Zico
Zico was a number 10, but in the Brazilian sense of the term—more than just a playmaker, he was a forward, a midfield maestro, a pure footballing artist.
Zico
Galinho
Article written by Francesco Buffoli
In Lignano Sabbiadoro, a place I’ve been visiting regularly for years, there’s a Brazilian restaurant with a framed photograph on the wall—signed and dedicated to the owner by none other than Arthur Antunes Coimbra, better known as Zico. No words are needed to explain the love that Udine and its surrounding province still hold for the Brazilian maestro.
His brief yet legendary spell at Udinese secured his place among the greats in Italian football folklore. Italy’s football fans, notoriously critical of players who haven’t faced the country’s renowned defensive dark arts, were won over by his brilliance. However, as unforgettable as his time in Udine was, it was only a small chapter in his illustrious career—and certainly not the most significant one.
When Zico arrived in Italy in 1983, the excitement from the press was accompanied by skepticism. He was already 30 years old (an age considered advanced at the time), accustomed to the warmth of Rio and the “loose” defenses of South America—an outdated stereotype then as it is now. Even Michel Platini had struggled in his first months adapting to the tactical discipline and physical toughness of Italian football, and he had grown up just across the border in France, not on the golden beaches of Brazil.
But as we know, any doubts were quickly buried beneath an avalanche of goals and dazzling plays. From his very first appearance, the Galinho (The Little Rooster) enchanted Italian football fans, setting the stage for a season that still lives on in myths and legends—not just in Udine, but even in places like Lignano Sabbiadoro and its Brazilian restaurant.
Nicknamed “Galinho” (Little Rooster) for his thick, youthful curls but also for the graceful flamboyance of his game, Zico was a footballing aesthete’s dream. His slight touch of narcissism, his poetic relationship with the ball, and his almost theatrical elegance made him a gift to lovers of football’s beauty. At the same time, he was a relentless creator of goals and assists, a match-winner capable of changing the course of a game with nothing more than a flash of brilliance, a backheel, or a solo run.
His almost surreal softness of touch was the gateway to dreamlike plays—moves that seemed illuminated by their own internal light, a purity rarely seen in football. Yet those same moves were not just artistic flourishes; they were game-changing moments, the kind that could shape an entire match.
Zico looked ethereal, as if devoted purely to beauty—a more refined, understated version of the Brazilian “malandro” archetype, less ostentatious than some of his compatriots. Yet, paradoxically, he was also one of the most clinically decisive players of his era. His numbers, his influence, and his impact on team success defied the notion that artistry and effectiveness were mutually exclusive.
This is one of those paradoxes that only the greatest can embody without contradiction. In football, we often divide players into two rigid categories: the practical, result-driven ones, who focus on efficiency, and the artistic, expressive ones, for whom the beauty of a play matters more than its functionality. But I believe this is a very European way of thinking—one that Brazilian football, at least in Zico’s era, would have dismissed outright.
For them, the beauty of a move was, in itself, its effectiveness.
As I mentioned earlier, history often downplays results and falls in love with moments. And perhaps no team seized a moment in time quite like Brazil in 1982—the team that embodied football as an art form, preached and perfected under Telê Santana.
It hardly matters that Brazil’s greatest post-war footballing moment carries, for them, a tragic name—the Disaster of Sarrià. Because even now, 42 years later, football lovers around the world still have Zico’s genius imprinted in their minds. The images of his magic, alongside his legendary teammates, remain untouched by time.
The little wizard from Rio came into the 1982 World Cup with a point to prove. Four years earlier, in Argentina, he had endured a disappointing tournament—his free-flowing football clashing with the rigid, militaristic discipline of manager Cláudio Coutinho, a strict authoritarian who didn’t hesitate to drop Falcão, the reigning Bola de Ouro winner, in favor of the more defensive Chicão.
But in Spain, Zico redeemed himself completely. Not only did he score, but he recited football, painting masterpieces with every touch. Even on July 5th, in the fateful showdown against Italy, with Brazil struggling, he took control, using one of his trademark hip feints to create the opening for Socrates, who slotted past Zoff.
Football history falls in love with the moments that take its breath away, and no team has embodied a single, fleeting moment quite like Brazil in 1982—perhaps the last true expression of a purely South American style, untouched by European pragmatism. Yes, it was “naïve” and lacked cynicism. But maybe that’s precisely why, in a world now built on cynicism, it remains utterly unforgettable.
An old football romantic once told me:
“If those Brazilian teams had even half the competitive ruthlessness of West Germany or Italy, they would have won twice as much. But they wouldn’t have been Brazilian anymore. And they wouldn’t have earned the love of millions for their flaws as well as their genius.”
Zico was blessed with talent, but in an era where football was increasingly defined by physicality and power, his physique did him no favors. He was skinny, short, with bowed legs and uneven shoulders—a player who, by all logic, should have struggled to survive.
But he had more than just talent. He had passion, determination, and discipline.
As Jorge Valdano once said:
“Zico didn’t just play football—he made you feel it. And that’s what separates the great from the legendary.”
Here’s a question: how would Zico be remembered if he had never played in Italy?
To be clear, Zico’s 1982 World Cup is now rightly celebrated as a masterpiece, but at the time, the press was far less kind. Many labeled him a failure, because in the end, his Brazil was eliminated in the quarterfinal group stage—despite being the best team on paper. Against Italy, despite a brilliant assist, he wasn’t decisive enough, and for many, that’s all that mattered.
The present is always obsessed with results. It was true in 1982, and it’s still true today.
And yet, I’m convinced that Zico’s legendary status in Italy owes much to his extraordinary season at Udinese. When he arrived, there was deep skepticism—despite his three South American Ballon d’Ors, his two Bola de Ouro titles, Flamengo’s dominance in the early ‘80s, and the unconditional love of an entire city. Without his stint in Udine, I fear Zico might have been remembered as an incomplete genius.
Without Italian football, the generalist fan might have dismissed him as just another South American playmaker who never fully conquered Europe. They might have focused on what he didn’t win rather than what he created:
- He won a lot with Flamengo, but not as much as a Bochini or Riquelme in South America.
- With Brazil, despite incredible performances, he never lifted an international trophy.
- In three World Cups, he never reached the final.
That perception would have been a mistake—but one all too common in today’s “Messi Method” era, where greatness is measured only in trophies.
Thankfully, Zico defied the cold logic of result-driven football. He was one of the few who could fill the world with beauty, almost effortlessly.
From the moment he was a skinny little kid, playing in the streets of Rio in a Juventude jersey, surrounded by his brothers, he dominated the game through pure skill alone.
And in his case, that’s all that should ever matter.
