My son's first World Cup, Messi's last

A fan holds a Lionel Messi poster, this Saturday in Buenos Aires. LUIS ROBAYO (AFP)

I don't know what or who to attribute the chance to, dear son, but like mom and dad, Gino, you were born in the year of the World Cup and you had to accompany this Argentina that today beat Australia and got into the quarterfinals of your first World Cup.

Your initial championship, the one you are premiering, is also Messi's last.

It will seem incredible to you, but this 1.69-meter man who opened the game again with a goal accumulates ballons d'or and trophies in a showcase that he would easily exchange for this one he is looking for now in Qatar and who never won.

You don't know it yet, but Messi was—he still is, in these early days of yours—the best routine in the world.

A guy who plays every three or four days and whom we have been watching on television for years to unravel the impossible: how is it that everyone in the world knows him and yet he continues to be unpredictable.

We didn't get to know his secrets, fortunately, we didn't either.

I was telling you, here we are going through this tournament that must have exhausted you.

Your father, who was walked from the belly through the ladies' audience of the Bombonera, where your grandmother took him —and breastfed— every Sunday, arrived for England in 1966.

It is a well-remembered World Cup because Argentina played against England, a classic of our football.

That World Cup has its own history.

Antonio Rattín was sent off in the quarterfinal match.

Your dad would love to connect his own rebellious history with the influence of Rattín, an idol from Boca who, upset with the performance of the German referee Rudolf Kreitlein, was sent off.

Number 5 himself fed his own legend, for many a myth that did not exist: he went to the corner flag, twisted an English flag (imagine, disrespecting the English at Wembley, his own home) and then sat on the Queen Elizabeth red carpet.

I don't know if you will understand the historical coincidences, but you may see your father disrespecting the investiture on some occasions.

You will see that he does not sing the anthem, that his dream is to be bitched by the entire River fans and that he can go to meetings at the Casa Rosada in shorts and flip flops.

I fell in love with that and perhaps it speaks of my own origin because I arrived in the year of the 1982 World Cup in Spain.

The players we see now weren't even born.

Who knows, you might ask us for the Enzo Fernández or Julián Alvarez shirts.

It is logical: you are learning to shout goals with them.

The one in 1982, the World Cup of my birth, was the first for Diego Maradona.

And it was his disappointment.

He was already a Barcelona player and recognized worldwide, but he did not perform as expected and was sent off in the duel against Brazil after being ironed as a result of his own impotence.

Mom is a frustrated footballer, Gino.

And perhaps having arrived in that year and with that Diego was an influence.

That of living without greys.

In the face of a little frustration on the court, the demons jump out.

And he fights, and that game that he could play gets tangled up because anger clouds ideas and movements with the ball.

I confess it to you now, while we look at the victory against Australia and we can tell you the opposite.

The patience of Argentina, game by game in this Cup, to reach the goal, for example.

Without counting the duel with Arabia, of course, but look, son: this first half of leadership but without clear arrivals and then yes, the lucidity of Messi to open the gap between four rivals and eight legs, and clear the way to victory.

Don't let them make you believe that routine is boring: let Messi be your example to the contrary, Gino.

That the players and the teams —and the matches, like today— are worked with head and heart.

You got this rare Cup, son, but you arrived with a World Cup, like mom and dad.

We have you asleep, at times, with your back to the television, but we know that you hear what is happening.

The doctors tell us: now, in your month and a half of life, sounds are your stimulus.

You were born listening to cries of goals and praises to Messi.

Not liking football would be an excruciating nightmare.

Now let's go for another game, Argentina is already in the quarterfinals.

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