There’s this recurring nightmare I have. It takes place somewhere in Spain – at a football match to be precise, set against the baying backdrop of hot-blooded supporters filling the stands of some non-specific La Liga team. It’s not a particularly ill-disciplined game and everything seems to be going just dandy until, in the matter of just a few short moments, the course of footballing history finds itself forever altered in a shocking and cruel fashion. As you may have guessed, the man responsible for this seismic event is none other than me.
My side, whoever they may be, are up against Barcelona and there on the touchline, careening towards me like a miniature cyclone, is Lionel Messi. You know him: short chap, Argentinean international, Barcelona No. 10 and, oh yes, quite probably the most gifted footballer of his, or maybe even any other, generation. The crucial moment of my nocturnal ordeal comes as Messi dashes past me. I pivot and plunge a leg out towards this haze of red and blue in a desperate and doomed attempt to win the ball. I don’t catch him, but I do knock him off balance and as he falls to the turf below, a sickening crack rings out. It's the kind of ghastly noise which can't possibly be good, and to an hombre the crowd falls silent. Messi is grounded, writhing in visceral agony as those pitch-side hold their hands to their mouths. Several hours and an x-ray later and the bleak news is confirmed: I hadn’t just broken Messi’s stride, I’d simply broken him. Our momentary meeting proves to be the final, tragic act of his still nascent career.
The upshot of all this is that I’m plunged overnight into the spotlight of the world’s media, re-branded from ‘jobbing Liga midfielder’ to ‘The Man Who Ended Messi’. Unable to cope with this cold and horrid truth, I flee my home and my club, eventually seeking refuge in the only place whose residents I know for sure won’t chase me through the streets pitchfork-in-hand. That place is Madrid. As I enter through the towering city gates (my dreams aren't necessarily known for their infrastructural accuracy), freshly printed billboards appear to adorn the walls of every building, bank and cathedral in sight. There, staring down across the land, holding his minions in regal gaze, stands a literally larger-than-life Cristiano Ronaldo. He looks imperious and clean and content to allow but the merest hint of a smirk to escape the side of his mouth. The sentence printed beneath him is simple, bold and brutally direct; six little words which together make up his new, undisputed title: “The Best Player in the World”.
And then I wake up. Eternally relieved that I haven't inadvertently robbed the world of a sporting great, my waking joy often ends up tempered when I remember that there are individuals in our midst not entirely enthralled by the continued rise of Messi and his Barcelona cohorts. Hard as it is to believe, there are persons out there claiming to be bored not just of young Lionel himself, but of the consistently awe-inspiring performances of his club too, which is a bit like claiming to be bored of happiness or magic. To these people I have this to say: football evidently isn't your thing. Take up stamp collecting. Or bird watching. Or jogging. Remove yourself from the fray. Find solace in a quiet room and think hard about just how very, very wrong you are.
Lets us sane people take a moment to analyse the raw data. Messi has scored 158 goals in 208 games for Barcelona. He has won 18 major club honours, including five league titles and three Champions Leagues. He has received the Ballon d'Or three years in a row now and you'd be a gambler of Dostoyevsky-esque proportions to bet against number four being anything less than imminent. He plays with the confidence of a warrior and a dynamism as beguiling as it is bountiful and the scariest part of all of this is that he is just 24 years old. I have bad news for those aforementioned joyless folk: the lad's not going anywhere for a while yet.
Puzzlingly, this failure to embrace greatness seems to be most prevalent in Messi's own country. In a Time magazine feature published earlier this year, it is noted that Messi has not been lovingly embraced in his native Argentina and is often viewed, despite his Herculean achievements, as one of “them” and not one of “us”. The ‘them’ referred to is of course Catalonia. As an autonomous community historically wrestling with its own identity, the position of FC Barcelona at the region's beating heart has inevitably led to Messi's elevation to poster-boy status. The club's current golden era of success has been lovingly built around a grass roots ideology of which Messi himself is the prize crop of an enviously high yield.
