But still: the best kit ever? Do you agree? And what else is on your list for best and worst of ’18?

Passing this over.

Hey Vanessa.

I have a confession to make. It’s not the sort of thing I’m especially comfortable admitting in public, but this seems like a safe space, so here goes: I’m not sure I like the Nigeria jersey. I know it’s sold out in minutes and I know people were queuing around the block in London to get one and I know it looks great in those soft filter Instagram-ready promo shots, but it’s a little too deliberate for me: It has the air of the novelty jersey, the deliberately wacky.

Plus, I worry it may fail the ultimate test for all soccer strips (I get in real trouble with my editors whenever that synonym sneaks in): It might look wonderful clinging to the perfectly chiseled bodies of professional athletes, but will it look good on Steve from accounts when he’s playing in his pickup game on a Thursday night? Sure, Steve’s dropped a few pounds in the last year or so, he’s doing the spin class every now and again, and he’s told everyone how he’s off the refined sugars, but is he ready for that?

(And, to be really pedantic, it’s a bit of a mis-sell: The really iconic Nigeria jersey from 1994 had a substantially different pattern, one that was supposed to be redolent of traditional Nigerian designs. This, by all accounts, is an update of a jersey the team wore later in the year, after the tournament.)

It intrigues me why that might be. Is it an example of what the writer Hadley Freeman calls the 30-year rule — referring to the amount of time it takes kids to grow up, take positions of authority and decide the things they liked as children were the best all along — or is it something inherent to soccer: that the early 1990s feel like a different era now, before the real globalization and monetization of the game, when it still felt a little more innocent, a little less corporate. Do we, as fans, now feel more of a pull to that time? Or is this something we’re seeing in fashion more widely?

And speaking of nostalgia, I’m in no doubt about my favorite jersey: it’s not spectacular, and it’s most definitely not original, but it is a classic, one that represents — Iceland apart — the best story of the tournament, and will send a tingle down the spines of pretty much every soccer fan older than me. Peru. That blood-red sash wins it for me. Or is that misty-eyed sentimentality tricking me?

Rory

Hi Rory.

C’mon now. Do you really think any thin techno-fabric made to be aerodynamic on the pitch and on the players is going to look good on the weekend soccer dad with a desk roll around his middle?

Besides, when it comes to body camouflage, pattern is good: It distracts from any visible bumps and rolls. I know vertical stripes (like those on the Argentina home jersey) are supposed to be slimming (the shaded sides of Mexico’s home jersey have a similar trompe l’oeil effect), while horizontal stripes create a different effect, but I think the zigzags of Nigeria could actually be useful in wearability terms.

And, unlike the silly argyle pattern of the Belgium home jerseys, at least it doesn’t scream retro-nerd. Though, to be fair, the Belgian look is even more of a throwback than the Nigeria jerseys, since it hearkens to the 1984 team instead of the ’90s.

And speaking of attractive: Yes, Peru’s jerseys are good, but that slash reminds me just a little too much of a beauty pageant. I’m drawn to Iceland — those pixelated sleeves are a nice detail — Japan, with its Samurai armor spots and deep blue clarity; and Senegal, with the lion etched into the green.

I’m conscious that I may be pushing my luck a little, given that your tastes are substantially more refined than mine, but the theme in what appeals to me seems to be individuality. The major apparel manufacturers have a tendency, certainly at club level, to churn out identikit efforts (particularly with away jerseys): shirts that are just this year’s formula in blue or red or white, depending on the team. That’s been mirrored to some extent at the World Cup — Puma, for one, has given us a string of very similar efforts: the change shirts for Uruguay and Switzerland leap immediately to mind. They’re perfectly fine, but just so unambitious, so lazy, such a wasted opportunity. At least with Serbia there’s a flag to liven things up.

Much more eye-catching are the jerseys that incorporate — however obliquely and oddly — a little national culture or emblem: Japan’s Samurai spots are the perfect example. The same goes for Croatia, I would say: It may not be to everyone’s tastes, but it is identifiably Croatian, from the country’s coat of arms, and entirely unique (as far as I know).

It conjures memories, too: In 1998, Croatia’s first World Cup as an independent nation, the team reached the semifinals against all expectations. Most adult fans would remember that tournament, and that team; they permeated the sport’s consciousness (I suspect that if you ask any soccer fan over the age of 28 what they most associate with Croatia as a country, there’s a good chance they’d forget the beauty of Dubrovnik or the beaches of Korcula and Hvar and just say Davor Suker). It’s not a deliberate throwback kit — that is what all Croatian kits look like — but it has the same effect.

