I fell in love with football for the first time at the age of twelve. Maradona, Mexican wave, 1986. I remember snatches of throbbing waves of stadium spectators and the time would be past midnight as me and Dad watched a tiny man with thunder thighs jump in the air pumping his fists into the sky and kiss the golden globe on its head. I grew up in India and my interest in football waned seeing Maradona slide. After many years, I saw a headline somewhere proclaiming a new talent who would probably ascend and surpass what Maradona did for Argentina.
As a person who tied sport to the national flag, I never could bring myself to enjoy club football as it was not a thing in India. At least not then. It was always Indian national cricket team our fortunes were tied to.

I again fell in love with football in the form of Messi in 2014. I remember his exploits while on a summer vacation in the US. We caught the finals in a big mall on an East Coast road trip. Once again, a little man carrying the burden of a nation and the passion of many more millions of fans almost achieved the duty thrust upon him. Saw him again in 2018 lose to France. But this time, he had gotten into my bloodstream. I was truly a Messi fan. He was doing things at Barcelona that would be written about as fables by the official celestial scribe. Little hearts and wizened wrinkled cheeks alike would crease into wreaths of smiles at the sight of Messi-ah. Every feint and dance of his left foot would draw a collective gasp. I was gloriously caught up in this giant Messi swell taking us into what we believed would be his last dance, the 2022 cup. As we entered the year, I had two asks of my Maker: 1. A move to the US 2. Messi win the world cup. She granted both. I moved to the US in Oct and Messi won the cup in Dec. It felt so personal even though I had nothing to do with him winning the cup. I guess that’s what a World Cup stage does. Like me, every person finds their passion fused with their purpose in ways inexplicable. Like how a mother’s red thread found it’s way around Messi’s left ankle, each one of us have found a way to tie ourselves to him. The young journalist found the right words of an entire world to say to Messi, that he already did his job even without lifting the cup.

He represents an idea that you can rise in life no matter how many times you fall. You can lead a simple life of honest work, stay loyal to your family, be shy yet shine at what you do. You don’t have to be rich, tall, or handsome. You don’t have to be flashy. Just do your work. Find your left foot, and believe in it. It was only natural that the Finals of 2022 turned to be the greatest of all world cup finals. The French gazelle almost snatched it from under his foot, but greatness prevailed and the little man danced his way to kiss the top of the trophy he so longingly looked at back in 2014 that he missed.

We both moved to the US in the same year. I was overjoyed that we were separated just by a few cities. I couldn’t bring myself to buy an MLS ticket for hundreds of dollars because somehow, I knew my first Messi encounter would be him playing in his iconic Argentina jersey. As a 50th birthday gift, I received one from my family. I wouldn’t have worn it to my first Messi match yesterday for the Austria match had it not been for my daughter and my sister in law who convinced me this moment will never present itself ever again. Dallas unlocked.

The atmosphere was just electric. I realized that Messi has 10 angels on the field and seventy thousand angels in the stands. You have to be there to believe it. When he missed the penalty, there was instantaneous disappointment but in seconds, the fans started chanting a song in their local language. To me it felt as if they were all saying, it’s ok Messi, it’s going to be ok. This unquestioned support was like that of a father saying to his son on every missed chance. It’s ok, it’s ok. And as he swooped in, even before the ball was left to sail between the legs of his team mate, intentionally so, seventy five thousand six hundred and forty nine of us knew he was going to write his signature goal with his left foot even before he touched the ball. For, we all saw it so many times in the thousands of games he played. The magic repeated itself. He curved the ball even as the goal keeper moved the other way, the low ball whistled past and crashed into the net. In that moment, I became the twelve year old again, jumping up and down, my dad laughing and giving me a high five. I hugged my brother in law and we were jumping like kids. Just like the family of four in front of us. A mom, dad and their two children. That is the story of Messi. A story that even a four year old can draw on a white piece of paper. It is that simple a truth. Messi.