USA ‘94: Romário, Baggio, and the Last Dance of the Romantics

There are World Cups, and then there was 1994—a tournament dipped in the sweat of a blazing American summer, where football met Hollywood and the scriptwriters had no mercy. It was football’s last great fever dream before the corporate machine tightened its grip. It had everything: heroes, villains, miracles, and heartbreaks. And for a 12-year-old kid watching wide-eyed, it was the moment football stopped being a game and became something bigger.

A Tournament of Fire and Fate

USA ‘94 wasn’t just hot; it was a furnace. Players melted on the field, drenched in sweat under the unforgiving sun, but the football never stopped. This was the World Cup of Diego’s last rebellion, of Hristo Stoichkov’s snarling brilliance, of Bebeto’s baby-cradle celebration, of Oleg Salenko deciding to casually score five in a single game. It was also the tournament where Bulgaria, a team that had never won a World Cup match before, marched all the way to the semifinals, eliminating reigning champions Germany in the process. And at the heart of it all, two men stood taller than the rest—Romário, the swaggering Brazilian poet of the penalty box, and Roberto Baggio, the ponytailed artist who carried Italy on his back like a tragic Greek hero.

The Road to Pasadena

Romário played like he had the cheat codes. He didn’t run; he glided. He didn’t score; he orchestrated. Every touch had purpose, every goal had grace. Brazil had won three World Cups before, but this one—this one was different. This was the era of caution, of tactical rigidity, but Romário refused to be tamed. He was joy wrapped in a yellow jersey, a player who didn’t just beat defenders but humiliated them with a wink and a knowing smirk.

And then there was Baggio, the divine contradiction. He started the tournament like a ghost, drifting through games, but then—magic. He dragged Italy through the knockout rounds by sheer will. Against Nigeria, against Spain, against Bulgaria—every time Italy teetered on the edge, Baggio pulled them back, his right foot weaving masterpieces under the weight of a nation’s dreams. It was as if he was writing his own legend, one impossible goal at a time. His semifinal performance against Bulgaria, scoring twice in a 2-1 victory, was a masterclass. The reward? A date with destiny in Pasadena.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in this sun-scorched epic, there was madness. Diego Maradona, making one last stand, scoring a goal so ferocious it felt like a middle finger to time itself—only to be sent home days later for failing a drug test. “They cut off my legs,” he said. Maybe they did. Stoichkov and Bulgaria, playing like men possessed, took out defending champions Germany, because why not? The Dutch played Total Football Lite, Brazil rediscovered its soul, and the Americans, hosting their first World Cup, gave the world a Fourth of July firework show against Brazil—losing 1-0, but proving they belonged.

The Final: A Duel in the California Sun

July 17, 1994. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena. The final no one expected, but the one that felt preordained. Brazil vs. Italy. Romário vs. Baggio. The dreamers vs. the doomed.

It was supposed to be beautiful. It wasn’t. The game was a slog, a war of nerves and exhaustion, two great teams canceling each other out in the oppressive heat. Brazil attacked in bursts, Romário and Bebeto trying to summon one last moment of inspiration, but Italy stood firm. Baggio, playing through pain with a heavily bandaged thigh, tried to conjure another miracle, but his legs were heavy, the magic spent. 120 minutes, no goals. The game deserved poetry. It got a penalty shootout.

The Shot That Echoed Forever

The shootout unfolded like slow-motion heartbreak. When Franco Baresi, Italy’s indestructible captain, skied his penalty, Brazil’s coronation felt inevitable. The normally ice-cold Daniele Massaro had his shot saved. Romário, nonchalant as ever, rolled his effort into the net like he was passing the ball to a friend. Then came Baggio.

One kick to keep Italy alive.

One kick to rewrite history.

He stepped up. The ball rose. And kept rising. Over Taffarel’s goal, into the California sky, into the abyss of footballing sorrow.

Brazil erupted. Baggio stood alone, staring at the ground, hands on hips, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. The perfect player with the perfect story, undone by the cruelest twist.

 

Iconic photo by OMAR TORRES/AFP

The End of an Era

Brazil lifted the trophy, their fourth, their first since Pelé. Romário beamed, a king crowned at last. Dunga, the steel-hearted captain, lifted the cup, proving Brazil could win with pragmatism rather than just poetry. The jogo bonito was evolving.

But for those who loved the game beyond the result, the image that lingered wasn’t the Brazilian celebration. It was Baggio, walking away, shoulders slumped, a man who had given everything and been left with nothing.

Football changed after 1994. The game became faster, leaner, more scientific. Money poured in, tactics grew colder, and the sport’s raw romance faded just a little more. The World Cup would never feel quite like this again—this sun-drenched opera of joy and despair.

For those of us who lived through that summer, who saw Romário’s genius and Baggio’s tragedy, we know the truth.

That was the last dance of the romantics.