At the conclusion of Tuesday's Barcelona vs. Inter match, Lamine Yamal had taken up the traditional loser's pose: sitting on the ground, his arms encircling his knees in a loose hug, his back curved in a hunch of exhaustion and dejection, eyes vacantly staring into the distance.
Something about that image made stark the irresolvable paradox of this 17-year-old and his staggeringly advanced game. Part of it was the akimbo posture, accentuating the youthfulness of his sinewy limbs, which, unlike when the ball is at his feet, made him look every bit the callow teen he is. Part of it was the emotional tenor of the moment, the blessed, childlike state into which sports can transport anyone—child or adult, on-pitch participant or TV viewer from thousands of miles away—where the result of a silly little game can send hot tears of anguish streaming down millions of faces.
Over the course of the two matches against Inter, Lamine Yamal put together a pair of legend-making performances in what was immediately recognized as one of the most legendary ties in the European Cup's 70-year history. If his leading role in Spain's claiming of the European Championship last summer served as his emergence as a budding but already bonafide star, and his showings this season demonstrated how big and bright he could shine, the Inter tie revealed him as a full-blown sun, one of those players around whom the world of soccer will revolve for the foreseeable future.
The evidence of Lamine's place in the game was conspicuous from the very beginning of the tie. It was there in how this hilariously young Barcelona team went down two goals only 21 minutes into the first leg of the Champions League semifinals and yet didn't for a second seem to doubt its supremacy, because they had Lamine. It was there in Lamine's stupendous goal in that game, which triggered one of those attacking avalanches that have defined Barça this season, where goals come in waves. It was there in the three times Lamine hit the woodwork across both legs, his 20 dribbles, and his general unguardableness throughout the tie, despite the immediate double and sometimes even triple teams Inter sent his way the second the ball came to him. It was there in the postgame comments from Inter's manager and players, the awe with which they spoke about a teenager who they knew was good and yet proved to be far better than they even imagined. It was there in the countless moments of tension throughout the 210 minutes of play, when Barcelona's players sought salvation first and foremost by passing the ball to the youngest player on the pitch and seeing what he could do. None of it—not the magnitude of his talent, not the unbelievable maturity of it, not the consistency of his performances, not the on-pitch hostility and the postgame reverence he inspires in opponents, not the deference of his teammates, not the weeklong exhibition that convinced the world that he is indeed simply the best player in the sport right now—makes any kind of sense coming from a player this young.
And yet, when the final whistle blew, Barcelona had lost. Lamine had his moment, proved himself more than equal to it, but it still wasn't enough. It takes me back to the images of Lamine after the final whistle on Tuesday. Unlike the inconsolable tears of Gerard Martín or the dry but haunted eyes of Pedri, Lamine more than anything looked stunned. It wouldn't be surprising if that's how he felt. Since Lamine's true explosion, which began at the start of 2024, his rise has burst through any ceiling that might have tried to contain it.
Though Barça was already out of the race for La Liga's title when Lamine became a regular starter midway through last season, he was outstanding in league play for the rest of the campaign, and played very well in all four of the team's Champions League knockout-round matches (after assisting Raphinha's game-opening goal in the second leg of the quarterfinal tie against PSG, Lamine was subbed off a half an hour into the game to compensate for Ronald Araújo's red card, and Barça subsequently lost, 4-1). In the summer he took yet another major step, being, alongside Rodri, one of the two biggest driving forces behind Spain's hoisting of the trophy at Euro 2024. This season he's only gotten better and more influential, the star attacker on what has been the best team in Europe, which has already seen him claim a Spanish Supercup, the Copa del Rey, and has Barça in pole position for the league title. His performances against Inter were incredible, and had Barça made it through that tie, the team would likely have been favorites in the final and Lamine himself the favorite for the Ballon d'Or. After a year and a half like that, how could Lamine be anything but surprised when he finally came up against a limit that would not yield?
As the saying goes, time and tide wait for no man. Usually this chestnut is rolled out in moments where time is short or coming to an end, and is offered to advise against tarrying so as not to miss out. In this circumstance, I think it applies in almost the opposite way. Lamine Yamal's talent did not wait for anything, not even for its host to become an adult man in the eyes of the law. From Lamine's first steps on a professional pitch, his talent burst forth like a newborn, untamed dragon. It took hardly any time for it to learn how to walk, fly, and breathe fire, quickly growing in size and power to an extent that could only be marveled at rather than controlled. Lamine himself seems to be learning the extent of his capabilities as he goes, finding himself in new situations and asking his talent to address it and discovering that yes, that wall too will collapse under a belch of flames and a swat from his wing.
