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Lionel Messi: The evolution of the greatest footballer of all time

The way his first coach tells the story, the kid wasn’t even supposed to be on the pitch. It was his older brother’s game. They were a player short. Salvador Aparicio looked over at the stands and saw a small boy playing by himself, in private communion with the ball. When he asked his mother if he could borrow him, she said he didn’t know how to play football.
 

The first time the game came his way, sure enough, the kid stood stock still and watched the ball roll by. Moms make the best scouts. But the second time — Aparicio remembered this many years later — the ball hit his left leg and something happened. Picture lightning shooting up a tiny spinal column, if you want. Unplumbed regions of the brain glittering like fireworks in the dark. Choirs of angels cranking a heavenly spotlight to shine on this one particular patch of dirt in a working-class neighbourhood in Rosario, Argentina. Whatever makes it make sense to you: the gift was just there.

“He controlled the ball and took off diagonally across the middle of the pitch, dribbling,” said Aparicio. “He dribbled past anyone in his path.”

There’s a video of the coach telling this story as an old man, fluttering his hand like a fish whipping through water. Then he stops talking and pulls a face that can only be described as a kind of shrug, as though even at the end of his life he was still struggling to accept the cosmic logic of what came next.

“I was screaming, ‘Shoot! Shoot!’” Aparicio said. “But he couldn’t do it. He was too small.”

The greatest player ever to kick a ball wasn’t ready to do the thing he was put on this Earth to do. The gift was there even before his left foot was.

The Dribbling Winger

It’s not just that he blows through four or five opponents straight from kick-off. It’s the quick, choppy steps, the light kiss of the ball with the outside of his left boot to send a defender sprawling in the dirt before skipping around him. He’s running at the speed of the ball, letting it roll under his body so that every little half-stride is a threat to slice sideways or burst forward. The style is unmistakable.
Even back then, he refused to go down. Most dribblers will stop and start, lean, lunge, twist, turn and, sooner or later, get knocked off balance. The better the dribbler, the more risks they take in tight spaces; the greater the risk, the harder defenders punish them for it. Messi just kept running. He stayed low to the ground, using those quick little steps for control and windmilling his forearms for balance. By age 12, he was dragging would-be tacklers behind him like an NFL running back.

 

You know who else dribbled like that? Diego Armando Maradona, the manic Argentine god of football mischief, the most beloved player ever to wear his country’s blue and white. Off the pitch, the shy kid from Rosario couldn’t have been more different from the brash Buenos Aires idol, but on it their similarities were uncanny: two short, sturdy, left-footed dribblers with shaggy hair and the same driving style, the delicate close control, slaloming through thickets of violence to create impossible goals.

In the 1986 World Cup quarter-finals against England, the year before Messi was born, Maradona scored a goal that’s widely considered the best ever. He picked up the ball in Argentina’s own half, just outside the centre circle, and finished some 70 yards and five humiliated opponents later when he rounded the goalkeeper and tapped the ball into the open net. Any football fan can close their eyes and run the tape: the spin move, the long dash, the weaving in and out, the shot a split-second before his legs were swept out from under him. A fever dream of a goal. Nobody had seen anything like it.

And then, improbably, everyone did. In the spring of 2007, Messi — still a teenager but already a star, enjoying a breakout season with Barcelona — pulled off a goal against Getafe that felt like a shot-for-shot remake of the Maradona original. He eviscerated two defenders in his own half. Took off at a dead sprint without ever losing control of the ball. Cut inside, swerved outside, rounded the ’keeper, the whole shebang. Imagine picking up a paintbrush one weekend and accidentally recreating the ceiling of the sistin chaper.

Aparicio, the youth coach who once borrowed a boy from the stands and witnessed his first miraculous dribble, watched him come of age on TV. “The other day I saw him score this goal — they say it was like Maradona,” he told an interviewer. “I think he is better.”
He looked away for a moment and his voice started to quaver: “When I watch him play like that, I cry. You understand?”.


The False Nine 
 

Some players are born to score goals. Others set them up. Most play further back, passing and moving to help get their team upfield. Every once in a while you’ll see a prodigy who can do it all, dreaming up attacking moves they are good enough to construct and finish themselves. Check the back of that player’s shirt and chances are they’ll be wearing the No 10.

Back when football squad numbers were first assigned by position, the No 10 belonged to the inside left forward — the natural slot for a right-footed playmaker. Formations evolved over decades, but the No 10’s role stayed more or less the same: he worked behind the striker, between the opponent’s lines, creating and scoring in the most crowded part of the pitch. Due to the sheer difficulty of the job, the shirt itself came to be a sort of honour. Pele wore it by accident, after Brazil forgot to assign kits at the 1958 World Cup, but he helped seal the No 10’s association with greatness. Maradona, with Argentina, refused to wear anything else.

