There are only 358,000 people scattered along the Arctic Litoral in Norway. How is this the third-most productive football region in the world

In the 43rd minute of Norway’s group stage World Cup clash with Senegal at MetLife Stadium, a defensive error sent the ball loose to a red shirted player just outside the box. It took him barely two seconds to put the score 1-0 for the Vikings. His surname was neither Haaland nor Ødegaard, but the record he had just set fascinated me more than any of theirs—which is saying something.

Marcus Holmgren Pedersen, the 25-year-old right-back from Torino, had only been on the pitch for half an hour, brought on after an injury.

It was his 33rd appearance for Norway and his first international goal. But more unusually, it had been scored by a man born in the northernmost town in the world.

Fewer than 100,000 human beings live anywhere on Earth north of the 70th parallel. Around 8,000 of them live in HAMMERFEST: 70.66 PARALLEL °North; According to the United Nations the northernmost town in the world.

A place the BBC once described as a raw wilderness at the nerve ends of the world. So far north that the sun remains below the horizon for 60 days every winter—and then, as if making up for it, refuses to set for 73 days every summer.

A footballer from this part of the world scoring at a World Cup seems, at first, like exactly the sort of geographical curiosity I tend to collect. Except that by the time Pedersen scored, I already knew he was not an anomaly.

FOOTBALL KOSMOS

For the past year I have been mapping the birthplaces of professional footballers around the world, trying to understand why some places produce far more elite players than their populations should allow. It was one of the questions that began with my research into the Basque Country and eventually pushed me toward the much larger project I introduced earlier: Football Kosmos.

Some of the places appearing near the top of my analysis felt intuitive. Others did not. None surprised me quite like a thin strip of coastline beginning around the Arctic Circle.

Today, 358,088 people live across this territory. Twelve footballers born here are valued at €2 million or more by Transfermarkt (data from December 2025).

With 3.4 elite players per 100,000 inhabitants, that makes the Norwegian Arctic coast the third-most productive football region in my analysis.

I’ll leave the first two for another day. For now, let’s follow this one to the edge of the map.

[MAP 1: Norway, showing the Arctic Circle and the complete study region]

BODØ — 67.3° N

The Arctic Circle—the latitude around 66.6° N that marks the southern limit of the polar day and polar night—runs roughly 80 kilometres south of Bodø. For scale, each degree of latitude represents roughly 111 kilometres. But latitude is not the most improbable number attached to it.

Much was made during the FIFA 2026 World Cup of the 54 players born in Greater Paris. An impressive feat. But with about 53,638 inhabitants, BODO municipality has produced 17.4 times as many World Cup players per capita.

To understand its success, we need to look beyond Bodø/Glimt’s first team, beyond the football club itself, perhaps even beyond the low-slung houses of its postwar neighborhoods, where five of the twelve players from my regional analysis were born.

Andreas Schjelderup (Benfica), Patrick Berg, Jens Petter Hauge and Fredrik Bjørkan (all three playing for their hometown club, Bodø/Glimt), and Andreas Hanche-Olsen (Mainz). The first four represented Norway at the 2026 World Cup.

Before beginning this research, I had constructed a particular image of Bodø. In my mind I visualized it as football’s Wall in the North: the last major outpost before the map gave way to polar nights, rugged sea, tundra, reindeer herds and scattered Sámi settlements. Beyond the Wall, I assumed, human life—and football—would begin to disappear.

Instead, Bodø turned out to be the gate into the fascinating story beyond it. So join me on this unexpected football ride at the very edge of the world, across beautiful fjords and never-ending islands, over modern bridges and through long tunnels, to see how even the most inhospitable landscape can become fertile football ground.

NARVIK — 68.4° N

Three hundred kilometres north of Bodø—about five hours by road—lies our first stop. A very familiar one for Bodo/Glimt.

This railway port town of approximately 14,200 people is not an island, yet arriving from the south still requires crossing a bridge into town—and continuing north means crossing another one out. Narvik just happens to be wedged between Ofotfjord, one of Norway’s 1732 officially named fjords and steep mountains.

Local club FK Mjølner, has had a couple stints in the Norwegian top flight in the 70s and 80s; today they play in the fourth division where they are managed by Andreas Evjen. A Narvik product, Evjen was the captain of Bodo/Glimt from 1999 to 2001, the same year his twin sons Henrik and Hakon were born. Both came through Mjølner, but Håkon followed his father’s path to Bodø/Glimt, making his senior debut in 2017.

Last February, Håkon, scored the winner at San Siro as Bodø/Glimt beat Inter 2–1 to reach the Champions League round of 16. In doing so, they became the first Norwegian club ever to win a Champions League knockout tie.

LOFOTEN ARCHIPELAGO

Forty kilometres west of Narvik, the Tjeldsund Bridge carries the road onto Hinnøya, the first island of the world-famous Lofoten archipelago and onto Austvågøya island, home to some of the archipelago’s best-known landscapes.

A two-and-a-half-hour drive beneath a wall of jagged peaks rising straight from the sea, the road curling around mirror-like fjords and threading through tiny fishing villages dwarfed by mountains on every side, until the landscape finally delivers us to our next stop.

Svolvær is Lofoten’s principal urban centre.

Population: 4,700.

This is where Mathias Normann was born. He developed at local club FK Lofoten, today playing in Norway’s fifth tier, before leaving for professional football took him at sixteen.

Destination: You guessed it, Bodø/Glimt.

From Svolvær, Henningsvær—the detour no football obsessive could possibly skip—lies roughly half an hour southwest. But barely ten minutes into that detour, something else demands our attention.

Beside the road sit two enormous dark-roofed buildings wildly out of scale. Beside the building, a full-sized artificial football pitch.

A detour from the detour.

This is Vågar Idrettspark. At its centre is Kong Øysteins Hall, an insulated 40-by-60-metre indoor football pitch designed to keep the game going through the Arctic winter. Around it sits an extraordinary concentration of sporting infrastructure for a village of barely 2,000 people, including facilities for gymnastics, handball and indoor rock climbing.

Earlier this summer, Vågar Idrettspark hosted the Norwegian senior gymnastics championships. One hundred of the country’s leading gymnasts came to compete in Kabelvåg.

Nor is this a recent sporting experiment. Founded in 1894, Kabelvåg IL is one of the oldest football clubs in northern Norway—and among the oldest still operating anywhere in the Nordics. Its outdoor football ground has had artificial turf since at least 1997 and was renovated in 2014.

To celebrate the reopening, Kabelvåg IL invited home its most famous footballing son, Stig Johansen. A Norway international who had his own stint in the Premier League, Johansen remains Bodø/Glimt’s record top-flight goalscorer. At 42, he registered once more for his childhood club and played one final official match as the new pitch reopened.

As a boy Stig did gymnastics, cross-country skiing, handball and also football.

From one of the north’s oldest clubs, twenty minutes later the road throws us off the southern edge of Austvågøya, across four islets like a skipping stone over the Norwegian Sea, until we land in Henningsvær.

At the end of it sits what The Guardian called “one of the most striking aerial views in Europe.” For many, it is simply the most beautiful football pitch in the world. It may also be one of the smelliest.

Long before the pitch comes into view, thousands of eerie rows of headless, gutted cod begin appearing beside the road, hanging from rudimentary wooden racks, their unmistakable smell seeping into the car. The racks only multiply as we approach the famous ground, until the football pitch itself seems almost enclosed by them.

Before there was football here, there was cod. For at least a thousand years, the people of Lofoten have hung winter skrei in this same cold, salty air, turning it into stockfish. Locals jokingly call the smell the “scent of money”: for centuries, cod was the economic engine of these islands, long before tourism became the other great industry of modern Lofoten.

Henningsvær may steal the postcards, but Svolvær and Kabelvåg’s own pitches are hardly short on scenery. I’ll let the images speak for themselves.

FINNSNES — 69.2° N

From here, we leave this heavenly archipelago behind—both its scenery and its improbable sporting infrastructure—and return to the mainland. Roughly 175 kilometres north as the crow flies, but more than 300 by road outlining the fjords, our next stop is Finnsnes.

Population: 5,042.

Yet two footballers born in 2001 and 2005 came through the local game and today play in the top flights of Norway and Denmark.

Emil Konradsen Ceide left Finnsnes for Rosenborg at fifteen and made his first-team debut less than a year later, still only sixteen.

From there he made the leap south to Serie A with Sassuolo before returning to Rosenborg in 2024.

Runar Norheim was also picked up at fifteen but followed the more traditional northern route signing for Tromsø IL. The city lies only 60 kilometres northeast as the crow flies, yet the road stretches for roughly 157 kilometres around the mountains and fjords. Barely a month after joining, Norheim made his first-team debut at 15 years and 220 days, becoming the youngest player in Tromsø’s history. In August 2025, he took the next step south, joining Danish club Nordsjælland. Remember the name. He may just be the next Norwegian prospect heading for Serie A or the Premier League—and, a few years from now, the Euros or World Cup.

