The indiscriminate nature of death, with its brutal disregard for reputation, has seldom doubled up to such devastating effect as it did to football this past week.

Seven days ago, there were three men who had won the World Cup as a player and manager. Now there’s only one.

France’s Didier Deschamps had Brazil’s Mario Zagallo and Germany’s Franz Beckenbauer for company; now he’s all alone.

Zagallo was 92, Beckenbauer 78, so both enjoyed, if we can borrow a term from another sport, a lengthy innings.

But what struck home from the double whammy in the obituary columns was the sheer rarity of this trio. Talk about an endangered species.

The France boss is also the ante post favourite to win the 2026 tournament.

Short of Lionel Messi, or one of his teammates, steering Argentina to a second successive triumph from the dugout, he is not likely to get company any time soon.

By far the most famous of the rarified three was Beckenbauer.

Known universally as ‘the Kaiser’, he was not just the greatest German footballer of all time, he would have made most people’s world XI.

Probably as captain – ‘Kaiser’ was not just because he was German, it was because he exuded such command.

Of the ball, of his team, of the game.

He was also one of the greats of any nationality and was chosen in the 20th Century’s Dream Team.

And his demise, by a distance, is the sadder of the two.

They say sports stars die two deaths, the first being when they retire.

That eventually was the case for him, but it took a while.

Initially, Beckenbauer managed both his twilight years as a player and early ones as a manager as smoothly as he had in his prime – with nary a blip on the field.

He said his golden autumn with Pele at New York Cosmos was “the best time of my life.”

And he returned home to repeat his World Cup triumph as a player (1974) as manager (1990).

But things had already started to go awry off the field. As ex-teammate Paul Breitner put it: “He did everything a German is not supposed to do.”

He left his wife. He left his kids. Then left his girlfriend. Didn’t pay his taxes. Got divorced. Never saw his kids.

And probably most damaging of all for his reputation in football, he was accused of bribery in Germany’s 2006 World Cup bid  and even Russia’s for 2018.

He escaped sentencing for the first only because the Swiss court was running out of time. But he never shrugged off the stain.

Like Michel Platini, he escaped custody but his name, once so glittering, became tarnished forever.

This was the saddest part.

The revelation that he was involved in the kind of sleazy, underhand shenanigans that were a hallmark of the Sepp Blatter reign at FIFA was hard for many to believe.

“Say it ain’t so” was the cry, but it was so and he admitted it. In fact, the shame contributed to his demise.

As did the early death of his son Stephan, at the age of 46, in 2015. Full of remorse, he said: “I was a bad father – I was never there.”

That ‘the Kaiser’ died of Parkinson’s disease, of all things, when his touch and timing as a player had always been so immaculate was a tragedy in itself.

The Grim Reaper does irony as well.

What struck fans as the young Beckenbauer emerged on the scene in the late 1960s is that they couldn’t quite figure out his best position.

He started as a midfielder but soon morphed into a defender.

But no one had ever seen a defender do the things he did with the ball.

Instead of hoofing it 50m upfield to no one in particular, he would often start to slalom through mystified attackers in his own half.

Beating one after another with the ball seemingly glued to his feet, before releasing a telling pass to a teammate.

Defenders just didn’t do this sort of thing back then.

And it wasn’t that he was neglecting the day job.

He was always there, making an incisive tackle, picking up a loose ball, covering for his teammates.

He didn’t invent the position called libero, but no one has ever played it better. He was a sweeper with a velvet brush.

How ironic that he couldn’t sweep his misdemeanours under the carpet.

But he will still be sorely missed – not least at Bayern Munich.

When he was a junior, Bayern’s rivals, Munich 1860, were the dominant club in the city and favourites to get the youngster’s signature.

But some rough treatment from the 1860 players persuaded the teenager to join their rivals.

“Bayern would not have been what they are now without him,” is a common refrain from the galaxy of players who followed.

As first its star, then skipper, manager and president, he elevated the club to giant status in the game.

The nearest we saw to him – at least in coolness as a defender – was England’s Bobby Moore and it was no coincidence that they became friends – as Beckenbauer did with Pele.

The Brazilian’s teammate Zagallo actually had the edge in honours winning the World Cup twice as a player.

He was the only member of the 1958 team known by his surname and the last of that immortal forward line of Garrincha, Didi, Vava, Pele and Zagallo.

Brazilians of a certain age still recite the names as they do the Lord’s Prayer.

Like his German counterpart, he exuded authority despite his diminutive size, earning the nickname ‘Little Ant’ as a player.

As a manager he was called both ‘The Professor’ and ‘The Wolf’.

Both will be much missed by their countries and the wider world of football.

Outside of Brazil, the Kaiser’s demise is likely to be felt more deeply – and not just because he was more famous.

For him, the sadness began long before he died.

The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.