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There was a tingling feeling underneath his skin.
Correction; there always was a tingling feeling underneath his skin, but right now it was the strongest he had ever felt it.
He was sitting at his home, drinking his third mate of the day, contemplating in which dark corner of his attic he should shove all the things associated with la selección nacional argentina. His official letter of resignation was already in the mail towards Buenos Aires. He had already said his final piece to the press.
In short he was ready to leave this whole shameful chapter of his life behind him. So what if he never managed to win something with his national team? So what if the people were mocking him online, Real Madrid and Portugal fans first and for most, but he had also seen the posts and videos from his own country.
It was as if he felt the heat and burn of every burned jersey on his skin, every insult echoing in his head for hours, the tingling feeling getting louder, the stronger the emotions of his people seemed to be. If it were positive emotions, it would be a pleasant feeling, but if it was the sharp sting of hatred like right now, Lionel Messi wanted to crawl out of his skin.
But he couldn't. Instead he felt numb, an icy hand clenched around his heart, not letting him breathe.
He already knew he would not sleep tonight. Like he hadn't done the last two.
Laying in bed, eyes clenched shut, not able to escape his own body when suddenly there was something else. A ray of sunshine in between the thunderstorm.
How are we going to convince you if we are disastrous? How are we going to convince you if in our lives we have never had 1% of the pressure that you have on your shoulders? That you get up in the morning and look in the mirror and know that a crowd of more than 40 million people not only want you to do things perfectly, but it's also been ridiculously imposed that they can demand them from you.
Someone, somewhere in this country still believed in him. Believed in him more than Lionel believed in himself. Believed so strongly that it actually made it through the rest of the noise in Leo's head.
How are we going to convince you if we could not understand that you are a human being, a person with unmatched talent, the best player on the planet but a person anyway. How are we going to convince you if we don't stop for a second to realize that you are not responsible for the anger that losing bring us, which often has more to do with our own frustrations that arise.
The voice sounded young, a teenager?, now that he kept his full focus on the one thing that kept him from drowning in the buzz of the hatred.
Let's look in the mirror and ask ourselves, what if we demand of ourselves 1% of what we demand of this boy that we really don't even know?
How are we going to convince you if it is hard for us to see that the whole world flatters you? That on your vacation you could be lying on a beach and instead you are there running and representing our colors just for some to focus on if you run or if you sing the anthem. Do what you want Lionel, but please think about staying. But stay to have fun, which is what these people have taken from you. In a world of ridiculous pressures, they manage to take away the most noble thing from the game. The fun. As a kid you probably dreamed of representing your country and having fun. Seeing you play in the albiceleste is the greatest pride in the world. Play to have fun because when you have fun, you have no idea how much fun we have.
Thanks and sorry...
#LIONELMESSI
The person must have posted it somewhere, because where else would someone use Hashtags. But Leo didn't have the energy to look it up. Instead he used the momentary relief to catch at least half an hour of sleep, before the echoes in his head would grow louder again.
The next voice who made it through the fog was a person he knew.
Lionel Scaloni, former teammate. His words only soothed the storm down to a light drizzle, but even that was relief enough that he almost cried.
this image says it all… don't go Lio
But how could he go back to that. He could barely hold it together, if he was on the other side of the world nevermind if he should ever step a foot onto an Argentine pitch ever again.
Not even the love from Barcelona could drown it out. And Culés had always given him tremendous amounts of love.
He didn't know how they had managed to get him to play another world cup qualification and another world cup, but after yet another loss and another flood of hate — somehow less intense even tough they didn't reach the final, but enough that Leo lost almost a week of sleep over it —, he simply had enough.
This team should see where it ended up.
Leo would not drag them towards a trophy the rest of them clearly didn't want.
Not even Lionel Scaloni calling him — by phone this time and not unintentional, by prayer — would win him back. He had read that they had made him coach temporarily, because nobody else wanted to take responsibility, and he had also noticed that Scaloni had brought Pablo Aimar with him — one of Leo's biggest heros.
But Leo had told them no, unless something fundamentally changed in this team he would not put on another Albiceleste shirt.
"What would you do for Leo?"
"Everything."
"Good."
"I need a team that plays for the best player in the world. Are you ready to do that?"
"Absolutely."
"You meant this letter?"
"Every word."
"Honestly I'd die for him."
