elê Santana receives an overall rating of 89, a score that reflects both the brilliance and the limitations of his managerial legacy. He is celebrated as one of the finest advocates of attacking, aesthetic football — a purist who believed in beauty as an essential part of the game. His Brazil sides, particularly in 1982 and 1986, are considered among the most entertaining and technically gifted teams in football history, even though they did not win the World Cup. Santana’s philosophy centered on technical mastery, fluid combinations, and a deep respect for the individuality of the player within a collective framework. His teams were tactically structured but never rigid, expressing flair, rhythm, and joy — often overwhelming opponents with elegant, creative football.

However, this same idealism is part of what prevented him from reaching the very top of the managerial pantheon. His reluctance to compromise style for pragmatism arguably cost him the 1982 World Cup, particularly in the infamous defeat to Italy. He was a manager of conviction, but sometimes those convictions came at the expense of competitive results. Moreover, his impact was largely confined to the Brazilian context, with limited success abroad. Yet, the emotional and cultural weight of his influence cannot be overstated: he helped define an entire generation’s idea of how football should be played.

Thus, 89 is a score that honors his tactical intelligence, technical emphasis, and inspirational vision, while also acknowledging the absence of major international silverware and the limits of a philosophy that, at times, refused to bend.

Telê Santana believed that football was meant to be played with a smile. But his was not a naive optimism. It was a conviction forged through years of observing how joy, when expressed through collective intelligence, could become a weapon more potent than brute force. His Brazil sides of 1982 and 1986 did not win the World Cup, but they left an imprint deeper than most champions. They played the game as a conversation, a choreography, a celebration of shared talent—what might be called joyful collectivism.

For Telê, the idea of joy in football was never about circus tricks or empty flourishes. It was about the beauty of connection: passes exchanged with rhythm, movement coordinated through instinct and trust, goals built like songs composed in real time. His teams moved as if guided by an inner harmony. The ball was rarely stationary, and even more rarely launched aimlessly. There was no need for desperation, because the structure was designed to allow expression. Everyone had a part to play. Everyone was a protagonist.

The Brazil of 1982, his masterpiece, was built around a core of technically supreme midfielders: Zico, Falcão, Cerezo, and the ever-graceful Sócrates. They did not run the game through power or pace, but through intelligence, touch, and mutual understanding. Possession was not hoarded but shared. Attacks flowed not through pre-set patterns but through constant triangulation, third-man runs, and positional fluidity. Even the full-backs, Junior and Leandro, were part of the creative circuit, pushing high to stretch the field, arriving centrally to combine. It was a team that attacked in waves, always with numbers, always with elegance.

Telê’s collectivism was rooted in training. Sessions were intense but focused on ball work, positional rotations, and associative play. He insisted on one and two-touch football, on reading teammates’ intentions, on playing with the head up. He wanted automatisms that didn’t kill spontaneity but rather elevated it—rhythms internalised so deeply that they became second nature. Freedom was not anarchic; it was choreographed liberation.

This commitment to the group extended to team selection. Telê preferred players who improved the collective rather than those who sought glory in isolation. He valued those who made others better: the unselfish pass, the delayed run, the cover behind an attacking full-back. Individual brilliance was welcome, but only when channelled through the team’s greater intelligence. For this reason, even the most creative players were expected to contribute defensively, to recover positions, to press in coordination. Joy did not exempt responsibility.

That balance—between joy and duty, freedom and cohesion—was what gave Telê’s teams their unique texture. Watching Brazil in those years was to see football played at its most human: expressive, daring, and communal. Every attack felt like an act of trust, every goal a product of shared understanding. And though they fell to Italy in 1982 and France in 1986, both in games that have entered football mythology, they left behind something more enduring than silverware: a model of how football could be played.

Telê Santana’s philosophy stood in stark contrast to the growing tide of result-driven pragmatism. In an era increasingly seduced by systems of control and risk minimisation, his Brazil sides were a defiant hymn to the game’s poetic side. Yet what made them remarkable was that their poetry was underpinned by tactical rigour. They were not disorganised artists but disciplined performers, united by a common vision of the game.

