NEW YORK- It was four hours before kick-off in Houston and Lionel Messi fever already offered the impression of a religious festival. An enterprising local sold massive signs of the great man’s face. I chatted to a guy who has four Messi tattoos and it’s only the ones on his legs that I was interested in seeing. A flurry of Argentine broadcasters conducted interviews at 8am and barked the name of their king a little louder than every other word.
It was a guy who has travelled from Guatemala who I remember most. We talked breezily about how many times he had seen Messi play and how watching him transported the man to a different place spiritually. And then he stopped smiling for a moment: “It might be the last time I see him play, you know”.
That’s something I have been thinking about a lot during this tournament, not least because my own route was pre-planned and offered no escape to sneak in some bonus Lionel time. I thought that Houston was probably my last. Then I hoped that Atlanta would, given what it meant for England.
And now here I am, in New York City preparing for a final. And for the second time in four years, here Messi is again. Dragging a team to one World Cup final could be classed as greatness by any standard. Dragging one to two transcends any measurement.