In Finnsnes roughly 200 are men in their early 20s like Emil and Runar. That’s about one in one hundred.

If you’re a football-obsessed parent and this has you considering moving the family, I’d recommend a therapist before you start looking at schools.

69° N - TROMSO

Bodø/Glimt, the giant-slayers from the Arctic Circle, may be the greatest underdog story of the modern game. But to Tromsø supporters, they remain burdened by one unforgivable weakness: being 300 kilometers too far south.

Every season, thousands of Forza Tromsø and Isberget (“The Icebergs”) supporters make the nine-hour pilgrimage south for the Slaget om Nord-Norge — the fiercely contested battle for football supremacy at the end of the world.

Tromsø IL prides itself on being the northernmost top-flight football club in the world. Fittingly, Tromsø itself holds a similar distinction: with nearly 80,000 inhabitants, it is the northernmost city on Earth to clear the UN’s 50,000-person threshold for a city.

And Tromsø doesn´t lag behind in their footballer production. Earlier this month, 21-year-old Jens Hjertø-Dahl left his hometown club for newly promoted Premier League side Hull City in a deal reported to be worth around £8 million.

Sebastian Tounekti committed the closest thing to footballing treason in the Arctic: when the city’s biggest club came calling, he chose Bodø instead. Now playing for Celtic, he played for Norway´s U15, U17 and U19´s, but then took another controversial decision. He chose to represent his father’s country, Tunisia, with whom he featured at the 2026 World Cup.

The hometown club is having its own moment. This week, Tromsø IL face Brighton & Hove Albion for a place in the Conference League league phase. Win, and they will join Bodø/Glimt in Europe—an unprecedented double for Northern Norwegian football.

[MAP 2: Bodø → Svolvær → Narvik → Finnsnes → Tromsø, adding players as the journey progresses]

70.66° N° - HAMMERFEST

Tromsø would seem the obvious conclusion to a story about football surviving in the Arctic. Beyond it, human settlement thins—football does not.

About halfway to our next stop, we cross into Finnmark, the last Norwegian county on the map. In terms of territory, it is larger than all of Denmark, yet with its 75,288 inhabitants could fit inside MetLife Stadium—making it 85 times less densely populated.

Nearly eight hours and more than 500 kilometers after leaving Tromsø, the road reaches the Kvalsund Bridge onto Kvaløya—one of Norway’s 239,057 islands.

Another 30 kilometres up and around the island, and, at last, we arrive at the place where this story began.

The place where Marcus Holmgren Pedersen saw the light. And he would have seen it no matter what time he popped out. Born in June, the polar days where the sun remains above the horizon during the 24 hours would have just gotten started, and still would have X days to go. But of course, as if making up for it, the sun would refuse to show up for 60 days in the winter.

Hammerfest is a town accustomed to surviving the improbable. Over the past two centuries it has been looted, battered by hurricane, consumed by fire and, more recently burned to the ground during the Nazi retreat from Finnmark. Yet each time it has come back. Like a phoenix at the far end of Norway.

Today, the old Arctic fishing port has reinvented itself again through oil and gas.

When I first mapped Pedersen, I reached for the obvious explanations: a statistical one-off; a birthplace that meant little to his development before moving to a large city; perhaps even some romantic notion of tough Viking lineage.

I striked out.

Pedersen played and developed in local club HIF/Stein until sixteen, when Tromsø pulled him into professional football. He is also not the only Hammerfest born to play in a top competition.

Barely two months after Pedersen was born, Christine Bøe Jensen, came on at the start of extra time in the Olympic final against the United States. Eleven minutes later, Norway scored the goal that won them Olympic gold.

And on the men’s side, another generation is already cooking. Adrian Evensen-Jensen, now 19, and Liam Engstad Eriksen, 17, were both playing senior football for Hammerfest by the age of fourteen. Adrian helped the club win promotion before playing in Norway’s third tier at fifteen; Liam went one better, starting third-tier matches at fourteen.

Both have since been pulled into the rival of the north: Adrian to Tromsø, Liam to Bodø/Glimt. Both have since been pulled into opposite sides of the northern rivalry: Adrian to Tromsø, Liam to Bodø/Glimt.

Pedersen wasn’t the first. He will also not be the last.

70.0° N°, 29.7° E° - VADSO

Northern Norway has a peculiar relationship with the edge of the map.

Norway has 1,732 named fjords. Most carve into its western coast, driving deep between mountains as the country stretches north towards the Arctic. By Hammerfest, we have followed that fractured edge almost to its northern limit.

Then Norway bends east across the roof of Europe. Four of its final five great fjords still open north towards the Barents Sea.

Getting around them is another matter. From Hammerfest, the road spends nearly seven hours and 420 kilometres curling east around the great northern fjords, repeatedly diving inland before finding the coast again.

Only then does the geography perform one last trick.

At the end of Norway’s long procession of fjords comes Varangerfjord: the only one of 1,732 that faces east. Barely 60 kilometres from the Russian border, along this rebellious fjord, sits Vadsø, the administrative capital of Finnmark.

Population: 4,800.

Here, in 1992, before turning 20, Tromsø found Sigurd Rushfeldt playing local football for IL Norild. He was hardly a child prodigy being extracted from home before adolescence; the northern system had allowed him to mature almost entirely on the edge of the map before deciding he was ready.

What followed was extraordinary. Rushfeldt earned 38 caps for Norway, but more remarkably, he became the all-time leading goalscorer in Norway’s top flight, finishing with 168.

Six years later, Tromsø returned to the same well, finding another Vadsøværing gem in 17-year-old Morten Gamst Pedersen. He would eventually make the leap from the edge of Finnmark to Blackburn Rovers, becoming one of Norway’s most enduring Premier League exports.

VARDØ — 70.4° N, 31.1° E

But even here, the Norwegian football map refuses to surrender.

The E75 still has 74 kilometres to run. The great European road has travelled more than 4,000 kilometres from Sitia in Crete—the southernmost point reached by Europe’s road network—through Athens, Belgrade, Budapest and Helsinki, before crossing Lapland to the roof of Norway. Now there is almost nowhere left to go.

The road completes the shore of Varangerfjord towards Kibergsneset, the easternmost point of mainland Norway—a reverse Finisterre. At 31.06° E, it lies farther east than Istanbul and almost on the same longitude as Cairo. Then the E75 reaches Svartnes.

The mainland has run out.

And still the road keeps going.

Ahead, the E75 disappears beneath Bussesundet. For almost three kilometres, the Vardø Tunnel—the first subsea road tunnel built in Norway—dives as deep as 88 metres below sea level before resurfacing into Vardøya, an island barely larger than New York’s Central Park. The last of Norway’s 239,057 islands.

Here stands Vardø: Norway’s easternmost settlement.

Population: around 1,800.

Full-size football grounds: one.

Only here does the road finally end. Football does not.

Stefan Johansen was born in Vardø in 1991 and developed at Vardø IL until fourteen, when Bodø/Glimt brought him west. A decade later, he was named PFA Scotland’s Player of the Year with Celtic. In 2017, he was named captain of Norway, a role he held until retiring from international football in 2021.

From one last football pitch at the end of the world came the captain of Norway.

There is nowhere left for our map to go.

🇬🇧🇺🇸 For english press here.

Lectura <5 min. Para escuchar, abrelo en la app de Substack.

Hola, equipo:

Este sábado, Numerodos cumple su primer año.

Doce meses después, el proyecto ya no es exactamente el mismo que comencé. La pregunta inicial creció, el libro cambió de rumbo y lo que empezó como una bitácora personal ha adquirido una estructura mucho más clara que, espero, también nos permita llegar más lejos.

Además, en las últimas semanas se han sumado muchos lectores nuevos. A quienes están abriendo Numerodos por primera vez: bienvenidos y gracias por estar aquí.

Antes de contarles hacia dónde va, quiero detenerme un momento, mirar hacia atrás y ponerlos al día.

De la pirámide al kosmos

En mi newsletter anterior, Queremos volar, pero nos cortamos los pies, presenté una pirámide que demostraba que la selección mexicana no es el sistema, sino apenas su parte más visible.

Debajo existe todo un ecosistema futbolístico que da fuerza a lo más importante para producir talento: una base amplia y sólida.

Kosmos nace de llevar esa misma idea mucho más lejos.

Las PDFs —Pirámides de Desarrollo Futbolístico— de México y de los países cuartofinalistas ayudaron a explicar por qué una nación de 134 millones de habitantes produce tan pocos futbolistas. Pero la pirámide es solo una parte del ecosistema. Y el ecosistema, a su vez, forma parte de una ecología mucho más amplia.

Eso es Kosmos: una investigación sobre las zonas más fértiles del planeta en la producción de futbolistas.

