The death of the 10

25 January 2015. The "lazy magician" hangs up his boots. His whole career, he had to bear such labels. Slow, unathletic, trouble, burden.

 

 

Slow and unathletic, he was. Aesthetic? Brimming with it. He was never the quickest or the strongest. He always seemed a mere pedestrian on the field. Hopping from place to place, demanding the ball from his teammates. When his teammates would eventually find him, every second was enchanting.

With the ball at his feet, he was anything but slow. He was not rapid but his feet were quick. Opponents danced to his tune. Though he was the slowest, he could set the pace of the game, the tempo. He glided through the grass, the ball stuck to his feet. He flaunted his skills, every one as necessary as breathing is to life. Never excessive, always classy. He didn't need to be the fastest, but the speed of thought and the uniqueness of his ideas shone through.

A burden, he was. He would not help out in defending much so they would need another defensive player to do the dirty work for him. His teammates never complained though. They knew, the moment they had the honor of delivering that ball to his feet, it would all be worth it.

Troublesome he was. Name one genius that isn't.

He was Juan Roman Riquelme.

25 January 2015 wasn't the day he called time on his career. It was the day that marked the end of the dying breed, the 10, the orchestrator in a symphony of madness called football. They don't make them like JRR anymore.