That is what the World Cup thrives on: Every four years, they come along and remind us of the tournaments we watched as children, when they seemed impossibly exotic and glamorous. It’s why, even at a time when the money and the power all rests with the club game, rather than internationals, they still capture the imagination. Certain kits express that perfectly — they are the visual link to previous tournaments. Croatia’s isn’t quite at the level of Brazil’s sunny yellow (or the Netherlands’ orange and Italy’s rich blue, both sadly missing this time around) but it’s in the same league. And surely that’s a triumph for any designer: to make the people wearing the clothes, and the people viewing them, feel something?

All yours …

O.K., Rory

I take your points and take back my flip and outsider-y comment on Croatia. Though I do think it is possible more knowledge is needed to truly appreciate its subtleties than the average laysoccerperson, or World Cup drop-in, may have. Egypt’s version, which is a little more discreet version of the board game look, works better for me.

No knowledge, however, is needed to agree with you on the laziness of the ubiquitous red and white or green. Which, come to think of it, are the colors of the Italian flag. Coincidence? You tell me. Honestly, all those jerseys sort of blend together for me. Maybe they stand out (or blend in) on the pitch better than others, hence being good for either fan sightlines or opponent confusion, but in design terms they strike me as lowest common denominator.

Standing out from the norm can be risky, no matter what type of clothing is involved. Pattern is a scary thing! But it also can yield huge rewards — which brings me back to Nigeria.

It is possible that decades from now, if the team does at all well, some new sportswear behemoth with the franchise will hark back to these jerseys and decide to make a retro-inspired look for, say, World Cup 2046 that pays homage to the green zigzags (which, given they are already a homage, will be a kind of Dada experience). But they would do so because those jerseys will have come to represent the two ingredients that you have so keenly noted make for real dress memorabilia success: an individual identity, and achievement on the (or in a) field.

What do you think of those odds?

Hey Vanessa.

The odds are high, whether Nigeria does well or not. It only reached the first knockout round in 1994, and that has apparently been deemed success enough to warrant commemoration two decades on. What that proves, perhaps, is that teams do not need to excel to be memorable: Most fans would remember the Netherlands in 1974 much more fondly than West Germany, which beat the Dutch in the final; Brazil’s 1982 vintage, unsuccessful by the country’s very high standards, are equally exalted. Most of the planet fell in love with Colombia last time out, despite its being eliminated in the quarterfinals.

This is what the World Cup does to me: I come over all nerdy. What the Nigeria example does illustrate, though, is that there are many ways to be memorable. Score loads of goals: that works. Have a breakout star player, too, or an eccentric coach, or colorful fans, or be the victim of a famous refereeing injustice, or lose at the last.

But I suspect having a great jersey might work too: As you say, the vast majority of kits are interchangeable, a sea of reds and greens and whites that rarely rise above the serviceable. Something different, something original, something eye-catching does tend to stick in the memory (and that memory is collective, and global). Even before the shirt for this year was revealed, I could have told you what Nigeria’s 1994 kit looked like, just like the United States’ effort that same tournament, or Denmark in 1986, or Jamaica in 1998. They may not all quite have worked, but they all stood out. Denmark apart, none of those teams were especially noteworthy, but they’ve stood the test of time, at least in part because of what they wore. Nigeria 2018 may just go the same way.

Over to you

Hi Rory.

So, in the end, what makes great World Cup clothing, and what makes it resonate beyond the pitch, may not be that different from what makes good clothing, period, even taking into account the limited ingredients (two shirts, shorts, socks) and the technical exigencies. Ditto what makes it boring.

After all, one of the causes of homogenization — other than the fact that so many countries’ flags actually have exactly the same colors in them — could be the fact that, by my count, essentially two companies made by far the majority of the kits: Adidas, with 12 (Iran, Morocco, Egypt, Mexico, Sweden, Russia, Japan, Colombia, Germany, Spain, Argentina, Belgium), and Nike, with 10 (Poland, Saudi Arabia, Australia, South Korea, England, Portugal, Croatia, France, Brazil, Nigeria). Puma did four (Serbia, Switzerland, Senegal, Uruguay), New Balance two (Panama, Costa Rica), and Errea (Iceland), Unisport (Tunisia), Hummel (Denmark) and Umbro (Peru) filled in around the edges.

And as any designer, or person who follows designers, could tell you: It’s hard to be genuinely creative that many times at once. So perhaps we should count ourselves lucky that, at least as far as the uniforms go, a lot of this World Cup looks pretty good.

See you in the stands, Vanessa