Lamine has not yet unlocked the full potential of his talent, seen most evidently in his game's clear weakness ("weakness"): his only mediocre scoring touch. But in the speed with which he activates his shots, the accuracy of his curling efforts from distance, the consistency of his footwork, the power of his strikes, and the ease with which he gets himself into dangerous positions, you can see all the attributes of a fearsome scorer already in there, just waiting to be united and mastered. That's maybe the most remarkable part of the entire Lamine Yamal phenomenon. We're dealing with a 17-year-old who's already a credible candidate to be called the best player in the world, who can lead his team to the doorstep of a treble, whose greatness his teammates defer to and his opponents fear and admire, and who still has an enormous margin for improvement.
But, again, Lamine and Barcelona did not beat Inter, and time and tide wait for no man. The only true inevitability in soccer is that, eventually, everything comes to an end. It's not inconceivable that the past 12 months of Lamine Yamal are amongst and possibly even the very best days of his career. Injury, illness, bad luck, Saudi money, an inability to cope with the pressures and pleasures of wealth and fame, a poor supporting cast of teammates—there are plenty of obstacles remaining in Lamine's path that could prevent him from having the long and legendary career that today looks like his destiny. He would hardly be the first wonderteen to peak in those first few years. There are the unfortunate cases like Bojan Krkic or Alexandre Pato (let's hope Lamine's teammate and friend Ansu Fati plays his way out of this zone in coming years), but even great players like Michael Owen and the Brazilian Ronaldo were at their best as teenagers. What's more, players and teams only get but so many opportunities to mark their eras with the most coveted trophies, the ones won in the knockout tournaments. Ten years ago, fresh off their own Blaugrana treble, nobody would've expected that Lionel Messi, Neymar, and Luis Suárez would, collectively and individually, never again lift the cup with the big ears. Lamine and Barcelona just had an amazing opportunity to win one and failed, and there's no telling when or if another like it will come around.
I'm sure it's no consolation for Lamine himself, and it's even a hard perspective for me to fully feel in my heart as a Barcelona diehard, but I think it's good that Lamine and Co. came up short this time. Lamine's ability is already such that he should feel no fear in any match, content with the knowledge that he possesses a unique gift for playing, wowing, dominating, and winning, the likes of which maybe only three or four other players will be blessed with in his generation. He already has one major tournament trophy in his pocket to steel his confidence during those inescapable days—the first of which came on Tuesday—when his gift proves insufficient and there may arise doubts about whether he is has what it takes to win the big one. If Lamine is in the process of writing his legend, I think the story might be better served with some early adversity, a true setback that offers a challenge to overcome, at which point the promise of realizing that success would taste all the sweeter.
As a human and therefore inherently narrative endeavor, I think soccer itself tends to work this way, in a certain sense. If we look at the Champions League winners over the last 15 years or so, most of them first had to lose before they could win. Inter and PSG, this year's finalists, have both over the past handful of years lost a UCL final. Real Madrid spent a decade and change throwing incalculable sums of money into the pot in failed attempts to win its 10th European Cup, falling in three straight semifinals with José Mourinho until victory finally came and the floodgates opened. In successive years the almighty Citizens of Manchester lost a UCL final against Chelsea, lost a heartbreaking semifinal against Real Madrid, and only then were able to win the final. Liverpool, another victim of the Blancos, lost a final the year before it won one. A procession of great Chelsea teams came up short in the one tournament club owner Roman Abramovich most cared about, before an aged and frankly shitty Blues squad finally won it in 2012—the institutional memory of which probably played some hand in the victory in 2021. Bayern Munich lost that 2012 final to said shitty Chelsea team before winning the next year and then again in 2020.
Obviously, losing today is in no way a guarantee for a win tomorrow. You only need to look at Borussia Dortmund, Atlético Madrid, and Juventus to find examples from recent years of clubs that have repeatedly come close without eventually making it to the top the hill. So we've established that it's not for sure that Barcelona, or at least any version of the Barcelona team as it is comprised presently, will redeem itself by achieving Champions League glory, nor whether Lamine will go on to become an era-defining all-time great or if he'll be the latest example of a star that went dim sooner than anyone expected. What are we left with then? Well, this. We have Lamine's already colossal talent, the preposterous feats he's already managed and the ones he's sure to pull off in the immediate future, the trophies he's won and lost and is still competing for, the giddy promise of his uncertain but phenomenally bright future, and only the first couple chapters of a story whose narrative arc already looks like one that will stick with us forever, no matter what happens. It's the impossibility of ever really knowing what will happen—whether a seeming tap-in will somehow fly over the crossbar, whether a hopeful 30-yarder will scream into the top corner, whether a Goliath really will crush a David over a 90-minute span—that makes soccer so thrilling, and it's the way the biggest talents impose order and certainty over this intrinsic unpredictability and chaos that makes them so remarkable.
Lamine Yamal has no business being this good this young, and one day he will no longer be so. In the meantime, we have the agonizing, exhilarating prospect of watching what exactly he's able to do with the talent while he has it, with the knowledge that it could be, and already has been, something truly special. Witnessing what Lamine has in store for us is an opportunity we can't afford to pass up, because time and tide waits for no man.