Quiero entender qué condiciones —históricas, culturales, sociales, geográficas, socioeconómicas, institucionales y seguramente alguna más que todavía se me escapa— convierten a un puñado de rincones del mundo en fábricas incesantes de talento, mientras otros, aparentemente con todo a favor, apenas producen.

Para responder esa pregunta, no basta con estudiar academias, metodologías o clubes profesionales. Hay que observar el paisaje completo: la historia, la cultura, la geografía, la economía, las instituciones, las familias, los espacios de juego y las relaciones que se han formado entre todos ellos.

Porque ningún futbolista aparece de manera aislada.

Detrás de cada uno existe un mundo que lo hizo posible.

Pero Kosmos no fue la idea con la que comenzó Numerodos. Para entender cómo llegué hasta aquí, hay que volver al proyecto que puso todo en marcha.

El origen

Numerodos nació como una bitácora del proceso: la historia de cómo pasé de perder mi trabajo a intentar convertirme en escritor y sacar adelante mi primer libro sin experiencia alguna.

El Gen Vasco: Grandes Lecciones de una Nación Diminuta

El libro intentaba responder una pregunta que era fácil de enunciar y difícil de responder:

¿Qué pasa en Gipuzkoa que tiene más entrenadores en la Premier League —Arteta, Emery, Iraola y ahora también Xabi Alonso— que los propios ingleses?

Pero no era únicamente un libro sobre entrenadores ni sobre fútbol.

También era una exploración de la decisión aparentemente irracional de mudarme a San Sebastián y convertir este lugar, tan distinto al sitio donde nací, en el hogar de nuestra familia.

Durante el proceso, la pregunta inicial empezó a crecer. Lo que encontraba en Gipuzkoa me llevaba a buscar patrones en otras regiones, y lo que comenzó como la historia de un solo territorio terminó abriendo un mapa mucho más grande.

Ahí apareció Kosmos.

Y también apareció una contradicción que atraviesa toda la investigación: los dos lugares que más han definido mi vida ocupan posiciones casi opuestas dentro de ese mapa.

Mis dos hogares

Mi hogar de nacimiento y mi hogar durante los últimos ocho años representan una paradoja en el centro de mi propia vida.

Monterrey parecería tener todas las condiciones para ser una gran productora de futbolistas.

Tiene dos de los clubes más potentes del continente. La afición más pasional de México. Una población metropolitana de más de seis millones de personas, una enorme concentración empresarial, recursos económicos, infraestructura y un profundo sentido de orgullo e identidad regional.

Sin embargo, la producción de futbolistas regiomontanos es notable, pero por su ausencia. Nuevo León apenas ha aportado tres jugadores nacidos y formados en el estado a la selección nacional.

Tres. En 18 mundiales…

En cambio, el País Vasco —incluyendo Navarra y con aproximadamente la mitad de la población que Nuevo León— aportó cinco jugadores a la española campeona del 2026.

También al seleccionador campeón, Luis de la Fuente que aunque nació a unos metros de Bizkaia en La Rioja, su formación entera como aficionado y futbolista fue dentro del Athletic.

Y, si ampliamos el mapa hasta Iparralde, el País Vasco francés, aparece también Didier Deschamps al frente de Francia.

El contraste no es grande. Es abismal.

El deporte, y especialmente el fútbol, siempre ha sido mi manera de entender el mundo. Mi vehículo para darle sentido, dirección y propósito a lo que hago.

Y resulta que los dos lugares que más han definido quién soy se encuentran en extremos opuestos de una de las preguntas más fascinantes del fútbol mundial.

No existe una sola receta

Las regiones que aparecen entre las más productivas del mundo también son un estudio de contrastes.

Algunas concentran una cantidad extraordinaria de clubes profesionales en pocos kilómetros. En otras, el fútbol profesional prácticamente no existe.

Algunas se encuentran en los países más ricos del planeta. Otras están marcadas por la pobreza, el aislamiento o el abandono institucional de sus países.

Hay regiones densas y urbanas. Otras remotas y rurales.

Hay lugares en el hemisferio sur, otros sobre la línea del ecuador y algunos donde jamás las buscarías.

En unas, la cultura parece ser el ingrediente principal. En otras, la historia, la geografía, el lenguaje, la genética, la migración o incluso la política han moldeado silenciosamente las condiciones para el éxito.

Algunas encajan perfectamente con la teoría del multideporte. Otras se construyen alrededor de la especialización y profesionalización temprana. Y en otras, esas teorías ni siquiera son parte de la conversasión. Los niños simplemente juegan, como niños.

¿Cuáles son y qué tienen en común? Eso es lo que buscará responder el libro. Aunque, por supuesto, quienes leen esta newsletter irán recibiendo pistas.

En la próxima entrega les contaré qué sigue para Numerodos: cómo quiero llevar esta investigación más allá de la newsletter, qué pasos estoy dando para crecer como escritor y el nuevo proyecto que llevo meses cocinando para abrir estas conversaciones a otras voces, otros lugares y otras formas de contar el fútbol.

Mientras tanto, si quieren apoyar a un escritor independiente en el camino hacia la publicación de su primer libro, hay tres maneras muy sencillas de hacerlo:

1. compartir esta newsletter con alguien a quien le pueda interesar,

2. seguir Numerodos en redes y, sobre todo,

3. seguir leyendo!

Cada lector, cada recomendación y cada conversación ayudan a que este proyecto llegue un poco más lejos.

Nos vemos en unos días.

Subscribe now

<5 min read. To listen, open in the Substack app.

🇪🇸 🇲🇽 Para español da click aquí.

Hello team:

This Saturday, Numerodos turns one!

Twelve months later, the project is no longer exactly the one I started. The original question grew, the book changed direction, and what began as a personal log has developed a much clearer structure—one that, I hope, will also allow us to go further.

A lot of new readers have also joined in recent weeks. To those opening Numerodos for the first time: welcome, and thank you for being here.

Before telling you where the project is going, I want to pause for a moment, look back, and bring you up to speed.

From the pyramid to the kosmos

In my previous newsletter, We Want to Fly, but We Keep Cutting Off Our Feet, I presented a pyramid showing that the Mexican national team is not the system. It is merely its most visible part.

Beneath it lies an entire football ecosystem that supports the most important requirement for producing talent: a broad and solid base.

Kosmos was born from taking that same idea much further.

The Pyramids of Football Development (PDFs) of Mexico and the World Cup quarter-finalists helped explain why a nation of 134 million people produces so few footballers. But the pyramid is only one part of the ecosystem. And the ecosystem, in turn, belongs to a much wider ecology.

That is Kosmos: an investigation into the most fertile places on the planet AT producing footballers.

I want to understand which conditions—historical, cultural, social, geographical, socioeconomic and institutional, along with others I have probably not identified yet—turn a handful of corners of the world into relentless factories of talent, while other places, seemingly blessed with every possible advantage, produce almost none.

Answering that question requires more than studying academies, methodologies or professional clubs. We have to examine the entire landscape: history, culture, geography, economics, institutions, families, places to play, and the relationships that have formed among them.

Because no footballer emerges in isolation. Behind every one of them is a world that made them possible.

But Kosmos was not the idea with which Numerodos began. To understand how I arrived here, we have to return to the project that set everything in motion.

The origin

Numerodos began as a record of the process: the story of how I went from losing my job to trying to become a writer and bring my first book to life, despite having no experience whatsoever.

The Basque Gene: Giant Lessons from a Tiny Nation

The book set out to answer a question that was easy to ask and difficult to explain:

What is happening in Gipuzkoa that has allowed it to produce more Premier League managers—Arteta, Emery, Iraola and now Xabi Alonso—than the English themselves?

But it was never only a book about managers. Or even about football.

It was also an exploration of the seemingly irrational decision to move to San Sebastián and turn this place, so different from where I was born, into our family’s home.

As the process unfolded, the original question began to grow. What I discovered in Gipuzkoa pushed me to search for patterns in other regions, and what began as the story of a single territory eventually opened up a much larger map.

That is where Kosmos appeared.

And with it came a contradiction that now runs through the entire investigation: the two places that have shaped my life most deeply occupy almost opposite positions on that map.

My two homes

The place where I was born and the place I have called home for the past eight years form a paradox at the centre of my own life.

Monterrey would appear to possess everything required to become a great producer of footballers.

It has two of the continent’s most powerful clubs. Mexico’s most passionate supporters. A metropolitan population of more than six million, an enormous concentration of businesses, economic resources, infrastructure, and a deep sense of regional pride and identity.

And yet Monterrey’s production of footballers is remarkable mainly for its absence. Nuevo León has contributed only three players who were born and developed in the state to the Mexican national team.

Three. Across 18 World Cups…

The Basque Country, by contrast (including Navarre) with roughly half the population of Nuevo León contributed five players to Spain’s world champions in 2026.

