After watching this video a thousand times or so over the past week, I felt that I could no longer keep from sharing it with those still ignorant of its existence.
Hernán Casciari, an Argentine journalist living in Catalunya, Spain, published the poem read in the video above in 2012.
The man is obviously a massive fan of compatriot Lionel Messi. But, it is the manner in which he describes Barcelona’s record-shattering goalscorer that puts your heart up into your mouth.
On the back of masterful phraseology and deft allusions to his childhood dog, Totín, Casciari explains with great emotion how he would give anything to remain in Barcelona to watch Messi play; the footballer who by the end of the poem he declares to be the most imaginative and gifted to have ever strapped on a pair of cleats.
The theory that Casciari proposes about the Rosario-born forward is that he, in fact, is not human; no, he is a hombre-perro or man-dog. He doesn’t play football like most others in the world. It’s quite noticeable, actually, in any game. Although Messi may occasionally hit the floor after a particularly rough foul, his primary goal is always to remain standing, with the ball at his feet, moving toward goal.
That is the point of the game, some would say, no? Nonetheless, at this very moment, I am watching a match between Everton and Norwich City and every slight touch from a defender — foul or otherwise — has resulted in a fall. Every perceived foul or handball is shouted about furiously; eyes turn toward the referee constantly to voice dissatisfaction, question a call, or give a nod of approval. Football has become less and less about the ball and the path toward goal and more about strategy, tactics, gamesmanship.
For as good as Cristiano Ronaldo is, that is his one true fault. Personal bias aside, the largest stain on the Portuguese magician’s game is his theatrics, whether tumbling, arguing, or scoring goals and pointing to his name to remind everyone that he is the most superior specimen on the planet.
Messi is awkward; socially inept, some would say. He appears to be less about the headlines than any other player so dominant in a particular sport. Even Roger Federer, in his time at the top of the tennis world, found a way to remain eloquent and chatty despite his humility.
In Casciari’s view, Messi resembles his childhood dog, obsessive in his desire to possess and keep hold of one thing; in Totín’s case it was a sponge, in Messi’s a football. The comparison makes sense. Watch any compilation of his clips and you’ll see the diminutive playmaker with his eyes glued to the ball. If it is not in his grasp, he does everything to possess it. If he loses it, he does everything to retrieve it, often chasing opponents half the length of the field.
When the ball is at Messi’s feet, however, is when magic happens, when the impossible becomes realized. He treats it better than most men do their wives, caressing it, keeping it safe from the villains that seek to steal it from him. Antonella, his wife, must often question to whom Messi is more dedicated.
That makes him quite unique. And, it makes sense to call the four-time Balon d’Or winner a man-dog; a man alone cannot remain so faithful to one object. For those of us in the age of television and YouTube, we should consider ourselves almost as fortunate as Casciari that we get to see Messi, rewind and fast-forward through his jukes, assists, and goals on a regular basis. It is like a personal gift that God has given all of us who love sport.
So, Cheers to Messi — perhaps the first and potentially the last hombre-perro.
A Peach of a GOAL! 