The phoenix rising

Four days ago, I sat for a creative writing competition, the topic staring back at me: Phoenix Rising. It wasn’t just a title; it was a heartbeat, a whisper from the universe pulling me into its depths. It felt like destiny giving me one last chance to pour my soul into something I love as fiercely, as unconditionally, as I love you, Leo.  

Writing has always been my refuge, my way of expressing what words alone cannot. But this time, I didn’t pick up a pen. I closed my eyes and let the story flow from within, dictating each word as it came to life in my mind. The story wasn’t mine; it was yours. Because who else could embody the essence of a phoenix rising better than you? 

And maybe it was fate—this competition falling just days before December 18th, two years after the moment you didn’t just rise, but soared, carrying millions of us with you. That day was more than a victory; it was a resurrection. Even in my world of blindness, where darkness is all I’ve ever known, that day was light. That day was life.  

I can still hear it. Montiel’s final kick. The ball tearing through the net. My screams, my tears, my heart breaking open with the weight of joy too immense to carry. I need to feel it again, Leo. I need to cry like I did then. Scream like I did then. Feel my world burst into color again, even if only for a moment.  

I’ve never been one to ask fate for anything. I’ve faced the darkness with quiet resilience, accepting the battles I’ve been given. But if I could ask for just one thing, I would plead with all the strength I have left to be granted a single moment.

Let me go back. Let me see you, even in the way I imagine the world around me. Let me feel the moment you broke the Mexican net. Let me live the second you held the most precious prize of your life, the culmination of every dream you ever fought for. That’s all I ask. Just that one moment. Nothing else.

Seven days after today is  Christmas, I wonder if it’s all connected. Every moment of pain, every heartbreak, leading us here. December 18th. Montiel’s kick. Your journey. Even Mario Götze’s goal—the agony that once broke us, only to set the stage for your rise. Maybe it was all written in the stars. Maybe it was all meant to be.  

Below, I leave the piece I dictated that day. But it’s not just a story. It’s my heart, my soul, my everything poured out for the one who taught me what it means to rise, to believe, to dream. It’s for you, Leo. Always for you.

The phoenix rising 

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, "In the corridor of Latin America, there was a country, suppressed along by colonial imperial powers. These so called superpowers, looted everything from this small country, yet from these looters, the people of that country learned a thing, they learned a game, a game which then they didn't know would create a history, a game which they didn't knew would put their country in the limelights. A game which consisted of a ball pumped with their souls as air went on to conquer this world itself. The world called it football and the small nation not so known now was known as Argentina.

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, In 1986, the God himself incarnated himself on a little man from Rosario to conquer the world. My story is not about that God, its about the son of that God who finds his trajectory to save his kingdom again. It is the story of a little boy from Rosario, who went on to find the spiritual quest of making this very football.

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, One year after the God descended on Earth, this little boy born was born. Yet in his age of 12, he was back logged and stabbed by polio. Even before the small bird's first flight  its wings were burned. It was here the sanctuary  of footballing folklores    set his trajectory to that very land which suppressed  his nation for more than two century. The land of Barcelona was his cherry picking where he transcends the very ordinaries but yet the story is not about his other worldly abilities. within the Barcelona jersey, it's all about a man's failure and resilience for his very country. The blue and striped jersey bears the weight of history that shook his shoulder in punch of its weight. 2014, the year where he thought he conquered the world, yet a last minute German missile brought him down. He did everything possible, rightly awarded the man of the tournament. But yet the blue sky in Buenos Aires still bears the weight. 2015, neighbours Chille buried his trajectory of becoming a legend. 2016, the year he went to take the first kick, the world was in complete silence, yet the very essence of a human being illuminates over the shade of mythic proportions  when his shot flew into the night  sky. The ball that travelled towards infinity was a note of something inevitable. On that note of performed silence, he declared he can't run anymore,  go anymore. The wings were burned and the angel fell from heaven. The ashes now ready; The rest is the story of the man who flew over the sky from the ashes.

, 2021, the year the man conquered his continent first international trophy in 28 year. The tomb was broken, the angel got his wings, the weight of history was no more weighing him down.

, 2022, it was then 36 years where the GOAT descended on that little man yet the GOAT may be descending again, but this time it was on that man.

, A little boy from Rosario just landed on heaven. Wings, once burned may melt him in pain but it was that burning wings  made him strong.

, Now the sky is blue with chances of getting dark in future for another ash. The ash from which the phoenix  rise.

, For me it was the story of a man who descended to find the trajectory of  the spiritual  enlightenment of football yet failed many time. In that failure it was not a man but a Phoenix born out of it. It is not a story of Lionel Messi, but of all humans who are still burned in ashes, a story of a man not obliging to his fate, a story of a man bending the whil  of destiny, story of a man who raised from the ashes. The story of Phoenix rising .