It also helped shape the world-champion manager, Luis de la Fuente. Although he was born meters outside Bizkaia, in La Rioja, his footballing education as both a supporter and a player took place within Athletic Club.

And if we expand the map to include Iparralde, the French Basque Country, we also find Didier Deschamps in charge of France.

The contrast is not significant.

It is enormous.

Sport, and football in particular, has always been my way of understanding the world. My vehicle for giving meaning, direction and purpose to what I do.

And it turns out that the two places that have most shaped who I am stand at opposite ends of one of the most fascinating questions in world football.

There is no single recipe

But that is not the only paradox, the regions that rank among the world’s most productive, are themselves a study in contrasts.

Some contain an extraordinary concentration of professional clubs within only a few kilometres. In others, professional football barely exists.

Some are located in the wealthiest countries on the planet. Others are defined by poverty, isolation or institutional neglect.

Some are dense and urban. Others remote and rural.

Some lie in the Southern Hemisphere, others along the equator, and a few in places where you would never think to look.

In some, culture appears to be the defining ingredient. In others, history, geography, language, genetics, migration or even politics have quietly shaped the conditions for success.

Some fit perfectly within the theory of multisport development. Others are built around early specialisation and professionalisation. And elsewhere, those theories are not even part of the conversation.

Children simply play. Like children.

Which places are they, and what do they have in common? That is what the book will seek to answer.

Although, of course, those who read this newsletter will receive plenty of clues along the way.

In the next edition, I will tell you what comes next for Numerodos: how I hope to take this investigation beyond the newsletter, the steps I am taking to grow as a writer, and the new project I have been cooking up for months—one designed to open these conversations to new voices, new places and new ways of telling stories about football.

In the meantime, there are three very simple ways to support an independent writer working towards the publication of his first book:

1. share this newsletter with someone who might enjoy it,

2. follow Numerodos on social media and, above all,

3. keep reading!

Every reader, every recommendation and every conversation helps this project travel a little further.

See you in a few days.

Subscribe now

📸 Instagram

💼 LinkedIn

📹 TikTok

▶️ YouTube

#️⃣ X

📘 Facebook

Gracias por tu apoyo :)

El problema no era que la fiesta continuara, que bien por quienes pudieron seguir disfrutando. El reto es qué hacer con esa decepción para que no termine, otra vez, en resignación.

Este artículo nació de ese sentimiento.

Llevamos cuarenta años —y contando— sin volver a estar entre los ocho mejores del mundo. Desde 1994 habíamos llegado ocho veces al partido que nos pudiera devolver. Y ocho veces hemos repetido el mismo ritual: buscar explicaciones, repartir culpas y prometer soluciones.

Después de revisarlas, entendí que llevamos décadas buscando el problema demasiado arriba.

La Selección no es el sistema. Es apenas la punta visible de una pirámide que hemos ido asfixiando desde la base.

Esa piramide, en esencia, es la ecología futbolística: la red de clubes, competiciones, canchas, entrenadores, comunidades e incentivos que determina cuántas personas pueden entrar al juego, desarrollarse y avanzar.

Te lo explico con una sola imagen. Pero antes de verla hay que entender por qué las respuestas de siempre nunca han sido suficientes.

Mismas respuestas, mismos resultados

En una entrevista con Denise Maerker después de la eliminación, Javier Aguirre señaló el aspecto mental como una de las debilidades del futbolista mexicano.

“De repente no estamos tan fuertes”, reconoció.

México 86, de Netflix, dramatiza a Hugo Sánchez y a otros seleccionados evitando cobrar el penal contra Alemania. Ficción o no, cuesta creer que el futbolista mexicano de hoy siga cargando aquel mismo complejo de inferioridad.

Raúl Jiménez, al menos, lleva años demostrando lo contrario: mantiene el récord como el mejor cobrador de penales en la historia de la Premier League: catorce intentos, catorce aciertos.

Contra los ingleses no fue distinto.

Rafaela Pimenta, agente de Gilberto Mora, pide que más mexicanos lleguen temprano a Europa. Rafa Márquez quiere desarrollar una metodología nacional que “permee más abajo”. Ambas medidas ayudarían, pero actúan únicamente sobre el último 1% de la pirámide: cuando el sistema ya ha elegido o descartado, formado o deformado al jugador durante más de una década.

Miguel Layún propone una red de exfutbolistas para detectar a los mejores talentos del país.

Clubes como Chivas y Pachuca ya cubren prácticamente todo México con bastante eficacia. Pero incluso si identificas a los 50 mejores laterales derechos de una generación, es fácil equivocarse: el segundo, el décimo o el 38º pueden terminar siendo mejores que el elegido. El problema es que la mayoría de esos otros 49 nunca encontrará un lugar donde seguir desarrollándose.

Mi compañero de Substack Martín del Palacio ha señalado la falta de espacios y canchas.

También tiene razón. El acceso al fútbol es una parte fundamental de cualquier ecosistema sano. Sin lugares donde jugar, la base se reduce desde la infancia.

Pero las canchas, por sí solas, tampoco explican el rendimiento internacional. Sus datos colocan a Suecia por encima de Noruega, dejan a Uruguay fuera del Top 10 y sitúan a España por debajo de países con resultados mucho menos consistentes.

Otra solución recurrente es reducir el número de extranjeros en la Liga MX.

Mi buen amigo Aldo Farías sostiene que el simple hecho de plantear la discusión como una elección entre jóvenes y extranjeros revela la precariedad del sistema: en una liga sana, ni la edad ni la nacionalidad deberían determinar quién juega. El puesto tendría que ganárselo el mejor.

De los ocho países que llegaron a cuartos de final, España, Francia, Inglaterra, Bélgica, Noruega y Suiza cuentan con reglas de extranjeros menos restrictivas que las mexicanas e incluso podrían alinear un XI de jugadores nacidos fuera del país.

Lo dice alguien que predica con el ejemplo: si el fútbol regio ocupa hoy un lugar en la conversación nacional, es en buena medida porque Aldo logró abrirse paso, desde fuera, hasta los círculos de confianza de Televisa.

Chicharito cuestionó los cambios y la táctica de Aguirre. México terminó amontonando delanteros y enviando centros al área, en lugar de aprovechar el hombre de más con paredes, regates y tiros lejanos. Además de predecible, era la estrategia ideal para una defensa inglesa mucho más alta. Pero quizás, por primera vez en la historia, nadie se atrevió a cuestionar que hubiera alguien mejor que el Vasco para estar en el banquillo mexicanos y tomar esas decisiones.

La estrategia también reavivó una de nuestras excusas más antiguas: la supuesta desventaja física del futbolista mexicano. Pero los números complican esa explicación.

México tiene más hombres que superan el 1.80 m que España, Argentina y Noruega. De casi 16 millones de mexicanos de entre 20 y 34 años, alrededor del 10% —unos 1.5 millones— rebasa esa estatura. España y Argentina cuentan con 1.1 millones cada una; el 27% y el 22% de los hombres jóvenes respectivamente. Incluso Inglaterra con 1.9 millones solo supera a México marginalmente.

En México, la altura es menos frecuente, pero el tamaño del país multiplica las excepciones. Aunque el promedio masculino ronda el 1.70, aproximadamente la mitad de los mexicanos son más altos que Messi o nuestra nueva joya Gilberto Mora.

Incluso el físico de Erling Haaland —1.95 metros— no es tan ajeno como parece. Alcanzarla es veinte veces más probable en Noruega. Aun así, nuestro modelo estima que podría haber unos 12,000 mexicanos de esa altura, frente a 9,000 noruegos. César Montes demuestra que ese perfil también existe aquí.

Juan Villoro va más al fondo. En una entrevista antes del Mundial dijo:

“El fútbol mexicano está diseñado para no tener éxito deportivo y, por lo tanto, para que no surjan grandes figuras. ¿Por qué sucede esto? Porque así da muchísimo dinero.”

Su receta: recuperar el ascenso y descenso, abandonar el cortoplacismo, fortalecer las canteras y volver a los torneos largos para obligar a los clubes a pensar en el desarrollo del futbolista nacional.

Yo también estoy de acuerdo con todos ellos, pero creo que solo estamos contestando una pequeña parte de la misma pregunta:

¿cómo mejoramos a los pocos jugadores que estuvieron a punto de llegar o ya llegaron?

La pregunta que deberíamos hacernos es otra:

¿Por qué un país de 134 millones de habitantes produce tan pocos jugadores entre los cuales elegir?

Todo esta en la pirámide

El problema no es tan complicado de diagnosticar como parece. La falta de calidad es el síntoma; la raíz está en la cantidad.

Para construir un ecosistema futbolístico potente, México necesita multiplicar los caminos hacia el profesionalismo.

El problema no está en la cima de la pirámide. Está en la base.

Y nuestra base está completamente rota.