In the decades since, many have tried to recapture that blend of joy and structure. Few have succeeded. The modern game, shaped by analytics and systems thinking, rarely tolerates the kind of expressive collectivism Telê championed. But echoes of his approach survive—in the positional combinations of Guardiola’s Barcelona, in the associative play of Spain’s 2008-2012 era, in the insistence that beauty and effectiveness are not enemies.

Telê Santana once said that football, like life, should be lived with joy. His teams showed that when joy is shared, when it moves from player to player like a rhythm passed through touch and space, it becomes something close to greatness. They didn’t just play the game. They inhabited it, together.

Telê Santana is often remembered for his aesthetics, for the music of his football. But beneath the rhythm and beauty, there was steel. Telê was a moralist of the game, a believer not just in how football should be played, but in how footballers should be. His discipline was not merely tactical or physical. It was ethical. To play for Telê was to accept a code of conduct, a way of existing within the team that mirrored the ideals of honesty, professionalism, and respect. This was not discipline as suppression, but as structure—a moral architecture that allowed creativity to flourish without becoming chaos.

Telê’s standards were exacting. He demanded punctuality, commitment, and seriousness in training. For him, the training ground was sacred, a place for refinement and responsibility. He disdained laziness, showboating, and shortcuts. A player who cut corners in preparation was unlikely to see the field, regardless of talent. When Telê returned to São Paulo in the early 1990s and built one of the greatest club sides in Brazilian history, his first act was to impose order: stricter diets, improved conditioning, and a culture of mutual respect. The players responded not with rebellion, but reverence. He earned authority not by fear, but by integrity.

He was also unyielding on the pitch when it came to the values he wanted to uphold. Telê despised diving, simulation, and provocation. He believed football should be played honestly. He famously clashed with players who exaggerated contact or sought to manipulate referees. For him, there was no pride in a victory gained through deceit. The victory had to be clean—not only in the rulebook, but in spirit. He saw the pitch as a space where character was revealed, and he expected his teams to compete with honour.

This moral discipline extended to the way his teams interpreted the game tactically. Unlike coaches who trusted in sheer improvisation, Telê trained his players relentlessly in positional awareness, in coordinated pressing, in movements rehearsed again and again until they became second nature. His Brazil of 1982 may have looked spontaneous, but it was grounded in preparation. The midfield triangle, the use of the full-backs as playmakers, the pressing triggers—all were products of repetition and structure.

At São Paulo, the philosophy continued. Players like Raí, Cafu, Leonardo, and Toninho Cerezo (again) were molded into disciplined executors of a system that fused talent with tactical control. When São Paulo won the Copa Libertadores in 1992 and 1993 and then the Intercontinental Cup against Barcelona and Milan, it was not with chaos or flair alone, but with a clear game plan carried out by players who understood that freedom had a framework. Each had a function, each knew his task, and all were united by Telê’s unwavering standards.

Telê’s discipline was not cold. It came from a belief that football had the power to reflect values. He was deeply patriotic, yet refused to bend to nationalist propaganda. He taught his players to behave not only as professionals, but as examples. He insisted on humility in victory and dignity in defeat. When Brazil fell in 1982, he refused to blame referees, tactics, or fate. He blamed himself, with honesty and sorrow, but never with bitterness.

Hs success proves that discipline and beauty are not opposites. His teams did not win despite their ethics—they succeeded because of them. They trained harder, respected the ball more, and played with a collective conscience.

Telê saw football as a school of life. His discipline was a form of education, a way of showing that the game’s highest expression came not from indulgence, but from conviction. In his world, discipline was not the enemy of joy. It was what made joy possible.

