Blick reporter Felix Bingesser writes the Sunday Blick column By the way.
Messi here, Messi there, Messi everywhere. Even two weeks after the World Cup final, there is hardly any other topic. At the bakery, at the regulars’ table, on a dog walk. delight everywhere.
This is only overshadowed by the death of Pelé. About the farewell of a man who, along with Muhammad Ali, was a hero of our youth. Thanks to him we knew that football was played all over the world. Thanks to him we knew that the huge country of Brazil existed.
The beauty of the game, the «Jogo Bonito», the dancing lightness of being. It has its origin in the realm of the king. In our youthful imaginations, there were only young boys in Brazil who played football all day long on the Copacabana. And prancing dream women with feather boas dancing the samba.
Pelé was more than a hero
Thanks to Pelé, Brazil became a dream destination for all football fans. Pelé has been around for as long as we can remember. And thanks to him, we also know that football is a chance for social advancement for many people.
Because he never had shoes as a child, Pelé learned to make a shoemaker. And later, when he went to New York Cosmos through Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, he also put the USA on the footballing map. They paid him $4.5 million for two years. More than he had earned in his entire career before.
Alongside Franz Beckenbauer, he also became a pioneer of commercialization. And in contrast to Diego Maradona, he managed to go down in history as an eternal gentleman. But Pelé also had countless affairs and was married three times. In our imagination, Pelé has been around since the ball started rolling. Now there is one monument less. Time takes all heroes from us.
The king is dead, long live the king. And his name is now unchallenged Lionel Messi. He’s the man of the year. His name becomes a household word. Pelé, the mystical four letters have become so ingrained in our heads that even with advanced dementia we can’t forget them and can call them up at the push of a button.
Now Messi comes along. Five other magical letters anchor themselves in all convolutions of the brain. And follow you deep into the night.
Suddenly you dream of childhood. When, as an altar boy, you had to go to the morning messi five times a week. There the messidien filled the pastor’s World Cup trophy with white wine. And I accompanied the ritual with the little bell.
Then you keep dreaming. That one suddenly spends the holidays in Messipotamia. Or in the Scottish highlands. At Loch Messi. Or at the Frankfurt Buchmessi.
Or you dream of a fancy new car. A messiedes, for example. Yes, you become a word Messi. And it’s not my fault.
PS: If you want, you can send this column to your friends by brass.