Comparemos a México con España. La elegí por cuatro razones: 1) posee la estructura futbolística y el desarrollo táctico más robusta del planeta; 2) comparte con México un contexto sociocultural y un perfil físico promedio más cercano que el de otras potencias; 3) a diferencia de Francia, Bélgica, Inglaterra o Marruecos, su nueva generación depende menos del talento surgido de comunidades migrantes de origen africano; y 4) a diferencia de Argentina, el fútbol es una enorme pasión nacional, pero rara vez desborda los límites de lo racional hasta convertir la competencia en una forma de vida.

Dentro de lo posible, España es nuestro espejo más útil: el país con el que más sentido tiene compararnos y del que más podemos aprender.

Del Sub-20 al vacío

Un par de años después de que Charly Rodríguez regresara del Toledo, entonces en la Segunda B española, y cuando ya comenzaba a romperla con Monterrey, me reuní en Madrid con Luis Pérez, exseleccionado nacional, posteriormente técnico de la Sub-20 de México y actualmente la mano derecha de Efraín Juárez.

Por entonces, Lucho completaba su licencia UEFA Pro y realizaba sus prácticas, precisamente, en el Toledo.

Mientras tomábamos un café le pregunté por qué nuestro país producía tan pocos futbolistas. Su respuesta fue tan sencilla como contundente:

“El salto que se espera de un canterano Sub-20 al primer equipo es demasiado grande. Es el momento más crítico en la carrera de un futbolista y, en México no hay escalones intermedios. Para mí, ese es el mayor reto de nuestro fútbol.”

Nunca olvidé sus palabras. Ya me había asomado a ese vacío durante mi etapa en Tigres, pero no fue hasta la temporada 2022/23, cuando yo también realizaba mis prácticas de entrenador en el Beasain, un club de Segunda Federación, que comprendí realmente lo que Lucho quería decir.

Pensemos en un defensa central de veinte años. Durante años ha marcado a delanteros de su edad, también en formación. De pronto, se le exige frenar a atacantes profesionales de 27, 30 o 33 años que llevan una década perfeccionando cada movimiento.

Contra un delantero juvenil, un error suele poder corregirse al momento; llevan años enfrentándose a lo mismo. En una categoría intermedia, ese error se convierte en aprendizaje. En la máxima, un error puede costarle el partido, el puesto o su propia confianza.

En México, prácticamente no existen escalones donde completar ese aprendizaje.

Con suerte, algunos encuentran un lugar en uno de los dieciséis equipos de la Liga de Expansión, el único otro nivel profesional del país. Pero incluso ahí llegan a un sistema con pocos incentivos para desarrollarlos. Los clubes no necesariamente quieren aumentar el valor de mercado de futbolistas cedidos por equipos de Primera —los mismos que les cerraron las puertas a ascender— y, sin posibilidad real de subir ni amenaza de descender, han perdido los dos incentivos competitivos más elementales: crecer o sobrevivir.

El nivel de la Liga Premier —la tercera categoría— sigue siendo demasiado bajo y la distancia respecto a la Liga MX, e incluso a la Expansión, es tan grande que en la práctica no funciona como un verdadero puente competitivo.

La cuarta categoría, la Liga TDP, es todavía más débil. Funciona más como una liga juvenil y un semillero para las fuerzas básicas que como un espacio de formación profesional. Entre sus jóvenes sobreviven algunos futbolistas mayores de veinte años, aferrados a una última oportunidad que allí difícilmente encontrarán.

México tiene 134 millones de habitantes. España, 50. En teoría, deberíamos empezar el partido ganando 3-1.

Pero ocurre lo contrario. España cuenta con 496 clubes profesionales y 2,108 equipos con proyección en su categoría juvenil, su último paso formativo antes del fútbol senior. México, cuenta con apenas 85 y 398. Eso se transfiere en 60 mil vs 11 mil jugadores en los mas altos niveles de su ecosistema. Ajustado por población, un juvenil español tiene cerca de dieciseis veces más probabilidades de encontrar, cerca de casa, un camino real hacia el profesionalismo.

La diferencia no está únicamente en la cantidad, sino en la continuidad del recorrido. Después de los 22 clubes de Segunda División, España ofrece otros 40 clubes en Primera Federación, 90 en Segunda Federación y 324 en Tercera Federación. Más abajo sobreviven alrededor de 3,000 primeros equipos regionales, además de miles de conjuntos amateurs federados que son una parte fundamental de su ecosistema.

Así, un futbolista no necesita saltar directamente de la cantera a la élite. Puede subir escalón por escalón, equivocarse, cambiar de club, fortalecerse físicamente y madurar más tarde.

Cuando un país tiene pocos equipos, debe decidir demasiado pronto —a los 13, 15 o 17 años— quién merece continuar y quién queda fuera. Después concentra casi todos sus recursos en un grupo mínimo y espera haber elegido correctamente.

Pero el desarrollo humano rara vez es lineal. La fortaleza de una pirámide está precisamente en mantener suficientes caminos abiertos para quienes todavía no están listos.

Cuando el desarrollo no puede predecirse con precisión, la respuesta no es elegir mejor entre cincuenta adolescentes, sino permitir que quinientos sigan jugando.

Charly Rodríguez es un ejemplo mexicano. Sin minutos en Rayados, era considerado un “descarte”, hasta que encontró su segunda oportunidad en el Toledo. Allí disputó treinta partidos en la antigua Segunda División B, una categoría sin equivalente real en México.

Regresó distinto. Debutó con Monterrey y terminó convirtiéndose en el segundo mundialista nacido y formado en Nuevo León.

Charly encontró el escalón que le faltaba del otro lado del Atlántico.

No soy tan ingenuo como para pensar que cualquier mexicano de 18 años que jugara en esas categorías regresaría convertido en futbolista de Liga MX. La mayoría de los 3,500 jugadores que compiten entre Primera y Segunda Federación tampoco llegarán a la élite.

Ese no es el punto.

El punto es que el sistema les concede tiempo, partidos y escalones para descubrir quiénes pueden llegar.

Ni siquiera Haaland parecía una certeza. Rúben Gabrielsen, su antiguo capitán en Molde, ha contado que nadie en aquel vestidor podía imaginar en qué terminaría convirtiéndose. Historias similares sobran: Luis Suárez, Gareth Bale, Didier Drogba y Jamie Vardy son algunos de una lista interminable.

En México, este fenómeno se ha repetido con especial frecuencia entre los delanteros: Oribe Peralta, Aldo de Nigris, Henry Martín y Guillermo Martínez alcanzaron su mejor nivel relativamente tarde. Incluso Raúl Jiménez necesitó tiempo para consolidarse en Europa.

La gran tragedia del fútbol mexicano no es perder a quienes ya sabíamos que eran buenos, como Jonathan Espericueta o Julio Gómez. A ellos se les dieron todas las oportunidades y más; ahí la historia es otra. La verdadera tragedia es perder a todos aquellos que nunca tuvieron los minutos, la paciencia o el escalón necesario para demostrarlo.

¿Cuántos Charly Rodríguez, Oribe Peralta o Raúl Jiménez se habrán quedado en el camino antes de que pudiéramos conocerlos?

Una pirámide no solo produce futbolistas

Una ecología futbolística amplia no solo produce más futbolistas. También forma presidentes de clubes, directores deportivos, entrenadores, asistentes, entrenadores de porteros, analistas, preparadores físicos, fisioterapeutas, árbitros, agentes, administradores, docentes, estudios científicos, conferencias, contenido... Irriga el tejido social de conocimiento futbolístico. En San Sebastián, hasta en el autobús escuchas a niños de doce años camino al entrenamiento hablar de permutas, superioridades y equilibrios. No solo de las jugadas que vieron en La Liga o la Premier el fin de semana, sino también de su propio juego.

Entre 2017 y 2018 tuve la oportunidad de estudiar en el ENDIT junto a varios jugadores de Tigres que aspiraban a ser entrenadores, entre ellos Hugo Ayala, Juninho, Jorge Torres Nilo e Israel “Piloto” Jiménez.

De aquel grupo, Juninho fue el único que recibió una oportunidad real al frente de la Sub-20. Cuando el club entregó después el proyecto a Guido Pizarro, otra leyenda extranjera de Tigres, desistió. Las dos únicas apuestas reales del club fueron, además, por exjugadores extranjeros.

¿Y los demás? Hugo pasó brevemente por el cuerpo técnico del primer equipo antes de moverse a la dirección deportiva; Torres Nilo trabaja como analista en Fox mientras continúa su formación como entrenador; y el Piloto dirige el deporte municipal en Salinas Victoria y entrena al equipo varonil de la UANL.

Nuevo León tiene la fortuna de contar con Tigres y Rayados, dos de las organizaciones más fuertes del continente. Debajo de ellas, sin embargo, la pirámide prácticamente desaparece.

