The man who taught me to love football

I never knew what love or passion truly meant until I saw him play.

He was a man I could never reach, yet somehow he found a permanent place in my heart. Even today, years later, I struggle to define what kind of love this is. It is not the kind that demands anything in return. It is admiration built on respect, inspiration and countless memories.

People often assume my admiration exists because he is handsome. Others dismiss it by saying, "You don't know anything about football," or, "You're a woman. How could you understand the game?" I have heard those remarks for years.

Perhaps I cannot analyse tactics like an expert. Perhaps I cannot explain every formation or offside rule. But does that make my love for the game any less genuine?

My journey as a football fan began when I was 14.

Growing up in a strict household, watching television late at night was forbidden. Yet whenever his matches were on, I quietly found a way. I would drag out our old box television, struggle with its unreliable dish antenna, and tie it to the window in the hope of catching a signal. The screen was blurry, filled with white noise, and the sound stayed so low that I could barely hear the commentary.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was watching him play.

Every match came with the fear of being caught and punished by my father. When the game ended, I carefully returned everything exactly as it had been so no one would suspect I had been awake all night. Looking back, it seems like a small act of rebellion, but to a frightened teenager, it felt enormous.

I cried when his team lost. I celebrated every victory as though it belonged to me. Every brilliant pass, every goal and every missed penalty became part of my own memories.

Was that simply admiration?

Over the years, I collected photographs, stickers, pocket cards and Eid cards featuring him. During Eid fairs, I spent whatever little money I had to buy them. They were tiny treasures until one day my father threw them away, believing they were nothing more than rubbish.

He never knew they were pieces of my childhood.

My childhood was not as carefree as many others'. Those small collections, those late-night matches and those quiet moments of happiness meant far more than they appeared.

I remember the day he got married. I refused to watch the live broadcast because, in my childish heart, I was jealous. Later, I realised something more important. He had married the woman he loved, the mother of his children. Seeing the happiness in his family only deepened my respect for him.

Sometimes admiration grows when fantasy fades.

People also tried to convince me not to support Argentina. Yet even supporters of rival nations admitted his greatness. That was when I realised true legends are respected beyond rivalries.

Then came 2022.

My cousins and I spent hours decorating the front of our house with more than 500 balloons, inflating every one of them by hand. We celebrated every match with hope, anxiety and endless prayers. When he finally lifted the FIFA World Cup trophy, it felt as though a promise had been fulfilled.

After years of heartbreak, he had reached the summit of football.

Watching him hold that trophy remains one of the happiest sporting moments of my life.

Today, I have completed my undergraduate studies and am preparing for the next chapter of my life. Yet my admiration for him has never faded. If anything, it has matured.

I do not understand the language he speaks, but football has never needed translation. Every movement on the pitch, every act of determination and every display of resilience speaks for itself.

He taught me that talent alone is never enough. Greatness comes from perseverance, humility and the courage to keep going despite failure.

Now retirement is approaching, and I know the day will come when he walks away from the game. It will be difficult to accept, but that is the nature of sport. Every era eventually comes to an end.

Some heroes are remembered because of the trophies they win.

Others are remembered because they quietly become part of someone's life without ever knowing it.

To me, he is both.

My admiration has never been about religion, nationality or appearance. It has never been about proving I know more football than anyone else. It has simply been about the joy he brought into my life and the hope he gave a young girl watching a blurry television in the middle of the night.

He made me fall in love with football.

He made me love Argentina.

Most importantly, he reminded me that dreams are worth chasing, no matter how impossible they seem.

There will always be debates about who is the greatest footballer of all time. Those conversations will never end.

This is not one of them.

This is simply the story of how one footballer, without ever meeting me, became one of the brightest memories of my childhood and a lifelong source of inspiration.

No hatred towards any player. No bitterness towards any nation.

Only gratitude for the man who made me believe that football could feel like home.