It was in 1986 that the diminutive Diego Maradona lifted the world cup and became the ubiquitous jacket of school notebooks in Kerala.

The pint-sized man, genius of a footballer just redefined the sporting folklores forever. 

Four years later, he missed the repeat date with history, and part of my school-going memories turned irredeemably sour. In another four years, Maradona left the World Cup arena draped in ignominy. Who cares, men can be men. But Maradona is Maradona. 

Searching for Maradona’s successor made you believe in the power of destiny. The wait for the chosen one, the anointed one, can be unbearable. Messi, who was not even in a spot in his mother’s womb when Maradona lifted the cup in 1986, summited every footballing glory barring one when he arrived in Qatar, for his fifth World Cup.

In Qatar, the journey was spiritual. Messi has become the sublimated essence of what he has been and what he has seen.  He wanted closure. Every fan wanted it, and this was the time and place. And what a way to achieve it, in possibly the most exhilarating World Cup final ever. 

Everyone who watched the game sat on the edges of their seats, rejoicing heaven and suffering purgatory hell. 

They struggled to comprehend what was going on in a wildly oscillating game of football yet soaked in the emotions of a lifetime. 

At the end Gonzalo Montiel had netted in a penalty and made Argentina world champions. Torn, Di Maria who occasioned two of three Argentine goals in regular time was in tears. Everyone else was, too. The moment they all waited for Messi to make his own and what was there for his taking for years had arrived.

He was the story. The only story.

Just that he created it in his best version ever this time around. Liberated, supernatural, and exhausting adjectives in every step he took.  Who can complain?