"He's the best player to ever play this sport, he can't have no international trophies."
"What do I need to do?"
Somehow Scaloni had managed to find an entirely new team. Leo could feel the admiration roll of them in waves, in ways he had never felt. He had been worshipped before at Barcelona, of course he had, he needed believers like he needed oxygen, but those had been fans people who he would never know personally.
This team was different. They were going to be his teammates, if he agreed.
The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment he felt like he couldn't breathe.
There was Enzo Fernandez, who he now found out, quite literally had saved his life back in 2016. — he would have eventually faded into nothingness if not for the letter.
Rodrigo de Paul and Leandro Paredes, who had silently pledged an oath to him to defend him on and off the pitch no matter what. — They didn't and couldn't know how binding this pledge would be as long as Leo drew breaths.
There was Emiliano Martinez, who said he would die for him. — Leo wasn't cruel, he would never demand this kind of sacrifice.
There were Nicolas Otamendi, Angel di Maria and Sergio Aguero, who has been his friends for years. — they too could never find out what kind of power they held over him as his guardian angels.
Lisandro Martinez and Christian Romero, who had build him a whole shrine in their room — without ever realising what exactly they had done, when they had lit that Palo Santo for the first time.
And all the others whose belief in him gave him the fuel to continue.
He took a deep breath before saying the words that would shape the football for the coming years.
"I'll come back Lio."
Because what nobody knew, and Leo Messi himself only started to suspect, when the first chant of his name at the Camp Nou had sent a chill down his spine in a way that he had almost dropped the ball, there was more to Lionel Messi than just his incredible talent.
Instead of losing the ball, he had used the shift in the air as strength to continue, to dribble another green-clad Getafe player to slot the ball into the net. He had slipped a little bit in the end, but from there on fate was sown, history was made.
People later said it was an exact replica of the Goal of the Century. And Leo had seen that game often enough in his life to know the truth. But he hadn't known what this goal would unleash.
For all of Leo's life Diego Armando Maradona was more than just a footballer; he had been a God, a figure larger than life itself. When he had first met him, Maradona had barely noticed him, but once he had made his way to the biggest stages of football, suddenly Diego was there.
After his world cup debut he had actually called Leo.
"You're like me, huh? You can feel it. Like nobody else can."
Leo didn't need to ask what he meant, he knew he could.
"You'll need to be careful. Being worshiped is addictive. But if the worship ever turns around on you. It will destroy you."
"How do I stop it?"
"You can't, but you can channel it. Use it to play, to win, to prove the world they are wrong about you. Let them witness. Show them who you are on the pitch and people will believe."
Coming back to the team was hard. Not because of the company, but because of the memories and the feeling that walking these halls have him.
But his worries were soothed with every waft of Palo Santo, with every prayer his teammates send his way.
At first it wasn't enough. The Copa slipping through their hands once more, Leo's skin buzzing when he was sent off the pitch in the final game for standing up to his rivals, for not letting himself be pushed to the ground.
It sparked a new emotion deep in his gut. Something hot that simmered for the next three years.
He rallied his troops, La Scaloneta followed his battle cries all the way to Brazil. He could feel everyone of their sacrifices as if they were his own, but still they prevailed. They carried each other — for once he didn't have to carry himself and wasn't that the most exhilarating feeling ever — all the way back to the stadium where Leo's heart had shattered all those years ago.
He could still feel the ghost of that final the entire time. He could feel the phantom pain of the tackles, the crushing defeat he felt when Germany scored that goal, he could still feel the pressure on his shoulders from when he had lined up that final free kick.
All of it prevented him from playing his very best game, but thankfully this time there was an Angel on the pitch, spreading his wings wide.
During half time he tried to acknowledge all of their sacrifices, the ways they had been crying and sweating and bleeding for him, for this country. He didn't know if his words were only one drop in the ocean, or if they were listened to as gospel. And in that moment he didn't even care.
The final whistle brought a kind of salvation Leo had never experienced.
The tingling underneath his skin changed into a buzzing and then into a fire he had never felt, as 47 million people simultaneously let out a breath they had been holding for 28 long years.
Leo shuddered as the feeling took away his breath when his teammates all tumbled down on top of him, screaming, crying and hugging — celebrating. It was as if he could feed of this feeling for the next hundred years.
