Lionel Messi Has One More Question to Answer
LUSAIL, QATAR — Argentina had a stranglehold on the World Cup semifinal by the time Julian Alvarez took down a high ball and cushioned it into the path of Lionel Messi in the 69th minute. The little man in the number 10 jersey was pinned up against the sideline by Josko Gvardiol, the domineering centerback in the Batman-villain mask. He had been a picture of poise in the five matches Croatia dragged themselves through to be here, at Lusail Iconic Stadium, getting bodied by the albiceleste of Argentina.
Messi wasn’t pinned for long. In a flash of two left-foot touches—one to show it to Gvardiol, one to breeze past him—he was off on a slalom run towards the right-hand side of the penalty area. As he reached the white line, Gvardiol caught up with him, resilient. Messi popped the ball outside with a Cruyffish flick of his left leg behind his right, suddenly meandering away from danger, seemingly kept at bay this time. But only for a step. It was a body swerve, and in an instant his low frame was creeping around Gvardiol, driving past him one determined step ahead, pinned against the endline now, but unperturbed. The Croatian fought to get back, still, harrying the Argentine best he could—but that world-famous center of gravity had once again made Messi the unstoppable force. He kept on, dribbling with the left foot closer to the defender without showing him a chance to stick a foot in, and found the aforementioned Alvarez streaking in at the near post. He swept it towards the far corner. 3-0. With his second supernatural assist in as many matches, Messi had secured another chance to find the only thing left for him in this game. He has since confirmed it will be his last appearance at the World Cup. The last chance.
Not long after, in the 81st minute, the board went up and showed a “10” in red. But it wasn’t Messi going off. It was Luka Modric, the opposition captain and Messi’s antagonist in countless meetings between Barcelona and Real Madrid, El Clásico, the street fight that makes warriors out of artists. Modric is one of the great ones of our time, the conductor of the orchestra in central midfield, the 2018 winner of the Ballon d’Or after he pulled Croatia to the World Cup final in Russia last time around. He had some sumptuous touches here, scooting by blue-and-white jerseys with his timeless, clever grace, but he and Croatia never really took control of proceedings for any length of time. In truth, they were in serious trouble before the end of the first half, when Argentina found the net twice in five minutes. Despite the heroic durability in their quarterfinal victory over Brazil, this game suggested they’d perhaps overstayed their welcome at the sharp end of this tournament. The substitution of their captain and talisman with 10 minutes and stoppage time to go was something like waving the white flag.
They were no match for Argentina, who took the lead on a (debatably soft) penalty that Messi calmly dispatched in the 34th minute. He had a crucial touch a few minutes later as Argentina broke out from a Croatian corner and streamed downfield. With the help of a couple fortuitous bounces, Alvarez crashed into the box and a one-on-one with Dominik Livakovic, finally rendered mortal after a tremendous tournament that will likely see him tending goal for one of the world’s biggest clubs by January. Even though Argentina had squandered a two-goal lead against the Dutch in the previous round, Croatia looked cooked. They’ve got some old legs in that team, and they would have been hoping to contain the game long enough to steal a goal from a set piece or a counter attack. Now they’d have to come out, expand their play, and risk Messi doing what he did to them as the game got stretched in the second half.
That Alvarez got on the scoresheet twice was proof enough that this supporting cast is something different, a tight unit with fire in their bones, the unalloyed determination of men who are fighting for a place in history. But while they’ll all want to win the World Cup for themselves, it is abundantly clear that they want to win it for Messi—that he is the history worth fighting for, too. Rodrigo De Paul is his body guard on the pitch because, not unlike in hockey, Messi is the supreme skill player in the team. The enforcer’s job is to keep the other hardmen away from him. But he also guards Messi like something sacred, a vessel for immortality who might grant some measure of it to those who help him along his way. The Argentines play as if they know how lucky they are to share a field with this man, to share in the glory of his legacy. Cristiano Ronaldo must curse the soccer gods that he was born to play in the age of Lionel Messi. These guys peer up to the sky in thanks.
And so did the 88,966 people at Lusail who bore witness to that barreling run into the box in the 69th minute. After that, you could look around the sweeping stands following a deft touch or an intricate piece of dribbling skill and find people throwing their arms and heads forward in worship. I’ve been lucky enough to see him play before, at a friendly match against Juventus at MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, and even then there were sporadic, prayerful chants of, “Messi! Messi! Messi!” even when he wasn’t on the ball. It was an honor just to see him. The decision to leave him on until the final whistle, even as Modric went off, was perhaps in recognition of this feeling in the crowd, among the untold millions watching at home. As he approaches the end of his playing days, at least at the top level, audiences now come with the knowledge that even this sporting immortal is, like the rest of us, shadows and dust. Bearing witness to this phenomenon is a supreme privilege. There won’t be many chances left to see the little man do the biggest things.
The Argentina fans were in party mode from that first-half flurry of goals onward, thousands upon thousands jumping up and down in unison, waving white scarves like helicopter blades above their heads, reaching out in front of them to flick their hands at the wrist, out and up, as if to expel some of their tension and overwhelming joy. There might have been talk of a corporate atmosphere in the television coverage, but the wall of blue and white that stretched up every level of the stands behind one of the goals was bouncing. In fact, there were Argentina fans—Messi fans, perhaps—all around. There were fans in blue and white headscarves, fans who’ve surely never set foot in Argentina. They’ve always made up for whatever lukewarm reception Messi might have got back home in the place he fled, amidst an economic cataclysm, to get his growth-hormone treatments in Barcelona and take his almighty bite out of the world. Even those who loved Carlos Tevez for what he represented of Argentine life in this new millennium, and resented Messi for the path he took, will surely bow their heads and weep for him when he is gone.
Messi has brought Argentina to the World Cup final before, in 2014, when it all fell apart deep in extra time against Germany. He was at the peak of his powers then, and it felt like the first of many opportunities even before we all knew how long the tail of his greatness would stretch. In the time since, he has made his slaloming runs at this trophy, paused and hesitated and been brought up short, only for him to twist and turn and continue his indomitable path forward. On Sunday, on the biggest stage of all, the ultimate game, he has the chance to put all debate in the ground as to where he sits in the footballing pantheon. The mighty French may be waiting for him back at Lusail Iconic Stadium, or the improbable Moroccans who now represent all Africa and the whole Arab world. Victory against the defending champions in particular would be decisive, more so if he graces the game with the kind of decisive brilliance he did here. By Monday, if he travels one more step than he ever has before, no one will be able to say he’s anything other than the great one.
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