Ansu Fati was the best thing to happen to Spanish football for years. The youngest La Liga goalscorer in Barcelona’s history, the youngest the national team had seen too, his story had begun in a self‑proclaimed communist utopia, a tiny Andalusian village where Che Guevara looks out from the sports centre wall, and would end on top of the world. Blessed by Lionel Messi, handed his No 10 shirt, he was Barcelona’s great hope: the chosen one, beloved by everybody. There was something about him, a genuinely special player guided by a star. He was magic, one teammate said. He was daring, electric, unstoppable.
He was. But now? Now no one really knows for sure what Ansu Fati is. The most simple question of all, asked of every new signing, does not have a simple answer, or maybe even an answer at all: how good is he? Which is why there were few real offers for a player whose buyout clause had once been set at €1bn to ensure there were none; why Barcelona let go of a player their coach called “our heritage” but also why they didn’t let go entirely, finally agreeing to a year’s loan at Brighton with no option to buy. Because if he is not that player any more, and if some on the inside fear he never will be again, he still might be.