Telê Santana’s teams are often remembered for their beauty, but their brilliance was underpinned by structure, intelligence, and tactical foresight. His Brazil of 1982 is the most emblematic expression of his footballing ideology, yet it was no freewheeling samba parade. It was a deeply organised, rational system of play built around ball possession, positional fluidity, and a collective attacking identity that operated within clear tactical parameters. Telê’s genius was in shaping a team that appeared spontaneous but functioned with rigorous spatial and technical logic.

The tactical base was a nominal 4-2-2-2, but like all sophisticated systems, it was far more fluid in application. In possession, it often morphed into a 2-4-2-2 or even a 2-3-5, depending on the movements of the full-backs and midfielders. The centre-backs (Oscar and Luizinho) were composed in build-up, rarely launching the ball long. Instead, the play was initiated through short passes, primarily directed toward the two deep midfielders: Toninho Cerezo and Falcão. These two formed the strategic heart of the side.

Cerezo, with his elegance and engine, often dropped into the back line to form a temporary back three, allowing the full-backs—Leandro and Júnior—to push high and wide. Falcão, more vertical and incisive, operated between lines, often positioning himself to receive the second ball or dictate rhythm in the opponent’s half. The full-backs were key tactical weapons. Júnior, in particular, acted as a playmaker from the left, offering both width and interior movement. His interplay with the midfield was constant, often underlapping rather than overlapping, which created unique angles for ball circulation.

Ahead of the double pivot, Telê deployed two attacking midfielders: Sócrates and Zico. But calling them “midfielders” is reductive. They were playmakers, orchestrators, and final-third facilitators. Sócrates, nominally starting from the right, often drifted centrally to combine with Zico, whose spatial freedom allowed him to dictate the tempo in the final third. Their ability to rotate positions, exchange short passes, and destabilise defensive structures through quick, associative play was central to Brazil’s attacking identity.

The front two, often Serginho as the central reference and Eder as the left-sided forward, added verticality and finishing. Serginho, though often criticised for his lack of finesse compared to his teammates, served as a focal point, occupying defenders and opening space. Eder, with his ferocious left foot and ability to cut inside, offered a direct goal threat. But neither was isolated: they were constantly supported by midfield runners, full-back overlaps, and diagonal incursions from Zico or Falcão.

Possession was a tactical principle, not an aesthetic choice. Telê instructed his team to keep the ball not just to control tempo, but to manipulate the opponent. The ball moved laterally and vertically with intent, often to shift the defensive block and create overloads. The team prioritised short passing, third-man runs, and positional rotations to stretch and dismantle compact defences. Importantly, the players always offered support options: triangles were omnipresent, and the man in possession was rarely left without at least two passing angles.

Defensively, the system relied on positional pressing rather than all-out pressure. Brazil’s front line initiated a soft press to guide play into specific zones, while the midfield line compressed space intelligently. Telê’s Brazil didn’t press in waves but controlled space, aiming to recover the ball through interception and anticipation rather than duels. The back line held a medium block, comfortable absorbing pressure when needed, but always looking to initiate the next attacking phase upon recovery.

Set-pieces and restarts were treated with detail. Zico often served as the designer of set plays, with runners attacking designated zones. But even in these moments, Brazil sought combination over chaos: rehearsed short corners, clever dummies, and back-post overloads were all part of the arsenal.

In Telê’s São Paulo of the early 1990s, the structure evolved but retained its essence. The 4-2-2-2 remained, with Raí and Leonardo as advanced creators, and Cafu providing devastating width from the right. The difference was in the defensive balance: more attention was paid to transitions, with tactical fouls and delayed pressing mechanisms introduced to neutralise counters. Yet the attacking patterns—third-man combinations, full-back involvement, and short-passing sequences—remained pure Telê.

In essence, Telê Santana’s tactics were not about chaos disguised as flair. They were method in motion. He created space through structure, harmony through positioning, and beauty through repetition. His teams didn’t improvise without reason; they improvised within reason, guided by a deeply internalised map of movements and options. His football was not only poetry—it was architecture.