Por eso ninguno de aquellos exjugadores encontró un camino lineal hacia los banquillos: tuvieron que inventárselo. En todo el estado, apenas Santiago F.C. ofrece un espacio semiprofesional donde jugadores, entrenadores y directivos puedan acumular experiencia.

No les falta conocimiento. Les faltan equipos donde ponerlo a prueba, construir la confianza de la que habla Aguirre y, después, poder también transmitirla a sus jugadores.

Si Nuevo León tuviera una densidad de clubes similar a la de España, debería contar —además de Tigres y Rayados— con cerca de veinte proyectos en los niveles que conectan la formación con la élite: el equivalente a La Liga de Expansión, la Liga Premier y, sobre todo, un escalón intermedio que hoy ni siquiera existe. Con la proporción de Noruega, la cifra se acercaría a cuarenta.

Un sistema asfixiado

La desaparición del ascenso y descenso es la enfermedad más grave del ecosistema mexicano.

La Primera División funciona como el corazón de una estructura viva: debe bombear dinero, ambición y oportunidades hasta el último escalón, y recibir de vuelta talento, competencia y clubes capaces de crecer.

Cuando un club puede ascender, tiene razones para soñar, pero también para invertir: mejora sus instalaciones, profesionaliza a sus entrenadores, fortalece su cantera y moviliza a su comunidad.

La historia de Jamie Vardy, desde la octava división hasta la Premier League, es una anomalía absoluta. También lo es la del Wrexham. Pero la ilusión que genera ese sistema —la posibilidad de progresar, de evitar el descenso y de seguir compitiendo dentro de una misma pirámide aunque la élite parezca inalcanzable— es el oxígeno que nutre al ecosistema.

No todos llegarán. Casi nadie lo hará. Pero todos tienen un siguiente escalón al cual aspirar.

Sin ese horizonte, la base se asfixia y el organismo entero deja de respirar.

Es ridículo que se justifique la desaparición del ascenso señalando a nuestros vecinos del norte y el éxito de la MLS.

De hecho, aun si contamos únicamente la primera división y la USL League One (tercera categoría), Estados Unidos tiene 3.5 veces más equipos profesionales que México y una proporción por habitante superior. Su caso demuestra que una población grande no tiene que ser necesariamente una desventaja estructural.

La MLS no cerró una pirámide existente. Nació hace apenas treinta años sobre una estructura sólida.

México hizo lo contrario: cerró la cima sin crear nada debajo que pudiera reemplazarla. No imitamos el modelo estadounidense. Nos cortamos las alas y tabmíen los pies.

La solución de las soluciones

Fortaleza mental, identidad futbolística, mejor scouting, más canchas, menos extranjeros, más mexicanos en Europa, perfiles físicos, ascenso y descenso: no son problemas distintos. Son manifestaciones de una misma debilidad estructural.

La confianza se construye acumulando experiencias, compitiendo desde joven fuera de la zona de confort y normalizando escenarios de presión mucho antes de enfrentarse a Inglaterra en un Mundial. La identidad surge de miles de clubes, entrenadores y comunidades que compiten, se influyen e intercambian ideas durante años fortaleciendo el tejido futbolístico nacional. Y la infraestructura aparece cuando existe un camino competitivo que justifica invertir en ella.

Tampoco se trata de reservar puestos para los mexicanos. La solución es desarrollar suficientes futbolistas nacionales para que los buenos ganen los espacios que hoy ocupan argentinos, colombianos, ecuatorianos o brasileños, y para que los mejores encuentren un mercado fuera del país. Los perfiles físicos que creemos escasos ya existen: no necesitamos producirlos biológicamente, sino captarlos y mantenerlos dentro del sistema el tiempo suficiente para que se desarrollen. Y el ascenso y el descenso no son una regla más entre varias: son el incentivo que le da sentido a todas las demás.

La estructura no sustituye estas soluciones. Las conecta. No es una propuesta más dentro de la lista. Es la condición que hace posibles casi todas las demás. Mientras sigamos intentando corregir la punta sin reconstruir la base, seguiremos proponiendo respuestas distintas para el mismo problema.

La cima es un efecto secundario

Muchos mexicanos estamos obsesionados con alcanzar el quinto partido y con soñar que algún día seremos campeones del mundo. Nuestros dirigentes están obsesionados con tener una liga cada vez más poderosa.

Es tiempo de mirar hacia abajo.

Los ocho países que llegaron a cuartos de final este verano no comparten una misma cultura, un mismo físico ni una misma manera de jugar.

Pero todos comparten algo: una ecología futbolística mucho más densa, conectada y abierta que la mexicana.

México es el país más poblado de la comparación y, aun así, uno de los que menos clubes profesionales tiene. Ajustado por población, ocupa por mucho el último lugar: España tiene casi dieciséis veces más clubes por habitante; Suiza, quince; Bélgica, veintitrés; y Noruega, cuarenta. Incluso Marruecos, que cuenta con menos clubes en términos absolutos, triplica la densidad mexicana, pese a que su materia prima proviene de Europa.

La fuerza no está en la cima. Está en las base.

Simon Kuper lo resume mejor que nadie: los países que han dominado los últimos Mundiales no comenzaron preguntándose cómo levantar la Copa. Primero hicieron que el fútbol amateur fuera barato, accesible y cercano. Buscaban comunidad, salud y felicidad. Ganar terminó siendo el efecto secundario.

España jugará su segunda final mundialista. No es casualidad. La selección es apenas la parte visible de uno de los ecosistemas futbolísticos más robustos del mundo: cientos de clubes sénior, miles de canteras y una cadena de escalones que mantiene el talento en movimiento y el tejido conectado.

México no necesita transformar la Liga MX, la de Expansión o la Premier de la noche a la mañana, ni tampoco esperar medio siglo. Ya tenemos dinero, afición, conocimiento y millones de niños que quieren jugar. Tenemos todas las semillas y tambien la tierra fertil

No se trata de exigir más frutos a los mismos árboles. Se trata de plantar más árboles donde realmente importa, regar la raíz y dejar que la cima crezca como consecuencia.

Si todavía crees en México y en nuestra selección, comparte este artículo con alguien que pueda sumarse a la conversación y al esfuerzo. Estoy seguro que somos muchos, solo falta encontrarnos.

Share

Para recibir mi newsletter gratuita —uno o dos correos por semana—, donde escribo sobre fútbol, cultura, identidad y los ecosistemas que producen talento, además de compartir avances de mi libro en proceso:

Ecología de Fútbol: Secretos de las regiones más fértiles del mundo

Subscribe now

Muchas gracias por leer, compartir y apoyar mi trabajo.

Para más historias, investigaciones y contenido como este, sigueme en:

Instagram · TikTok · X · YouTube · LinkedIn

English Translation here. Tiempo de lectura 11 minutos.

(Apenas terminé de procesar lo que viví el domingo en el Azteca. Aquí va la primera de dos partes: cómo viví el partido y lo que me hizo sentir. La próxima, el análisis futbolístico de por qué seguimos quedándonos en el camino.)

Solo a uno de aproximadamente cada 2,000 mexicanos le tocó estar en el partido histórico del domingo pasado en el Azteca. Y quizá por eso, desde que entré, sentí una responsabilidad que iba más allá de estar presente.

Doce días antes, cuando sonó el silbatazo final del México vs Chequia, no lo dudé: compré mis vuelos a CDMX para el potencial partido entre México e Inglaterra. Claro que para que eso sucediera, Inglaterra todavía tenía que clasificar como primero de grupo, México tenía que ganar su primer partido de eliminación directa en 40 años contra un poderoso Ecuador. Y el día antes de viajar, cuando todo parecía hecho, Inglaterra por poco comparte destino con los alemanes a costa de una aguerrida República Democrática del Congo. Hasta que Harry Kane resolvió con dos genialidades, en el 76’ y el 86’, para darle la vuelta al marcador.

Compré los vuelos, pero no tenía intenciones de pagar 80 y tantos mil pesos por entrar (4,500 USD aprox). Incluso si hubiera tenido los medios, no lo hubiera hecho por principios.

Lo pensaba ver con nuestra gente, los que quizás más se merecían estar dentro del estadio, en alguna de las miles de pantallas que colocaron sobre Paseo de la Reforma. Sin embargo, no perdía la ilusión de que, de alguna forma, pudiera estar en el Azteca.

El día antes del gran partido, fui a ver el Francia-Paraguay en el Fan Fest del Zócalo, una postal mundialista montada sobre el corazón político y simbólico del país. Mientras estaba ahí absorbiendo el ambiente mundialista, me llamó mi prima: ¡me había conseguido un boleto para el partido! Resulta que el hermano de la mejor amiga de mi prima—canadiense, de madre mexicana—tenía dos boletos y buscaba a alguien que lo acompañara. ¡Ese alguien improbable era yo!

