There is a photo in which Leo Messi is still nobody.
A skinny boy with straight hair, standing in front of a large window with Barcelona in the background. The towers of the Fairgrounds can be seen blurred, as if the city itself did not yet know who that boy was. His hands are hidden, with the shy smile of someone who does not know whether he is in the right place.
Behind the camera was his father.
Jorge Messi was not just the man who negotiated contracts or the one who argued with club officials. Above all, he was the one who packed the suitcases in Rosario and crossed the ocean with the unwavering faith that his son deserved an opportunity. The one who rented an apartment in a city that did not speak his language. The one who, camera in hand, wanted to preserve that first day the way one preserves things one suspects will be important. He did not know, that day, that he was photographing the beginning of everything. Jorge died on August 8, at the age of 68, in a clinic in Rosario, the same city they both came from. Newell’s, the club he loved, bid him farewell with a statement that spoke of support, not business. Because that was, above all else, what he was: a father who stood by his son. Today Leo is the greatest in history. But in that photo he is still just a boy who is cold, standing in front of a window, trusting the man who told him everything would be all right. Thank you, Jorge. For holding the camera and for holding him.
