Lionel Messi in Qatar felt like the perfect story. It was the great finale. He is doomed always to be compared with Diego Maradona and, placed alongside a life of operatic ups and downs, of injury and addiction, drugs bans and organised crime, the highest highs and the lowest lows, his narrative always seemed a little flat: a kid was good at football, and then was consistently good at it for two decades, winning title after title. Yes, there were tears and frustrations, moments of doubt, but he wasn’t nearly drowning in a cesspit, shooting at journalists with an airgun or using a fake penis to evade the drugs testers.
Qatar offered at least a degree of dramatic intrigue. Club success evidently wasn’t enough. Messi was driven. He had overcome his natural reserve to become the true leader of the team while winning the Copa América in Brazil the previous year. He gave team talks. When, giving a TV interview after the quarter‑final win over the Netherlands he snapped at Wout Weghorst: “Que mira, bobo?” – what are you looking at, idiot? – it was celebrated as the quiet man coming out of his shell, albeit with an oddly childish phrase. Could the Argentinian finally lift the trophy in what was assumed to be his final World Cup? In the knockout stage, it felt every game could be his last; his genius and its apparent fragility seemed a constant reminder of mortality.
