Dear Messi, Tears Are Not Fitting for Heroes
That little Leo from Buenos Aires. I saw you crying once again on the green grass of MetLife Stadium in New Jersey — just as you did on this same field, in the same posture, on your knees, ten years ago. Today the date has changed, the context has changed, the tournament is different. But the image has not changed.
Just as you did that day, you sat in a corner of the pitch and wept. Your eyes were clouded. Perhaps the turbulent current of the Río de la Plata and the murmuring of the Paraná River were flowing somewhere deep inside your chest. Sometimes you stared at the grass beneath you. Other times your eyes drifted to the silver trophy on the podium — the trophy that had once again slipped away from you, moving further and further into the distance.
On paper, Argentina entered the 2026 World Cup as a shaky and unbalanced team, with you as the lone star carrying everything on your shoulders. There were serious concerns about whether you would even be fit enough to play. But you came. You played. And you showed all the old mettle that has made you the player you are. Eight goals and four assists across eight matches — the second-highest scoring tally of the tournament. Six consecutive World Cups. A maximum of 34 appearances, 21 goals, and 12 assists — the most in World Cup history by any player.
And yet I still want to ask — why do you cry like this, even after achieving everything? You are the greatest of all time, the most decorated hero football has ever seen. Is it right for eyes like yours to fill with tears like this?
Do you remember June 26, 2016? Argentina lost to Chile on penalties in the Copa América final. You had missed your penalty moments earlier. It was your fourth consecutive major final defeat in the blue and white jersey. The disappointment was so profound, the heartbreak so deep, that it seemed as though your destiny in the national shirt was only ever to cry. And so, with an aching pride, you announced your retirement from international football, breaking the hearts of millions of supporters around the world.
But you came back. And in coming back, you gave birth to the most beautiful fairy tale in the history of football. You won four major trophies in succession. You brought Argentina the World Cup it had waited 36 years to hold again. You delivered two consecutive Copa América titles and the Finalissima crown — one after another, the golden trophies of your dreams assembled themselves in your hands. The incompleteness for which you once chose to walk away — that void has been filled, your career made whole and impeccable.
But exactly ten years later, you cried again at the same MetLife Stadium. This may be where your magical international journey draws to a close. But let me ask you something — why the sadness? What more can a footballer possibly have in a single lifetime? The record number of Ballon d’Or awards in history, the World Cup, the Copa América, the Finalissima — all of it claimed by the magic in your feet.
It is because of you that this Argentina team, written off before the tournament began, proved to the world in this 23rd World Cup that eleven warriors fighting shoulder to shoulder are far more powerful than eleven individual superstars sharing a pitch. You have woven Lionel Scaloni’s name into the same garland as the greats — a garland that time will never unravel.
Argentina will dream anew along the path you have laid. Whether your international career ends here or whether you choose to spread your magic across the green fields for a little while longer, your torch has already been lit and passed on. Julián Álvarez, Giovanni Simeone, Nico Paz, and Valentín Barco will carry it into the next World Cup with renewed purpose and fire. Perhaps at the 24th World Cup in 2030, on some European pitch, they will wipe away the memory of your tears at MetLife.
For the sake of that new day, you must stop crying now, Leo. You must share your indomitable, unbreakable spirit with those who come after you. That is how the Argentines of the future will find the courage to rise and dream again. Because it was you — ten years ago — who first taught us how to rise from the ashes, become a phoenix, and fly.
