‘To go to a World Cup is a dream come true, and I can claim to have experienced that four times.’
– Cristiano Ronaldo, Portuguese team captain
BY the time the World Cup draw for 2026 flickered across my MacBook Air screen on Saturday, I realised something profound about myself: my life, in many ways, has been measured in four-year cycles from one World Cup to the next.
Some men count time by elections, some by economic booms and busts. I count mine by goals scored, heartbreaks endured, and samba rhythms that never quite leave the bloodstream.
My love affair with football began in 1966, when I was still in primary school in Sibu. I was in Primary 2. We didn’t have HD screens, streaming apps or social media debates. What we had was wonder. My late father, himself a player and an incurable football romantic, brought home a reel of the 1966 World Cup hosted by England. That reel changed my life.
He spoke often of the Brazilian teams of 1958 and 1962 with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends and saints. And legends they were. But 1966, he would say with a sigh, was different: rougher, crueller. Brazil were kicked, fouled, hunted.
Their star, Pele, was injured in the opening match, and the defending champions were dumped out shockingly early. It was heartbreak on celluloid. Yet from that heartbreak was born my lifelong loyalty.
I fell instantly and irrevocably in love with ‘samba football’, the artistry, the flair, the joy of it all. From that moment, Brazil became my team. Not by passport. By conviction.
Through grainy black-and-white footage, I met giants: Pele, still a teenager when he conquered the world in 1958; Garrincha, the dribbling wizard who made full-backs dizzy; Didi, cool and commanding in midfield; Gilmar, the rock in goal; and Zagallo, tireless and versatile. They did not merely play football, they danced it!
From 1966 onwards, my devotion never wavered. Win or lose, Brazil was home. When they went out early, I went into mourning. I sulked. I avoided friends. I pretended I didn’t care about the rest of the tournament; except, of course, the final. Such is the irrational fidelity of the football lover.
Then came 1982.
To this day, I maintain that the Brazilian team of 1982 were the greatest team never to win the World Cup. Under the legendary Tele Santana, they were poetry in motion with the likes of Falcao, Zico, Socrates, Eder, Junior, and Serginho. Every pass had purpose. Every movement carried intent. The world fell in love with them. So did I.
And then came Paolo Rossi!
Italy struck once. Brazil replied. Italy struck again. Brazil answered. And then, like a dagger in slow motion, Rossi completed his hat-trick. That was it. The dream died. I was inconsolable. Withdrawn. Silent. For days, I walked the house like a man who had lost a dear friend. To others, it was a football match. To me, it was a funeral.
If 1982 broke my heart slowly, 2014 pulverised it instantly.
Brazil, hosts. The sacred yellow jersey. The Maracana dream. And then the unthinkable: Germany 7, Brazil 1. By halftime, the damage was already irreversible. I watched in disbelief as a footballing empire collapsed before my eyes. It was not just defeat-la; it was humiliation on a global stage. I struggled to understand it. To this day, that score line still feels unreal.
Yet loyalty does not demand success. It demands faith. And my faith in the Samba Boys has never cracked.
Brazil remain the most successful nation in World Cup history with five titles in 1958, 1962, 1970, 1994 and 2002 to their credit. Italy and Germany follow with four each. Argentina trail with three. France have two. Uruguay two. England one, theirs in 1966, still replayed endlessly.
Since 2002, the dream has had a name: Hexa, the elusive sixth title. It has slipped away too many times. Most painfully in 2022, when Croatia eliminated Brazil on penalties. Once more, samba gave way to silence.
Which brings me back to the present, and to the 2026 World Cup draw that stirred all these memories back to life.
For the first time in history, the World Cup will feature 48 teams. The tournament will be hosted across three nations, namely the United States, Canada and Mexico; a footballing carnival stretched across a continent. It is progress, they say. It is expansion. It is inclusion.
Brazil, according to the draw, find themselves in Group C with Morocco, Haiti and Scotland. On paper, it looks manageable. Haiti, remarkably, are back on the World Cup stage for the first time in more than half a century. Morocco are battle-hardened after their historic 2022 run. Scotland, stubborn as ever.
The ‘Group of Death’ label belongs to Group L, featuring England, Croatia, Ghana and Panama. Croatia, finalists in 2018 and semi-finalists in 2022, are no longer surprise packages. Ghana never lack bite. Panama are improving rapidly. England? Always dangerous and always under pressure.
Argentina, the defending champions, inhabit Group J with Algeria, Austria and Jordan. With Lionel Messi still casting his shadow, their road to the knockout stages appears smoother than most.
But the biggest talking point is not the groups. It is the number: 48. Many purists fear dilution. Too many teams, they argue, will reduce quality. They mourn the old 32-team elegance. Yet Arsene Wenger thinks otherwise.
Now Fifa’s chief of global football development, Wenger argues that 48 is not excess, but an access. Only about a quarter of Fifa’s 211 member nations will qualify. The rest will still be watching from home. Quality, he insists, will not vanish. It will diversify.
As a lifelong football watcher, I find myself agreeing with him. History shows us that ‘minnows’ never come to lose politely. They come to shock, and return home with nothing to lose.
Ask Argentina about Saudi Arabia in 2022. Ask Germany about Japan. Ask Italy about Costa Rica. Ask France about Senegal. Ask Spain about Switzerland. Ask Diego Maradona about Cameroon. Ask West Germany about Algeria. Ask Italy again about North Korea in 1966.
Upsets are not accidents. They are soccer’s reminder that rankings do not play matches, players do. And yet, before I go further, allow me a moment of humour. A joke that perfectly sums up the global hierarchy of soccer dreams, including our dreams, if we have any!
A South Korean fan asks God when his country will win the World Cup. God says, “Not in your lifetime.” The Korean cries.
An Indian asks God when India will become world champions. God says, “Perhaps in another 100 years.” The Indian wails.
Then a Nigerian asks if his country will ever win it. God replies, “Within 30 years.” The Nigerian kneels and thanks God.
Finally, a Malaysian approaches God with the same question. Before he can even finish, God weeps.
That, my dear readers, is the state of Malaysian soccer, now!
Back to the global stage.
The beauty of the World Cup is that it belongs to every age of life. For me, it began with a reel in 1966. For today’s children, it begins on tablets and smartphones. But the emotion remains constant: hope, despair, euphoria, cruelty, redemption.
The World Cup does not respect logic. It obeys only momentum.
I have watched dynasties rise and dissolve. Brazil’s 1970 team lifted the Jules Rimet Trophy and never gave it back. Spain dominated with tiki-taka (style of play involving short passes) and vanished. Germany rebuilt and rebuilt again. Argentina rose, fell, and rose again under Messi. France swing back and forth between brilliance and chaos.
And through it all, Brazil remain eternal: flawed, beautiful, maddening, magical. They have broken my heart more than any team. They have also given me more joy than any other. When they win, I am 10 years old again. When they lose, I am a grown man pretending not to care, and failing.
Will 2026 finally deliver Hexa? Logic says nothing. Soccer laughs at logic. Youth, tactics, psychology, mettle, all weigh on the scale. The expanded field means new dangers. It also means new dreams.
Maybe that is what keeps me watching, four decades on. The draw is done. The groups are set. The journeys are mapped. But once the whistle blows, all predictions will dissolve into 90 minutes of chaos and courage.
And somewhere, I will sit again, waiting for crosses to curl, shots to deflect, and samba to dance once more on soccer’s greatest stage.
Win or lose, they will always be my team. Brazil forever.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
