An Oral History of Juan Roman Riquelme
You have to feel something
Pat asked for an “essay on wayward genius Juan Roman Riquelme please”. We’re gonna try something slightly different today. It’s the story of Riquelme, told through the words of others.
He was twenty, a thoughtful, almost ponderous visionary. He had a mournful demeanor, seemingly always put upon, as perhaps befitted a player out of time. He lacked pace, having none of the acceleration from a standing start that had characterized Maradona and would later characterize Lionel Messi, and he seemed to revel in his slowness. He was the master of la pausa, the greatest exponent of that moment of stillness since Ricardo Bochini. Even more tantalizingly, it may be that he was the last master of the art.
The difference between me and the boys of today there for you to see: what you learn playing for money in the mud of the barrio they do not teach you in any academy.
There was little dynamism, few slaloming runs and shots at goal or threaded through balls. There was just calm. In the second half, Riquelme was, in some ways, the ultimate team player. While those around him panicked, Román brought serenity. Time and again, his languid, leisurely style encouraged all around him to relax, to pass and move; he reminded them that the game can be simple. The best form of defence is not attack, but — as Barcelona have emphatically proved in recent times — possession. He just refused to lose the ball, an attitude most aptly illustrated two minutes from the end when he picked possession at left-back and skipped way from Guti, then turned Geremi three times on the touchline before being bundled to the ground to win a free-kick. As he crashed to the turf, Riquelme fell on top of the ball, embracing it in his arms, refusing to let go until the Madrid players had retreated and Basualdo arrived to take the free-kick. The ball was his.
Riquelme played the sort of football which we Argentinians like and which really typifies the South American style.
If there is one thing I respect about Roman, it is how he’s the only one in this country with the balls to tell that fat Maradona to fuck off.
He did go, then, to Barcelona, where upon arrival the manager told him he didn't want him, didn't like him, and wasn't going to start him. The move to Villarreal was a lifeline, a small club with many Argentinian players (one of whom enticed Riquelme to join) dreaming of the big time. Riquelme became the heart of the squad, pumping blood to the entire team, and they achieved unprecedented success.
It was one of the saddest memories of my career and one I will always remember. I thought we were stronger than Arsenal and deserved to play in the final.
If we have to travel from A to B, most of us take the six-lane highway and get there as quickly as possible. Riquelme would choose the winding mountain road, the scenic route which takes him six hours instead of two.
Roman Riquelme always gave me physical arousal watching him, so yeah, I’m a physicist, amigo.
I'm talking about something inside that rages against the sign and signifier. Something inside you that says, I am allafuckinglone. And I will do whatever it takes to feel otherwise. And there is a breed of athlete and creative artist (one in the same if you've ever tried both) who gets that, whether consciously or not. That their role, ultimately, is to be a bridge between us and the dreams of the way we'd like things to be and how we'd like to feel. So, I like shots from the motherfucking cannon of catharsis and leave talk of 10 behind the ball and playing to the flanks for guys who understand that shit. And even so, as an expert on such moments, even so... I have never... seen... anything... like Boca's Copa Libertadores run in my entire life. One of the top 10 players in the world when he feels like it (my favorite kind), in the midst of a creepy spat with his father figure at Villareal, somehow talks the suits into letting him go back to Buenos Aries (I do believe he'd enough), and sets up one of the great Prodigal Son gets returned-to-sender storylines of the last few years.
I always say football is my job from Monday to Saturday. On Sundays I can't call it a job because playing the match is the most lovely thing for a player.
Riquelme seeks to pass his way through the opposition whereas so many these days are more concerned with forcing their way through. His type is an endangered species. Something special will be lost from football if they die out altogether.
I speak a lot with Riquelme.
Because Messi plays alone. He is the best in the world. We must look after him.
This type of player, this pure No 10, is … how do you say? Extinct?
The second inventor of football; the first were the English over one hundred years ago.
I don’t know if this is a special day, but it is important. I’ve made the decision not play football any more.
I speak a lot with Riquelme