The problem seems to be that Messi may be a little hard to fall in love with and, as frustratingly illogical as it may feel, I can kind of see what they're saying. Ironically, given his apparent outsider status in his homeland, it's arguable that he somehow doesn't quite live up the classic image of the footballing legend, perhaps coming across as a little bit safe, a little too good in terms of temperament and tone. It's true that he has rarely fallen foul to poor discipline and although those prone to mass replay-viewing point to a niggling tendency to fall a little too easily, he is generally viewed as a well turned out young man. And this may be what frustrates some.
For all his dazzling ability and otherworldly finesse, Messi doesn't quite embody the wildheart spirit of his forefather Diego Maradona and other footballing heroes of yore. He may be a pint-sized blur of flesh and bone, a stocky whirlwind of balletic brilliance, dancing past the flailing limbs of lesser mortals, but he appears to have also broken the mould of the reckless matador teetering perilously on the brink of implosion; the crazed maverick eternally tangoing across the high, dividing wire between majesty and madness. Romantics fear the clean-cut of his jib, but even so: can't he still be the messiah even if he isn't a very naughty boy?
In all honesty, quite probably. But perhaps there's more to it than that. Perhaps the most idyllic thing about Messi isn't actually anything to do with Messi at all, but rather the fact there he lives in a parallel trajectory to Ronaldo. This great rivalry, whilst perhaps most fearsome in the minds of onlookers, is something maybe even more indicative of greatness. Indeed, a nice old-fashioned rivalry can spur good men towards great things, adding an extra personal dimension to a pre-existing competitive spirit. Think Borg and McEnroe. Or Frazier and Ali. Or Frasier and Niles, if that's more your thing. It's a classic image: two men reaching for the very same spotlight, one destined to stand a-glow, the other a few feet to the side and a fraction more dimly lit.
All of which makes you feel a little sorry for Ronaldo, if indeed such a counter-intuitive emotional state is actually possible. For all his indisputable excellence, the Portuguese appears destined to be forever remembered as the second best player of his generation, a frustrated Steve Backley to Messi's Olympian Jan Železný. Such a state of affairs is understandably vexing, for in another time Ronaldo would be the king of the castle and would have truly owned the years prior to his own emergence. Over the past decade the Brazilian duo of Kaká and Ronaldinho both laid fair claim to be the worlds best, and yet both faded fast and didn't manage to define an era the way Pele, Maradona, Ferenc Puskás or Johann Cruyff did. Messi will surely one day be spoken of in those terms, if he isn't already. On mere talent alone Ronaldo is possibly deserving of a place alongside, but the fates will almost certainly dictate a lesser legacy onto the pages of time.
None of which pondering should detract from the fact that we are witnessing a moment of grand footballing luxury, as two great practitioners compete in the same league and for the same trophies with two clubs so historically adversarial the whole thing almost feels like a script ripped from the hands of some wild-eyed, opium-guzzling dramatist. To have but one of them honing their art before our eager eyes week in, week out would still be a treat indeed. To have two feels a little like being spoiled.
Moreover, Messi is in many respects illustrative of the characteristics his footballing generation represents – not only a specimen of peak physical fitness, but also a man content to play a part in a larger whole, as contemporary tactical systems evolve to favour function over fantasy. As peerless as he may be, it should never be said that he carries Barcelona. What he does is merely add that extra layer of quality to a team hell-bent on keeping the flame of total football burning.
You hope time is on his side, although there is a worry that such are the demands placed upon the bodies of players today that the traditional idea of the late-twenties peak may actually be reducing by a few years. The aforementioned Brazilians hit their stride at around the age Messi is now, but within a few seasons had, for one reason or another, lost their way or just run out of steam. It is entirely possible of course that Messi hasn't reached his peak yet – and let's not forget that should he have the occasional off-day, we've got Ronaldo to keep us entertained. So for now let us savour the fact that a master walks among us – and pray that my dreams never, ever come true.
~ Matt