Casualmente, mi tío Fritz Thompson, con quien viví mi primer Mundial en Sudáfrica 2010 y un reconocido conferencista, autor, cuadrapléjico, triatleta, tiene una frase célebre que no podía encajar de mejor manera en este momento: Si tú haces tu parte, las estrellas se alinean, el cielo se abre y sucede lo impensable.

Pero quizá también por eso—porque de cierta manera me había ganado mi lugar en el último minuto—no pude dejar de pensar en todos los que hubieran querido. Porque de un país de más de 130 millones de habitantes, solo unos 70 mil mexicanos entramos al Azteca. Estar ahí no era solo un honor y un privilegio. También era una responsabilidad: cargar, aunque fuera por 100 minutos, con una pequeña parte de la esperanza de todos los que se quedaron afuera.

Llegamos a las inmediaciones del estadio sobre las 2:15 pm y nos refugiamos en un sushi a ver el Brasil-Noruega mientras caía una tormenta torrencial, unos truenos como si anunciaran el fin del mundo y una ley seca que no nos permitía calmar los nervios. Una vez que dejó de tronar, compramos un poncho y salimos rumbo al estadio. No habíamos caminado ni una cuadra cuando se nos atravesaron unos vendedores ambulantes. Compré los dos sombreros de charro más grandes, coloridos y poco prácticos que encontré. Los que, en retrospectiva parecían reflejar mejor a nuestro México.

Y así, con mi nuevo amigo canadiense-mundialista, compañero accidental de una tarde que ya era histórica antes de empezar, entre una cortina de lluvia ligera y mucho nerviosismo, vimos a lo lejos el Coloso de Santa Úrsula. En mi caso por segunda vez, en el suyo por primera.

Los ingleses, con sus camisetas blancas, se sentían como en casa: no sé si por el ambiente gris que traían las nubes, o por la amabilidad de la gente, que los echaba a volar, les servía tequila en la calle y les cantaba canciones con especial dedicatoria.

En uno de los tres controles antes de entrar nos intentaron quitar los sombreros. Rogué que nos dejaran al menos tomarnos una foto con ellos. El segundo control fue más difícil. Después de unos minutos, negocié con una de las chicas de acceso: le dejé mi INE con la promesa de volver con los sombreros. Finalmente pudimos pasar unos metros, plasmar nuestra foto, y vivir por unos segundos esa fantasía mundialista mexicana de la que tantos hemos escuchado de aquellos que presenciaron el 70 y 86.

Cuando volví a entregarlos, ya no estaba la chica del INE. Así que no me quedo de otra más que intentar entrar con ellos. Pero en el tercer control estaba la policía, y por más que apachurre los sombreros entre mi axila, no hubo manera.

Ahora resulta que uno de los objetos más icónicos del fútbol mexicano, el mismo que nos acompaña en todos los Mundiales, que coronó a Pelé y a Maradona en sus campeonatos del mundo, solo parece tener permiso de entrar si te llamas Caramelo. El resto de los mortales nos teníamos que conformar con los falsos de papel que repartían afuera.

Así que entré al Azteca sin sombrero y sin INE. Pero con la ilusión intacta. No iba a dejar que nada me arruinara la fiesta. O bueno, más bien, casi nada.

El camino hacia las gradas, subiendo por las enormes rampas, fue como entrar a las entrañas de un monstruo colosal, con enormes columnas de cemento en lugar de dientes. Cuando finalmente llegamos a la grada sentí como cuando volteo a ver el horizonte del océano o las estrellas de noche—solo que en lugar de sentirme pequeño frente a la eternidad del mundo, aquí me sentía invencible ante el asombro de las posibilidades humanas y la fuerza del colectivo. Es tan vertical que da vértigo caminar por los casi inexistentes pasillos de las filas de butacas. Todo parece estar encima de ti y caer hacia el campo.

Y abajo, en ese rectángulo verde, estaba a punto de jugarse otra oportunidad de romper 40 años de historia. Una historia que, amemos, odiemos o seamos indiferentes al fútbol, nos atraviesa a los más de 130 millones de mexicanos.

El domingo por la mañana, antes de irme al Azteca, escribí:

“Y si me preguntaran si preferiría haber ganado una Copa del Mundo, o cinco, o ser para siempre la afición que más disfruta, que más sueña y que más esperanza encuentra en el fútbol — 100% escogería la segunda.”

No fue una ocurrencia mía nada más. Los ingleses, colombianos, japoneses, coreanos, marroquíes, españoles y representantes de casi todos los países que tuvieron la suerte de jugar en México salieron enamorados de nuestro país y de nuestra gente.

Mi sentimiento no cambió después del partido. Pero sí se complicó. Porque una cosa es estar orgulloso de lo que México provoca en un Mundial. Y otra muy distinta es usar esa belleza como premio de consolación eterno.

El partido fue una verdadera montaña rusa de emociones. Después del 0-1 un impulso físico me obligó a levantarme e ir hacia la zona de aficionados ingleses. No para pelear, ni para insultarlos. Pero porque era lo único que se puede hacer desde la tribuna cuando el grito del rival profana el silencio frente al altar de tu catedral: cantar, gritar, empujar, silenciarlos.

En algún momento organicé un “fuera, fuera” contra un pobre inglés que estaba demasiado cerca de la zona mexicana. Tampoco se sientan tan mal por él, no lo sacaron de verdad y seguro que terminó contento. Después volví a mi lugar y festejé el gol de Quiñones con todo lo que tenía. Grité como si el estadio se hubiera venido abajo. Como si los 40 años de espera se hubieran hecho polvo.

Lo que no sabía—y luego entendí por el extraño silencio mexicano y las intensas celebraciones inglesas cuatro minutos antes—es que no habíamos empatado, el marcador era 1-2.

No obstante nos fuimos al medio tiempo con la cabeza en alto. Solo Jordan Pickford se interponía entre nuestra fe y la historia. Luego al 56 vino la expulsión para Quansah y volvimos a creer, a volar: ya solo faltaba aterrizar. Pero ese sentimiento duró menos de cinco minutos cuando el Tala Rangel estampó a Anthony Gordon contra el suelo dentro del área y, en esa misma caída, también se vino abajo la moral del país, no así la de los jugadores en el campo. Tardaron 15 minutos y llegó el penal del 3-2. Raúl Jiménez, el infalible desde los once pasos con récords en la Premier League, quebró una narrativa que parece perseguirnos: tiró como siempre, falló como nunca.

Hay momentos en los que el fútbol deja de ser táctico, técnico, estratégico, racional. Momentos en los que todo se reduce a una convicción colectiva que no aparece en ninguna estadística, pero que todos los que han vivido realmente el fútbol dentro de un estadio conocen.

En la cancha, creo que el equipo dio su máximo. Podremos discutir los cambios y la táctica de Aguirre—lo haré en la próxima entrega—, pero en ese momento sentí que ya no dependía solo de ellos.

En ese momento nos tocaba a los unos de cada 2,000 hacer que la tribuna también jugara: cargar con la voz de los millones que se quedaron afuera y contagiar a los jugadores de esa energía que cambia partidos. Nos tocaba, como a Raúl, poner nuestra parte para quebrar la historia del jugamos como nunca, perdimos como siempre.

Los impulsos se apoderaron de mí nuevamente. Me quité la camisa, me puse a correr por las escaleras, por todo el pasillo, trepándome al barandal, pidiéndole a los más animados que ayudaran a echar chispas. Prendí a unos pocos; otros me pintaron el dedo y me dijeron de todo; la mayoría parecía estar viendo, antes de tiempo, el recuerdo de una nueva derrota.

No agarró gas la mecha. Los nervios y la tensión sobrepasaba.

Y ahí me pegó una tremenda decepción e impotencia, y tristemente yo tambíen me rendí.

Tuvimos más de 30 minutos con uno más para empatar, pero con poca claridad llegó el último córner.

Minuto 102.

La cabecera sur no tenía ni un solo asiento vacío. Estaba completamente llena. Y aunque en el video sí se escucha mucho ruido, la sensación dentro era otra. Hacía falta el verdadero pueblo de México.

Porque la FIFA decidió que este Mundial era para quienes pudieran pagarlo, no para quienes más pudieran sentirlo. Afuera quedaron muchos de los que hubieran entrado con garganta, fe y sombrero verdadero. Adentro sobraba el papel: unos en la cabeza, otros en la cartera.

Si como mexicano, estás dispuesto a pagar 100 mil pesos por entrar al partido, pero no estás dispuesto a alentar con la convicción de que tu energía también juega, entonces no compraste una entrada al partido: pagaste por un cacho de desesperanza de tu propio país.

Sé que para muchos fue uno de los mejores partidos en la historia reciente de la Copa. Entiendo que para los ingleses haya sido una noche inolvidable y que hubiera mexicanos abrazados, celebrando con ellos, alargando la fiesta incluso después de la eliminación.

