The Premier League lead has changed 21 times this season and once again Manchester City are in pole position, and once again the top scorer in the English league is their highly-rated striker Erling Håland, the worst big player I’ve ever seen in my life
They call him the Viking, the Terminator, the Android, names that inspire fear, but not love. When I think of Norwegian I also think of a bull. As grumpy as he is strong, he dribbles blindly through most of a game, barely touching the ball, until he receives it in front of the three posts, suddenly sees everything in sharp red, sticks his horn and scores the goal Impresses, but does not delight. His style is efficiency, not art.
There are two types of players that one admires: those who succeed thanks to a brutal desire and those who leave us speechless with their talent. Sometimes someone comes along who combines both, like Messi. But if you have to choose, what I value most is the second, beauty. Football is art for the masses and, as in art, its greatness consists in beauty, in what remains on the retina over the years, long after the results have passed into oblivion.
The same applies in other sports. Rugby is full of giants, like Håland, who determine matches, but I stick with artists of other times such as the Argentinian Hugo Porta or the Welshman Barry John. In tennis there are tireless fighters like Rafa Nadal, but if you are looking for elegance and symmetry, the unbeatable is Roger Federer. The golfer of the moment is the robotic Scottie Scheffler, who won the Augusta Masters on Sunday, but his swing is ugly, nothing like the eternal Ernie Els, pure silk.
In football, the collective is added to the individual. Maybe over time you idealize it, but I can’t remember a more seductive team than Brazil that won the 1970 World Cup. Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones at Twickenham 2003, or even – mark what I’m telling you – Taylor Swift’s recital not long ago at the River Plate stadium). That Brazil is followed, not far away, by Pep Guardiola’s Barça choral.
But the players are the ones who fall in love. Some because of their status as a moral emblem, of persevering, tenacious, because of the greatness of their hearts, like Carles Puyol. But let’s be honest, and I think Puyol would agree, those who leave us with eternal images are those born to play football, those chosen by God.
Messi is the wonder of the 21st century. His place in the heights of Olympus is indisputable for all of us who know a little about football. But from this period I love another one more, the expression made flesh not of effectiveness, but of art for art’s sake. Ronaldinho is the player I love most of the current century. His value went far beyond the goals he scored. Just seeing him with the ball at his feet was a wonder and a joy.
Another one I feel lucky to have seen play was Zidane, a Nureyev who turned football into ballet. Going back a little further, I think of some who were never candidates for the Ballon d’Or, but whose memory always brings a smile to my face and which I will never forget, lone riders who oozed originality, such as Guti, from Real Madrid or Iván lo Pelatde la Peña, from Barça. Maybe few readers remember him, but another one who always inspires me with happy vibes is the Englishman Matt Le Tissier, who played all his life for the humble Southampton, who was called up by his team only eight times (a scandal) , whose goals (many) were almost without exception works worthy of being framed in a museum.
To these last three I would add the figure of Jorge el , the Salvadoran who played for Cadiz, the quintessence of the one who plays less to win than to enjoy himself and, incidentally, to dazzle the public with his enormous skill. I understand that for many fans the players they value the most are those who “give everything for the colors”, those who leave their skin and blood on the field. well But I stay with the prodigies, with the bullfighters before the bulls, because in football, for me, the art is more in love than the results, or the heart.
