Football Isn’t Dead, Bro. You Just Grew Up.
There was a time when footballers were more than athletes, when they were living folklore. Icons in jerseys, entertainers you could enjoy on fuzzy TV screens, then mimic on dusty playgrounds beneath the scorching African sun. These weren’t just ballers. They were unicorns, rare and magical, and forever etched into childhood memories and teenage obsession.
The long-sleeved, tucked-in jerseys and baggy shorts. The boyish elegance of Kaka gliding across the pitch like an unstoppable force.
Wild-haired Ronaldinho dancing past defenders with a smile on his face.
The defiant Argentinian valor of Maradona, Crespo, and Riquelme.
And then the Brazilians. Romario. Rivaldos, Ronaldo. Adriano. Roberto Carlos. All in those vintage Brazil yellow shirts that shimmered on TV screens with bad reception.
Serie A in the ’90s and early 2000s—when Maldini and Costacurta formed a golden wall at the back, and Obafemi Martins tore through defenders with blistering pace. The Bundesliga, where Lothar Matthäus played like a midfield general, and Oliver Kahn growled between the sticks like a man possessed.
The Barclays era with Beckham bending free kicks into top corners, Aguero sneaking near-post finishes, and Lampard unleashing those thunderous screamers from 25 yards. And then there were the euphoric Champions League nights. Samuel Eto’o scoring at the Stadio Olimpico. The miracle of Istanbul.
Games, moments, and goals that made you sprint barefoot and shirtless through your neighborhood like you’d just won Olympic gold.
I know I’ve left too many names and memories out.
Your mind’s probably racing with a dozen more already.
But you’d agree–those days were beautiful, right? You were entertained. Everything felt perfect, didn’t it?
And honestly, nobody cared what these players did off the pitch.
Cantona drop-kicked a fan. Maradona got caught high on coke—twice.
Robin Friday allegedly shat in a defender’s kitbag after a red card, and Cardiff fans still adore him to this day.
Ryan Giggs slept with his brother’s wife, but they still sang him praises at the theatre of dreams
Back then, if you made magic with your feet,if you turned football into poetry, into madness, into cinema, nothing else mattered.
The Beautiful Game was a beautiful mess.
It still is.
A lot of people claim football is dead now—that it’s lost all the excitement.
But the truth is, they were watching it then through young, starry eyes.
In noisy viewing centers. On dodgy HiTV boxes. Through the soft glow of hunched-back CRT screens.
Life felt simpler. Slower. Easier.
And because they’ve lost that feeling, they’ve convinced themselves today’s football is dead. That there are no real ballers anymore.
I utterly disagree.
What I’ve come to realize is this: most of the “football’s dead” enthusiasts aren’t disappointed by the game.
They’re just drunk on nostalgia.
Many of them quietly checked out of football years ago. Now, they spend their time chasing shadows, highlights from the past, golden moments that no longer exist.
What they miss isn’t the football itself.
It’s the freedom to love it without all the noise.
The childlike joy it gave them before life got complicated.
Today’s game can’t recreate that innocence. And instead of grieving that loss, they blame the players.
Every generation swears their football was purer.
There are uncs out there who still say no one touches Maradona’s legacy.
Some won’t shut up about R9’s 2002 World Cup run, the elegance of Zidane, or Drogba’s bullet headers and Ronaldinho’s samba flair.
They even pit the Pedris and Sakas of today against legends who already played their part and bowed out, just to prove football has fallen off.
They scroll through minute-long YouTube compilations and convince themselves every game in the early 2000s was a movie.
That Ronaldinho never mispassed. That every flick was a no-look, and every striker bagged 30 goals like it was routine.
But nostalgia edits memory like a biased film director, it cuts out the boring bits and loops the magic on repeat.
Truth is, eras will come and go.
But there will always be ballers.
There will always be superstars.
