The story of the Chile national football team, La Roja, is one of the most compelling narratives in international football. It’s a tale not just of fleeting glory, but of a profound cultural identity forged through decades of near-misses, heartbreaking setbacks, and, ultimately, transcendent triumph. To understand Chile’s footballing soul, you have to look beyond the trophies—though the ones they’ve won are spectacular—and into the mentality that carried them there. I’ve always been fascinated by teams that embody a specific, almost palpable spirit, and Chile, for me, is the definitive example of a nation that plays with its heart stapled to its sleeve. Their journey from perennial underachievers to back-to-back Copa América champions and a consistent World Cup presence is a masterclass in resilience. It brings to mind a philosophy I once heard articulated by a great athlete from another sport, which perfectly encapsulates the Chilean football ethos: “At the end of the day, just coming out and competing, giving it all that I can. That usually takes over anything else. Just playing to compete and playing to win.” That relentless, all-consuming competitive fire is the thread that runs through the entire tapestry of Chilean football history.
The early and mid-20th century laid the foundation, marked by raw talent and agonizing disappointment. Hosting the 1962 FIFA World Cup was a landmark moment, a chance to announce themselves on the global stage. And they did, finishing in a remarkable third place—a feat that would stand as their pinnacle for nearly half a century. Players like the legendary goalkeeper Sergio Livingstone and the prolific Leonel Sánchez became national icons. Yet, for all that promise, what followed was a long, frustrating period known as “La Maldición de los 34 años” (The Curse of 34 Years)—a stretch from 1962 to 1996 where Chile failed to qualify for a single Copa América final. They produced sublime talents, most notably the mercurial striker Iván Zamorano and the dazzling midfielder Marcelo Salas, the iconic “Zamorano-Salas” duo that terrorized defenses in the 1990s. I remember watching them in the 1998 World Cup in France; their 4-1 victory over a stacked Austrian team was a display of sheer attacking joy. Yet, there was always a sense of unfulfilled potential. The team seemed to lack a certain tactical cohesion, often relying on individual brilliance. They were competitors, no doubt, but the final step to becoming consistent winners felt just out of reach.
The true transformation, the birth of the modern La Roja legacy, began in the mid-2000s with the emergence of a golden generation. This wasn’t just about one or two stars; it was a systemic overhaul. The key figure was Marcelo Bielsa, the eccentric Argentine coach hired in 2007. Bielsa, or “El Loco,” instilled a philosophy of manic, high-pressing, attacking football that was physically demanding and tactically revolutionary for South America. He didn’t just want to win; he wanted to overwhelm. He found the perfect disciples in a core group: the ferocious and technically gifted midfielder Arturo Vidal, the elegant playmaker Jorge Valdivia, the relentless full-back Mauricio Isla, and, above all, the country’s greatest-ever player, Alexis Sánchez. Under Bielsa, Chile qualified for the 2010 World Cup with a stunning runner-up finish in South American qualifying, playing a brand of football that was as thrilling as it was effective. I recall their match against Spain in South Africa 2010—they lost 2-1, but they outplayed the eventual champions for large stretches, pressing them into uncharacteristic errors. That game was a declaration. They were no longer just participants; they were contenders who believed they could beat anyone. Bielsa’s successor, Jorge Sampaoli, doubled down on this identity, adding even more aggressive verticality.
This cultural shift culminated in the most glorious period in Chilean football history: the back-to-back Copa América triumphs in 2015 and 2016. The 2015 victory on home soil was cathartic. After 99 years of waiting, they finally lifted the trophy, defeating Lionel Messi’s Argentina in a dramatic penalty shootout in Santiago. The image of goalkeeper Claudio Bravo, the team’s stoic captain, saving the final penalty is etched in football lore. But for me, the 2016 Copa América Centenario win in the United States was even more impressive. It proved 2015 wasn’t a fluke. To turn around and win again, in a special edition tournament featuring the entire Americas, defeating Argentina—again in a penalty shootout, again with Messi missing—showed a mental fortitude that had been missing for generations. This team lived by that ethos of pure competition. In those shootouts, under immense pressure, they didn’t just hope to win; they expected to win. They had forged an identity so strong that the result felt inevitable. The numbers from that era are staggering: between 2014 and 2017, Chile consistently ranked among FIFA’s top five teams in the world, a previously unthinkable achievement for a nation of just over 18 million people. Their possession statistics often topped 60%, and their defensive pressure, measured by PPDA (passes per defensive action), was among the most intense in the world, often below 8.0 in major tournaments.
Today, as that golden generation enters its twilight, the legacy is secure but the future is a topic of passionate debate. The failure to qualify for the 2018 and 2022 World Cups was a painful comedown, exposing a reliance on aging stars and a struggling youth development pipeline. Some argue the high-pressing model was too physically specific and left the federation without a clear succession plan. From my perspective, that’s a bit harsh. All cycles end. The true legacy of this Chile team isn’t just the two Copa América trophies in the museum; it’s the permanent elevation of expectation. They changed what it means to wear the red shirt. Young players now grow up not dreaming of just playing for Chile, but of winning for Chile, of pressing for 90 minutes, of embodying that chaotic, beautiful intensity. The current challenge is to find a new tactical identity that honors that fighting spirit while adapting to new talents. The spirit of “just playing to compete and playing to win” that defined players like Vidal, Sánchez, and Bravo is now the non-negotiable baseline. The rise of La Roja taught us that footballing success is built as much on mentality as on talent. They were a team that, for a glorious decade, competed with every fiber of their being, and in doing so, they wrote themselves into history not as a flash in the pan, but as one of the most formidable and respected national teams of the 21st century. That’s a legacy any football nation would envy.