Lionel Messi Saves Argentina’s World Cup

LUSAIL, Qatar – As he hugged Enzo Fernández in his arms, Lionel Messi couldn’t help it. His Argentine teammates were screaming, running at full speed towards them. Behind them, the stands were melting into a writhing, effervescent soup of blue and white. Messi witnessed it all, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

For someone who has spent most of his two decades bringing rare moments of joy to millions of people every week, Messi rarely looks surprisingly happy. He tends, most of the time, towards the serious. He often seems focused, or focused, or intent.

At times, he can look pensive, pensive. More often than he could possibly want, especially over the past few years, he has reason to sound frustrated, either about himself or more often about a teammate. And then, of course, the desperate Messi: Messi with drooping shoulders and sunken eyes, Watching the world fall around me.

Four days ago, it was Messi who left the Lusail field with his dreams gone. Argentina used to be defeated by Saudi Arabiaa disgrace that would haunt the country for a while, a shame that would only be mentioned in whispers for years, and its World Cup – his World Cup – hung in the balance.

That specter has been on Argentina’s shoulders all week. Soon after, as the frustrated Argentina players took the bus back to their hotel, Messi asked his teammates to unite. He promised the fans that they would not be “run aground” by a lineup they had high hopes for.

However, he knows that the only way to defeat ghosts is to face them. Argentina has no choice but to return to Lusail, face Mexico and show a different result. Failure would end World Cup participation in just two games. Even a draw would put it at risk of being kicked out of a tournament where it has any real hopes of winning. Currently, it has no limit for errors.

It shows. There was nothing imposing, nothing controlling about Argentina’s performance against Mexico. Lionel Scaloni’s team proved weak from the first minute, fragile in defense and confused in attack. Rodrigo De Paul, arguably the commanding central midfielder, went through a five-minute stretch in which he completed three passes: to Alexis Vega, Hirving Lozano and Daniele Orsato. Two of them are playing for Mexico. The other is the referee.

Even when the breakthrough came, it did not alleviate the tension. Of course, the goal that broke the deadlock was scored by Messi; Messi always scores, at least in part because at that stage it was extremely clear that no one else on the field – no matter what color shirt they wore – was capable of scoring even the smallest of goals.

All Messi needed was everything he ever asked for, the narrowest piece of light, the shortest hint of space. For the first time all evening, Mexico had left him at the edge of the box. He made one touch to control the ball and another to finish lightly into a corner of the goal that Guillermo Ochoa couldn’t reach.

Messi didn’t laugh, then. There’s nothing to laugh about. Instead, he ran away, arms outstretched, howling into the night. He stopped in front of Argentina’s topless passionate fans, all frustration, shame and tension pouring out of him. He doesn’t look happy. He looks determined, and intense, and just a little wild.

Other than that, he knew there was nothing to celebrate. Not yet. It would be surprising if Messi didn’t now believe that the worst would happen in any situation, for fear that there was always some kind of disaster lurking. Mexico still has 20 minutes to score, to turn the tide, to leave Argentina again broken and heartbroken.

To him, those last minutes seemed to last a century. Mexico circled around, threatening Argentina’s penalty area without ever making a breakthrough. Argentina did what they could to waste time, to take away the atmosphere of the game, to scratch with teeth and claws to keep what they had.

Only when Fernández intervened did the storm dissipate. It was the kind of goal Messi was familiar with: the ball reached 21-year-old Fernández in the corner of the box, a defender looming in front of him. He shakes his hips, just fast enough to unbalance his opponent, making him slightly off balance. He shifted his weight to his left foot and made a slit through Ochoa’s outstretched arm.

It’s the kind of goal that Messi has scored countless times – dozens, sure, maybe hundreds – over the course of a career in which he has produced extraordinary goalscoring goals as usual. This time, he seemed especially glad he wasn’t asked to intervene anymore. He was the first to approach Fernández, take him in his arms, lift him off the ground.

He did it with a grin. Messi, in the end, was happy, and he was determined to enjoy it. As soon as the final whistle blew, he led his teammates to the thousands upon thousands of Argentinian fans who had occupied this vast, gold-rimmed stadium, a monument in the truest sense of the world. black for the elegance and passion of this World Cup, and somehow transformed a pocket of it into Bombonera or Monumental or dilapidated Nuevo Gasometro.

For a few minutes, Messi stood there, his arms beating to the beat, his voice joining them in the song. High above him, in the soaring upper floors of Lusail, a vast flag appeared, two blue stripes sandwiched by a white stripe. It spans half the length of the stands, but somehow remained obscured until that point. Now, it has been opened. Messi was smiling, for the first time in a long time, and Argentina was ready to show its true colors.