The weird and fascinating origin stories of your favorite team’s soccer kits

FastCompany: Did you know that Brazil’s original jersey was deeply resented by its own fans after it lost to Uruguay in the 1950 World Cup final, leading to a redesign made by a teenager three years later? Neither did I, until I went digging. The stories behind the kits of legendary (and not-so-legendary) national teams is often weird, sometimes serendipitous, and occasionally built on legends that never quite happened the way everyone remembers.

As the World Cup 2026 steadily advances to its inevitable conclusion (my crystal ball says it will be Argentina winning it again), let’s look into how the teams now playing the Round of 16 knockouts got their kits… and discarded others. Lionel Messi of Argentina is seen during the FIFA World Cup 2026 Round Of 32 match between Argentina and Cabo Verde at Miami Stadium on July 03, 2026 in Miami Gardens, Florida. [Photo: Ian MacNicol/Getty Images] Argentina vs. Napoleon Let’s start with Messi’s team. Argentina debuted its first documented kit in 1902: plain white with a light blue horizontal band.

It wasn’t until 1908 or 1910 (depending on the source) that the team switched to the vertical sky-blue-and-white stripes that have defined the “Albiceleste” ever since. The deeper roots of that pale blue go back much further though, to 1771, when Spanish King Charles III used the color for a royal honor connected to the Virgin Mary, a palette later adopted by Argentine revolutionaries resisting Napoleon’s grip on Spain in the early 1800s.

Diego Maradona’s 1986 World Cup Match-Worn Shirt [Photo: Tristan Fewings/Getty Images/Sotheby’s] But it’s Argentina’s away kit that has the most bizarre story: In 1986, manager Carlos Bilardo worried the squad’s official heavy cotton away shirts would leave players exhausted in the Mexico City heat before their quarterfinal against England. With no time to source a replacement through normal channels, staff bought cheap polyester shirts from a local sporting goods store, then spent the night before the match hand-stitching on crests and numbers.

Diego Maradona wore that improvised, store-bought shirt when he scored both the “Hand of God” and the “Goal of the Century” in the same game. The Brazilian national soccer team in Rio de Janeiro, 1950. [Photo: Staff/AFP/Getty Images] Brazil’s bad vibes Brazil is already out of the tournament, destroyed by Erling Haaland and his Vikings history, but the team is marked by superstition, starting with its jerseys. The team wore white until the 1950 World Cup final, where a home defeat to Uruguay was so devastating it became known as the “Maracanazo,” after the name of the stadium they played in, the legendary Maracaná.

The white shirt was permanently associated with the loss. It was a national trauma, and many Brazilians turned against the color. The rejection was widespread enough that in 1953, the newspaper “Correio da Manhã” ran a contest requiring a new design that used all four colors of the flag. A 19-year-old illustrator named Aldyr Garcia Schlee won with the yellow shirt, green trim, and blue shorts still worn today. It’s the yellow of the jersey that gave the team its nickname: the “canarinha” or “little canary,” like the yellow of that bird.

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The article provides interesting insights into the cultural significance of soccer kits, which can inform brand strategy, but it does not represent a major shift or breakthrough in the industry.