I will begin with a confession: I have been an admirer of Cristiano Ronaldo since the very beginning of his career—not only because of the extraordinary talent that has brought me so much joy over the years, but also because of his professionalism and discipline, both on and off the pitch.
Perhaps because of that admiration, I found myself, almost unconsciously, keeping a certain distance from Lionel Messi. It was never because I failed to recognize his exceptional brilliance. On the contrary, I have always acknowledged his extraordinary skill. But that is how sports fandom sometimes works: the heart does not always need a rational explanation for its loyalties.
For fifteen years, the rivalry between Ronaldo and Messi made football richer, more captivating, and more beautiful. I was deeply saddened to see Ronaldo leave the World Cup in tears, and I held on to the hope of seeing him reach one more final at the age of forty-one.
Yet what happened after Egypt’s recent match against Argentina made me rethink not my opinion of Messi as a player, but my own perspective as a fan—and, more broadly, the mindset of a society that is always searching for a scapegoat.
Almost overnight, much of our media turned Messi into the primary culprit for the refereeing decisions that were perceived to have gone against Egypt. Meanwhile, almost no attention was paid to our own mistakes during the final ten minutes of the match—the very period in which the outcome was ultimately decided.
What fault was it of an Argentine player that he suddenly became the target of an unprecedented wave of hostility? The criticism had little to do with football itself and much more to do with the collective need to channel frustration toward a convenient target.
Some even blamed Messi personally for Egypt’s elimination from the Round of 16, as though he should have refrained from scoring the winning goal out of sympathy for Egypt, or in protest against officiating that many believed had been unfair. Yet such controversies are, for better or worse, part of football.
The opposite reaction was equally revealing. Egypt’s qualification for the Round of 16 was celebrated with overwhelming emotion, as though we had already won the World Cup.
Exaggeration on one side, misplaced blame on the other—and in both cases, the same thing was missing: objectivity, and the willingness to examine ourselves before looking for someone else to blame, or to build on genuine achievements so that they become sustainable rather than accidental.
One question continued to occupy my mind: What are we teaching our children and young people when we behave this way? What message do we send when they see that defeat must always be someone else’s fault, while victory deserves limitless celebration without perspective or proportion?
While reflecting on these questions, I came across a thoughtful article by the Moroccan philosopher Said Nachid, who explored Messi’s career as a source of lessons that extend far beyond football into the art of living. I would like to share some of the ideas that particularly resonated with me, together with a few reflections of my own.
The first lesson is that an obstacle can become the path itself. As a child, Messi suffered from a growth hormone deficiency. At that stage, all he possessed was an undefined talent and quiet determination. When Barcelona embraced him and covered the cost of his treatment, it did not simply help him grow taller; it gave him the opportunity to transform what appeared to be a disadvantage into one of his greatest strengths. His low center of gravity became the source of extraordinary balance, while his compact physique enabled him to change direction with astonishing speed, making him as elusive as the wind. It echoes an ancient Stoic insight: what stands in the way can itself become the way.
The second lesson is that intelligence often triumphs over brute strength. Messi played in an era dominated by physically imposing defenders, yet he never relied on direct confrontation. Instead, he trusted his ability to read space, remain agile, and react with exceptional speed.
The third lesson may be the deepest of all: outward calm often conceals the highest level of awareness. Anyone watching Messi during a match might think he is disengaged. While others sprint relentlessly, he often appears to walk. Yet during those quiet moments, he is studying the game the way a chess master studies the board—observing, anticipating, conserving energy. Then, when the decisive moment arrives, he strikes with impeccable timing. It is an economy of movement combined with a generosity of attention, a mastery of using one’s gifts precisely when they matter most.
To me, these three lessons offer a useful framework for judging our own collective behavior after every sporting victory or defeat. Our recent experience suggests that we are often drawn toward a culture that celebrates noise and emotional excess while searching for someone else to blame instead of examining ourselves.
Messi, through his quiet confidence, composure, and intelligence, offers a very different message: that what appears to be a weakness may become the source of uniqueness; that knowing when to act is often more important than acting constantly; and that one of the deepest forms of strength is self-control.
As I reflect on Messi’s journey, I realize that his story is not an exception. It is a pattern shared by many of the greatest footballers of our generation—including the player I have admired more than any other: Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ronaldo was not born a superstar. He came from a humble home on the island of Madeira and climbed, step by step, through relentless daily effort until he became one of football’s greatest legends.
His story is not merely one of talent but one of discipline: a rigorous diet, relentless training even after reaching the pinnacle of success, and an unwavering determination to remain the best with every new season.
That, in itself, teaches a lesson every bit as valuable as Messi’s: talent alone is never enough, and staying at the top is even harder than getting there.
Closer to home, we have an equally inspiring example in Mohamed Salah. A young man from the small Egyptian village of Nagrig in Gharbia Governorate, Salah carved out a professional journey that secured his place among football’s elite while carrying Egypt’s name onto the world’s greatest stages and into its most prestigious clubs.
Salah’s story, perhaps more than any other, is the one we should tell our children. Like Messi and Ronaldo, he came from modest beginnings. Together, they prove that humble origins are never a barrier to greatness, that every remarkable journey begins with a single step from an ordinary place, and that representing one’s country is not about angry chants from the stands or hostility toward opponents. It is about patiently building excellence—brick by brick—through talent, commitment, perseverance, and humility.
Finally, I offer our young people a fatherly piece of advice: rather than hating Messi—or any opponent—we should learn from him. We should learn discipline from Ronaldo and perseverance and humility from Salah. Noble competition requires neither hostility nor resentment. It requires role models against whom we measure our own character.
That, in my view, is the true lesson our children should take away from every football match—not merely who won or who lost, but the stories of the people who made the game possible.
Instead of passing on hatred and hostility toward every opponent, let us pass on admiration for hard work, respect for talent, appreciation for knowledge in building successful teams, genuine sportsmanship, personal responsibility, the courage to accept defeat, and respect for worthy competitors.
Let us celebrate our victories and grieve our defeats—both are natural. But above all, let us accept responsibility for our mistakes and learn from them.