Messi didn’t get the No 10 when he joined Barcelona. That belonged to the reigning best player on the planet, Ronaldinho, a Brazilian playmaker who lined up as a winger but led the attack with so much verve and imagination that it would have felt wrong to see the shirt on anyone else. The teenage Messi’s job was to be a dribbling, goalscoring gremlin on the opposite wing, the electric guitar punctuating Ronaldinho’s lead vocals. His first professional goal came from an ingenious Ronaldinho scoop over the back line that Messi brought down in the box, then lobbed over the goalkeeper’s head to complete a double rainbow.

In 2008, the summer Messi turned 21, Ronaldinho left Barcelona and a new coach named Pep Guardiola gave the No 10 shirt to his young right winger. It was a turning point in Messi’s career. Otherworldly highlights wouldn’t be enough anymore — he needed to be the star around whom the whole system would spin.

At first, Messi interpreted the playmaker role as the wing-like Ronaldinho did, cutting inside behind the centre-forward Samuel Eto’o to undo defences. He had a stellar first season under Guardiola, scoring and assisting more goals than all but two players in Europe’s top five leagues — and one of those two was Eto’o, enjoying a career year thanks to Messi’s largesse.
Messi and Eto’o were told to start in their regular positions, but eight minutes into the game they would switch places: the centre-forward out wide to the right, the playmaker into the middle. The idea was to scramble Real Madrid’s central defenders, who couldn’t just sit deep to protect the goal but would now have to decide when to follow Messi into midfield. This unusual attacking role — neither a traditional No 9 in the box nor a No 10 behind a striker — was known as a “false nine”.

The gambit worked better than anyone could have hoped.

Messi assisted Barcelona’s first goal in that Clasico by luring a centre-back out of the back line and shovelling a pass to Thierry Henry in the space behind him. He scored two more himself and generally terrorised the Madrid defence up the middle en route to a 6-2 win. Guardiola was so pleased that he tried the position swap again a few weeks later in the Champions League final against Manchester United, and Messi — the shortest player on the pitch — secured the trophy with a striker’s header in the box.

His false-nine era had begun.

 

As he gradually became a full-time centre-forward over the next few years, Messi went supernova. We’re talking absolutely bonkers. In the first eight decades of La Liga to that point, its record for goals scored in a season was 38, shared by Telmo Zarra in 1950 and Hugo Sanchez in 1990. From 2009 to 2013, Messi averaged — averaged! — more than 40 league goals per season, peaking at 50 in 2011-12, while at the same time assisting the second-most goals in the top five European leagues. He won the Ballon d’Or, the award for the best player in the world, four years running.

After taking home every trophy they competed for in 2008-09, Barcelona won La Liga three out of the next four seasons, topping things off with another Champions League in 2011. Sir Alex Ferguson, the legendary Manchester United manager unlucky enough to go up against Barca in both those Champions League finals, called them the best side he’d ever faced.
The secret to all this success was that Messi was holding down two jobs at once. Barcelona’s “tiki-taka” possession game was led by a telepathic midfield trio — Xavi, Andres Iniesta and Sergio Busquets — who had been practising the same pass-and-move principles since childhood in the club’s academy. When Messi dropped off the front line, he made a natural fourth midfielder at the tip of a diamond, just as intuitive as the other three at pinging short passes around in tight spaces. Together, these four outnumbered and outclassed opposing midfields, passing their way straight up the heart of the pitch and swarming to recover lost balls so quickly that it felt like the other team were just there to watch.

 

The reason most teams don’t use their centre-forward as a spare midfielder, of course, is that they need them to be in the box, scoring goals. Messi’s genius was that he could do both. He played like a midfielder in the build-up, accounting for eight per cent of Barcelona’s pass attempts in open play, but somehow always found a way to finish moves around the penalty spot, scoring up to 50 per cent of the team’s open-play goals at his false-nine peak.

He scored every way you can imagine, plus a few you probably couldn’t, but two finishes in particular became signatures during Messi’s false-nine years. One was the running chip, which usually happened when he dropped off and centre-backs pushed up behind him, leaving naked grass in front of goal. One way or another — sometimes on the dribble, sometimes running in behind for a through-ball — Messi would break free and run right up to the goalkeeper, waiting for him to get low to try to smother the ball before flipping it insouciantly over his head and running off with two fingers pointed to the sky.