In his career he had held many, many, many trophies in his hand, had lifted them as individual player or as a team, but none of them had felt this solid and real beneath his hands as this one.
From that moment on it was as if the highs were only getting higher.
Beating Brazil at their home, beating Italy in England, the prospect of — for the first time in 36 years — the most important title could belong to them again.
But the euphoria came to an abrupt stop, when the first game of what was supposed to be a historic run was lost.
Leo could feel them all plummet, like someone had cut all his strings at once. But instead of falling Leo had caught himself, had held his head high and had asked the world to trust him for one more time.
And the world trusted him. His team fought for him stronger than ever before, had held him together when for one moment he had to show what he would do to those who attacked his own. That chatter off the pitch would not make him falter, instead it would make him angry.
And you didn't want to feel the wrath of someone like Lionel Messi.
Reaching another final after the defeat of 2014 was scary. France had played a tremendous tournament, they entered as the reigning champions and Leo knew from experience how ruthless their own number 10 could be. But he believed in his own team almost as much — or maybe even more — than they believed in him.
He believed in Enzo's and Julian's youthful optimism.
He believed in Rodrigo's and Leandro's fierce protection.
He believed in Emiliano's skills to save them again and again.
He believed in Angel's wings that grew during finals.
He believed in Nicolas' steady presence as his second in command.
He believed in Sergio's abilities to make them laugh even from the sidelines.
And he believed in Lisandro's and Christian's faith.
In all their faith.
And as Gonzalo Montiel lined up his final shot, he could see Diego looking down on him, alongside his abuela, who had sacrificed so much for him to be where he was standing now.
It could be today, grandma.
It could be today. It was today.
If Leo had thought nothing could top the feeling of his first international trophy, then he had been completely wrong. This was a thousand times better. This was truly the peak, the highlight, the highest peak of his career. And even as he had doubts in the past, as he had quit, as he was crucified by his own people — this moment alone made it all worth it.
He could feel the trophy — his trophy — calling out for him as he walked past her, the player of the tournament trophy cradled in his arms. He had heard her calling eight years ago as well, mourning his loss with him.
But now nothing could stop him, from taking a moment to press a gentle kiss to her top.
Not long now. He whispered to her. I'll be with you soon. She answered.
They wrapped him in a shroud, for the first time he felt like he belonged into the role football had chosen for him, as she was finally handed over to him.
It had taken him five tries, five heartbreaks, sixteen long years of hopes and prayers, but now he finally felt at peace in his own skin.
This could have been the end, the perfect fairytale ending. But Lionel Messi was nothing if not dedicated to his football. As long as he felt physically able to play his game, he would play. Maybe not with the same speed and dexterity, but with his full experience.
Always on the hunt for more trophies for his country, trying to defend their titles.
20 years ago, a little boy from Rosario, Argentina entered the world of football.
He had laughed, cried in joy and defeat, he had celebrated victories and mourned missed chances.
He had enchanted the hearts of millions of people.
He had done something that nobody had ever managed to do; he had managed to win everything. To break almost every record ever made.
He had become something that football has never seen before. And would maybe never see again.
This world of football had shaped him into something more. The metamorphosis that had started with his recreation of the Goal of the Century, when people had started to notice him. And in turn he had shaped the world of football into something more.
And while sure enough his body had stayed human and he could feel all 39 years of his age, when he stepped on the pitch, he was still fuelled by the joy of their fans, by his team listening to his every word and taking it as gospel, by the shrines and the prayers and yes, even the hatred, the conspiracies.
Every time someone said his name, be it in good or bad faith, Lionel Messi felt it.
Maradona had once told him that if he wasn't careful it would destroy him. And it had.
But he had come out on the other side, stronger than ever.
His story may have not ended in confetti and celebrations, it had ended sombrely, introspective and almost quiet. A silent tear rolling down his face, felt by every single football fan around the world as he took of his boots for his country for the final time. But it has also ended with one of the most impressive individual statistic a player had ever achieved on the world stage.
It might hurt for the moment, but it doesn't take away anything from the shine of his career, of four consecutive trophies in three years. Of the 47 team trophies to his name, 25 individual ones and countless broken records.
That little boy had completed football.
And even when he will be long gone, surely he will be remembered, for over the years he had become immortal.
He had become the God of Football.
The Greatest to Ever play the game.
Gracias por todo, siempre, Leo. <3