"Thank you for loving me" the little boy from Rosario said as he took his final bow. No, Leo. We thank you. You were the joy of our teenage and adulthood - because across civilizations, political enclaves and nationalities, we might not speak the same language but we all spoke Messi. You made magicians quiver because the swiftness of your feet made the firmaments stop. You made sorcerers question the potency of their charms because of the precision by which your strikes split the wind. You made giants look mortal & levelled them. You made defenders forget their names - left them with cracked ankles. You made goalkeepers stare into the emptiness of their nets - wondering what had just passed them by. And somehow, Leo, you did it all with a rolling leather at your feet, a smile that made the impossible look ordinary & strides that mirrored the silhouettes of gods. My Leo. Oh my Leo, I type this with tears bubbling in my eyes. We watched you grow. We watched you become a man carrying the weight a club & eventually an entire generation upon shoulders that never seemed built for such burdens. We watched you stumble. We watched you lose. We watched you walk away and we watched you come back. That's what makes you the Greatest Of All Times because greater than the goals, greater than the trophies, greater even than the records - You reminded us that greatness is not the absence of failure. That sometimes the smallest amongst us can cast the longest shadow. I wasn't born in the civilization that cracked industrialization, I wasn't born in the civilization that made coffins fly in the sky but how lucky I am to be born in the civilization whom you found worthy to voyage through with your gift, My Leo. We will tell our children about you, about that night in Mexico - with the World Cup clenched in your palms. We will tell them about the night your fathered orphans in Madrid. We will tell them about the careers you ended in Camp Nou. No, don't thank us, Leo. We thank you. For the memories, the magic, the joy, the friendships you fostered across the globe, your love for the game and for making us believe. Rest now, Leo. We don't know what football would look like moving forward - Stadiums will eventually go dark in silence, boots will hang in museums, numbers will get passed, records might get broken. It doesn't matter. You were the man, the myth, the god, the game. And when we all lay crumpled one day, old in our dying beds and someone asks us what being football looked like being young - We shall all chant: Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾 Messsi. 🙌🏾