself so that my head didn’t go with it. I was hoisted aloft on a sea of fans and it was several minutes before we were able to go to the dressing-rooms to collect ourselves. I managed to find a quiet moment in the shower to give thanks to God and my family for helping me achieve this great victory. While I was in there I was disturbed by a journalist who had managed to get in to the dressing-rooms – I knew him, he was one of the writers who’d been spreading rumours about my eyesight. He knelt down in front of me, getting himself soaking wet, and begged forgiveness for what he’d written. I remember telling him that only God could forgive, and I wasn’t God.

We then went back on to the pitch to collect the Jules Rimet trophy from the President of Mexico – as this was the third time we had won it, it had been decided it would now be ours to keep. The intensity of emotion as Carlos Alberto lifted the trophy above his head, tears of joy in his eyes, was like nothing I had ever known, except perhaps watching Bellini do the same thing in 1958. But this time I had a proper understanding of what it meant, what it would mean to all the people back home. And I had played in every game, come through unscathed, and felt as though I had made a great contribution to our victory – this win was unalloyed pleasure. It would be my last World Cup – but what a way to finish!