We’ve just passed the ten-year anniversary of Proper becoming a full-time venture and a real business, and while there have been notable changes along the way, the core identity of the mag remains. We still like talking about things we like.
Back in 2016, one of the first trips we took under the guise of newly ordained fashion professionals was to Pitti Uomo in Florence. In amongst the avant-garde lads standing around smoking performatively and the mahogany old fellas knocking about with their healthy young assistants, a very brief encounter sticks in the memory.
First, some context. As a kid, my entry into this thing we call clothes and shoes came via sportswear, mainly of the football variety. Pocket money was saved, and the cars in our neighbourhood were consistently gleaming, so busy was I with the sponge and bucket in return for a couple of quid. I knocked on Paul Ince’s house once, true story. Didn’t need his car washing though. Anyway, by the time I hit my mid-teens, I had amassed a very decent collection of football shirts, and as my feet continued to expand, so too did my appreciation of football boots. The good, the bad and the ugly all found their way to my feet one way or another. Whether it was the two stripes of Patrick, the trefoil of adidas, the form stripe of Puma or that weird little Q shape from Lineker-endorsed Quaser, I built up quite a good roster. Diadora and Lotto provided a challenge with a more exotic background, while Nike remained elusive. They never really bothered with football back then, with only Ian Rush and cricketer Ian Botham (long story) donning the swoosh in boot form. Oh, and Roy Race, from the fictional football team Melchester Rovers. Look it up. Another Italian brand that I never really knew how to pronounce was beyond my grasp. Pantofola d’Oro. I’m not sure where I first became aware of them, but it was probably via a mail-order insert or ad in one of the football magazines of the day.
And there I was in the middle of Pitti Uomo being introduced to their owner, a Welshman by the name of Kim Williams. Our brief chat revealed him to be a nice bloke, and I resolved to acquire a pair and look more into the brand on my return. Inevitably, things got busy, and it became one of a long list of things I meant to do, but never did.
Recently, the brand came up in conversation once again and soon after, I disappeared down a football boot-shaped rabbit hole again.
The story of Pantofola d’Oro begins in 1886 in Ascoli Piceno, a small town in Italy’s Marche region with a deep shoemaking tradition. The Lazzarini family ran a pretty modest workshop producing handmade footwear, the kind of place where skill was learned by watching, touching and repeating rather than by going to some sort of shoemaking college.
Like a lot of Europe, two massive wars were a catalyst for change, not just politically but culturally. Companies that traditionally manufactured based on need became increasingly driven by want, often using marketing to stimulate that desire. They benefited from a post-war boom and the rise of consumerism, and branded goods became commonplace.
Somewhat in contrast to this trend, Emidio Lazzarini focused on the product before everything. As a shoemaker and athlete, he felt frustrated at the inflexible and uncomfortable sports shoes he could get hold of, so naturally found himself doing what Italians have always done best: he made something better himself. Using the softest leathers he could find, Lazzarini created boots that prioritised comfort, flexibility and feel. When footballers began trying them, the reaction was instant. They didn’t feel like armour. They felt like slippers.
That’s where the name came from. When John Charles, the legendary Welsh striker playing for Juventus, first wore Lazzarini’s boots, he famously described them as pantofole. With a little Italian flourish, Pantofola d’Oro “golden slipper” was born. It was a name that perfectly captured the philosophy: luxury not for show, but for sensation.
From there, the brand embedded itself into football’s golden decades. While the biggest brands of the modern day put their energies into marketing and overt endorsement, Pantofola d’Oro stayed true to their purpose, making luxurious, comfortable football boots to be worn by the true connoisseurs of the game. It is said that Ferenc Puskás, Johan Cruyff, Garrincha, Marco van Basten, Roberto Mancini and Jürgen Klinsmann all wore Pantofola d’Oro at various points in their careers. That list alone reads like a love letter to football purity via players remembered as much for how they played as for what they won.
Pantofola d’Oro’s Italian base remains crucial to understanding why the brand still matters. On the numerous trips to Italy since that first one a decade ago, I’ve come to appreciate the place for its almost stereotypical eye for beauty, often in its most well-worn places. In Bologna, one time, I listened as a colleague asked a well-known chap from a well-known brand if a decaying yet gorgeous building had “listed” status. He assumed Italy had laws like our own to protect buildings of heritage from demolition. A quizzical look was the response, and the gist of the ensuing conversation was that Italy doesn’t really need protective covenants in the way other nations seem to. It’s in their cultural makeup to hold dear objects and locations that grow more appealing the longer they have been around.
In Italy, it seems craftsmanship is seen less as a marketing angle and more as a necessity to continue doing things the right way. From tailoring to cars to shoes, Italian design is obsessed with fit and feel. Football boots are no exception. Where many modern brands chase marginal gains through plastics and composites, Pantofola d’Oro stays loyal to the belief that the foot, the leather and the ball should speak directly to one another. No translator needed.
At a time when money is tight, heritage brands find favour. If you’re short of cash, you can either buy cheaply multiple times or invest more of what you have in something that will grow with you.
Despite having seemingly perfected the formula of their own very unique vision many years ago, Pantofola d’Oro has shown a quiet but confident willingness to engage with contemporary culture in recent years, choosing collaborations that feel thoughtful rather than forced. A standout example is its ongoing partnership with Thebe Magugu, first unveiled at the aforementioned Pitti Uomo. Rather than simply reworking old silhouettes, the collaboration reframed Pantofola d’Oro’s heritage through themes of identity, storytelling and modern craftsmanship, football boots as cultural objects, not just sporting equipment.
Elsewhere, a playful one-off collaboration with Panini tapped directly into football nostalgia, merging two institutions that shaped how generations fell in love with the game. And a limited project with KidSuper brought the golden slipper into dialogue with street culture, art and fashion without diluting its essence. These weren’t attempts to chase hype; they were reminders that heritage brands can evolve without losing their soul. And while function remains at the core of the products they make, their ability to use their boots as a vehicle for a more directional creative endeavour is pretty ballsy and I’ll admit, something of a challenge to my pragmatic nature. As it should be.
Today, the brand doesn’t pretend it can out-innovate modern performance giants like Nike or Adidas on raw technology. Instead, it offers an alternative type of value, one where comfort is king, longevity matters, and football is treated as a craft as much as a spectacle.
As I hurtle headlong into my late 40s, I’d like to think the grace with which I patrol the five-a-side court grows. But it doesn’t. I creak like the old man I’m becoming, but my love for nice things continues to compel me to write about them. Maybe now I’ve written that about Pantofola d’Oro, it’s time I finally sampled their beautiful boots. I’ll take any help I can get these days.
See more about Pantofola d’Oro here