Every time someone says football’s fallen off, that the excitement’s gone or the talent pool has dried up, I think of the players lighting it up right now.
Because for every Casillas, Buffon, Vidic, Terry, Piqué, Dani Alves, Lampard, Gerrard, Xavi, Henry, Zlatan, and Ronaldo you bring up…
I’ve got Courtois. Alisson.
Trent Alexander-Arnold. Van Dijk. Hakimi. Rodri. Pedri. Declan Rice.
Jude Bellingham. Musiala. Kane. Salah. Mbappé. Haaland. Vinícius Jr.
And now—Lamine Yamal.
Courtois and Alisson are already all-timers. Van Dijk’s been impeccable — it’s not far-fetched to sit him at the same table as John Terry and the rest. Trent cemented his legacy by 26 and still has years to play for at the Bernabèu. Rodri just won the Ballon d’Or. Jude Bellingham is a Galactico at 21. So is Pedri. Salah’s been world class for nearly a decade now. Mbappé’s played in two World Cup finals and already outscored Ronaldo’s first season at Madrid. Vinicius Jr has two Champions League titles, scoring in both finals at 24. And tell me, how many strikers from the past can match Erling Haaland’s numbers? When was the last time a 17-year-old had the world at his feet like Lamine Yamal?
And… OH—Kevin De Bruyne! One of the greatest midfielders the game has ever seen.
In terms of excitement, The Beautiful Game isn’t dying and it shows no signs of dying anytime soon.
Is it the tournaments you think are dead? Come on, do you need me to start name-dropping? We just witnessed one of the most entertaining World Cups in recent times, an unforgettable Euros, and an AFCON that impressed both tactically and qualitatively. Did you follow the just-concluded 2024/25 season? Raphinha’s revival, Dembele’s resurrection, Galácticos clashing with Catalunya mavericks in El Clásicos like it’s 2005 again.
Is it the superstars you think we lack? Be serious. We’ve got them in abundance. Lamine Yamal, Mbappe, Rodri, Jude. Players with elite mental profiles and personalities made for the spotlight.
What’s really changed isn’t the quality, it’s the quantity.
Too many games. Too many leagues. Too much noise.
Not enough time to feel anything.
The emotional investment gets stretched thin, because there’s always another match a few hours away. No time to let a wonder goal marinate. No time to sit with heartbreak.
Even as I write this, Benfica are playing Boca Juniors in a Club World Cup match almost nobody cares about.
The sport is everywhere now. On YouTube. Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. You don’t even wait for kick-off to meet new signings—Fabrizio Romano will tell you before the paperwork’s even printed.
You’re not watching games anymore. You’re scrolling through them. So yeah, it’s easy to feel numb.But that doesn’t mean the magic is gone.
Football today isn’t worse.
It’s just drowning in its own abundance.
The sport has broken into a fourth dimension, one ruled by relentless scheduling, overexposure, and ultra-capitalism.
I get it.
The game has changed. That scares people. The old heroes. The legends. The way things used to be…They’ll always live inside you. But football isn’t a museum piece.It’s alive. Breathing. Evolving.The thrill isn’t gone.It’s just wearing a new face.
It’s in the stunning curlers and screamers on UCL nights. In a 17-year-old teenager running rings around grown men. In the sensational World Cup run in Qatar. In Kylian Mbappe’s near-post finishes. In Bologna qualifying for the Champions League for the first time since 1965. In Spurs finally lifting a trophy and Postecoglou delivering on his promise.
It’s in the stunning curlers and screamers on UCL nights.
In a 17-year-old running rings around grown men.
In the sensational World Cup run in Qatar.
In Kylian Mbappé’s near-post finishes.
In Bologna making the Champions League for the first time since 1965.
In Spurs finally lifting a trophy and Postecoglou delivering on his promise.
The game’s still very much here.Waiting for you on a Saturday afternoon.Or on a rainy Champions League night in May.
Maybe you should start watching with your heart again.