Yo no pude. Cuando pitó el árbitro, no toleraba estar dentro del estadio ni un segundo más.

No es que los jugadores ingleses e incluso los mexicanos no merecieran un aplauso, o que piense que ser optimista sea malo. No es que el disfrute y la fiesta estén peleados con el éxito. Si no, preguntémosles a Brasil. Albur, alcohol, música, playa, baile, carnaval y cinco Copas del Mundo pueden convivir perfectamente.

El problema no es la alegría. El problema es cuando la alegría se convierte en coartada, cuando la esperanza se vuelve anestesia. El problema no es el “¿Y si sí?”.

México no necesita dejar de soñar. Necesita empezar a exigir con la misma fuerza con la que sueña.

Al salir del estadio, en el segundo control, me estaba esperando la chica del acceso con mi INE. La abracé, y por un segundo recuperé un poco de ilusión. Me pareció una imagen perfecta de México: un país donde casi siempre las personas son mejores que las estructuras que nos rodean.

Caminé afuera del Azteca con esa sensación tan mexicana de no saber qué hacer con la tristeza. Porque en México hasta la herida encuentra chiste. Hasta la muerte tiene fiesta.

Y eso es parte de nuestra grandeza.

Pero también me pregunto si esa capacidad de enfrentar nuestras penas con sarcasmo y fiesta no nos ha entrenado para soportar demasiado: para reírnos demasiado pronto de lo que debería dolernos más tiempo, para convertir cada fractura en meme antes de convertirla en exigencia.

México sabe celebrar sus heridas. Y eso es hermoso. Pero cuando una sociedad aprende, inconsciente y colectivamente, a convertir el dolor en fiesta antes de convertirlo en exigencia, también se vuelve peligroso.

Tenemos que dar un paso adelante. Usar ese tejido social mágico que tenemos, pero dándonos un poco más de crédito, sin una confianza polarizada entre la desmedida y la inexistente.

El lunes temprano me desperté con ganas de hacer algo con la decepción. No resolverla, porque una tristeza así no se resuelve en una mañana, ni tampoco está en nuestro control. Pero sí impedir que se me convirtiera en cinismo.

La noche anterior, después de regresar y de que mi amigo Daniel se fuera al aeropuerto para tomar su vuelo nocturno a Vancouver, terminé por accidente en el reconocido restaurante Cantón Mexicali. Después de una comida deliciosa, mi galleta de la fortuna decía: “Tu perseverancia te hará invencible”.

Asi que decidí escribirle a mi gran amigo Aldo Farías y, para mi grata sorpresa, en su caótico día de trabajo, se dio un momento para intercambiar puntos de vista y posibles soluciones.

Tal vez ahí empieza todo: no en tener una respuesta definitiva e inmediata, sino en negarse a que la herida termine, otra vez, convertida en resignación. Y claro, un mezcalito nos ayudó a inspirarnos en nuestra causa.

Después de esa conversación me quedó más claro que nunca: ese mismo tejido social que le regala tequila al rival, que canta con el extranjero y que te cuida una INE sin que nadie se lo pida, también puede convertirse en una fuerza colectiva enorme cuando decidimos construir en conjunto.

Porque muchos seguimos creyendo que México tiene casi todo para ser mucho más de lo que ha sido: población, pasión, historia, estadios, ciudades, dinero, niños jugando en todas partes, una cultura futbolera inmensa y una liga poderosa, aunque mal diseñada. No solo para jugar unos cuartos de final, sino para construir un fútbol que algún día pueda mirar de frente a cualquiera y no solo creerlo, pero demostrar que estamos listos para competir por la Copa del Mundo. Nos faltan cosas difíciles, sí. Pero no imposibles.

No quiero que México deje de ser México. No quiero un país frío, calculador, silencioso, soberbio o incapaz de reírse de sí mismo. O que perdamos la fiesta, el albur, los sombreros, el tequila, ni esa capacidad absurda y maravillosa de abrazar al extranjero como si fuera nuestro primo.

Eso es nuestro y hay que cuidarlo. Pero tampoco quiero que esa magia nos sirva para no exigirnos más, ni que ser la mejor afición del Mundial sea nuestra manera de evitar preguntarnos por qué no tenemos uno de los mejores equipos del mundo.

En una entrevista reciente, Juan Villoro comentó que “el futbol mexicano está diseñado para no tener éxito deportivo.” En la próxima entrega, entramos de lleno a esa cancha: qué tan diseñado está realmente nuestro fútbol para fracasar, y qué se necesitaría, de verdad, para cambiarlo.

Pero antes de hablar del sistema, quizá vale la pena aceptar algo más incómodo: el sistema tiene que cambiar, sí. Pero nosotros también.

México no necesita soñar menos, solo necesitamos despertar.

Reading Time: 11 Minutes. This pieces was originially written in Spanish.

(I have only just finished processing what I lived through on Sunday at the Azteca. Here is the first of two parts: how I experienced the match, and what it made me feel. Next time, the football analysis of why we keep falling short.)

Only one in roughly every 2,000 Mexicans got to be at Sunday’s historic match at the Azteca. And maybe that is why, from the moment I walked in, I felt a responsibility that went far beyond simply being present.

Twelve days earlier, when the final whistle blew in Mexico vs. Czechia, I didn’t hesitate: I bought my flights to Mexico City for the potential match between Mexico and England. Of course, for that to happen, England still had to finish first in its group, Mexico had to win its first knockout match in 40 years against a powerful Ecuador side, and the day before I traveled, when everything seemed set, England almost suffered the same fate as Germany at the hands of a fearless Democratic Republic of Congo. Until Harry Kane solved it with two moments of genius, in the 76th and 86th minutes, to turn the match around.

I bought the flights, but I had no intention of paying more than 80,000 pesos to get in — roughly $4,500 USD. Even if I had had the means, I would not have done it out of principle. I planned to watch it with our people, the ones who probably deserved to be inside the stadium more than anyone, on one of the thousands of screens set up along Paseo de la Reforma. Still, I never lost the hope that, somehow, I might end up inside the Azteca.

The day before the match I went to watch France-Paraguay at the Fan Fest in the Zócalo, a World Cup postcard built on top of the political and symbolic heart of the country. While I was there, absorbing the World Cup atmosphere, my cousin called me: she had found me a ticket for the match! It turned out that the brother of the best friend of my cousin — Canadian, with a Mexican mother — had two tickets and was looking for someone to go with him.

That improbable someone was me.

Coincidentally, my uncle Fritz Thompson — with whom I lived my first World Cup in South Africa in 2010, and who is a renowned speaker, author, quadriplegic, and triathlete — has a famous line that could not have fit this moment any better:

If you do your part, the stars align, the sky opens, and the unthinkable happens.

But maybe that was also why — because in some way, I had earned my place in the last minute — I could not stop thinking about everyone who would have wanted to be. Because out of a country of more than 130 million people, only about 70,000 Mexicans made it into the Azteca. Being there was not only an honor and a privilege. It was also a responsibility: to carry, even if only for 90+ minutes, a small part of the hope of everyone who had been left outside.

We arrived near the stadium around 2:15 p.m. and took shelter in a sushi restaurant to watch Brazil-Norway while a torrential storm came down, with thunder that sounded as if it were announcing the end of the world, and a dry law that gave us no way to calm the nerves. Once the thunder stopped, we bought a poncho and headed toward the stadium. We had not even walked one block before a group of street vendors appeared in front of us. I bought the two biggest, most colorful, most impractical charro sombreros I could find. In retrospect, they seemed to reflect our Mexico better than anything else.

And so, with my new Canadian-World Cup friend, the accidental companion of an afternoon that already felt historic before it had even begun, through a curtain of rain and a whole lot of nerves, we saw the Colossus of Santa Úrsula in the distance. For me, for the second time. For him, for the first.

The English, in their white shirts, felt strangely at home. I don’t know if it was because of the grey atmosphere the clouds had brought with them, or because of the kindness of the people, who hyped them up, served them tequila in the street, and sang them songs with very special dedications.

At one of the three checkpoints before entering, they tried to take our sombreros away. I begged them to at least let us take a photo with them. The second checkpoint was more difficult. After a few minutes, I negotiated with one of the access staff: I left her my INE, my Mexican ID, with the promise that I would come back. Finally, we were able to walk a few more meters, capture our photo, and live, for a few seconds, that Mexican World Cup fantasy so many of us have heard about from those who witnessed 1970 and 1986.

Then I went back to hand them over, the girl with my ID was no longer there. So I was left with no choice but to try and go in with the sombreros, but at the third checkpoint the police were waiting, and no matter how much I crushed them under my armpit, there was no way through.

Apparently, one of the most iconic objects in Mexican football — the same one that follows us to every World Cup, the same one that crowned Pelé and Maradona in their world championships — is only allowed inside if your name is Caramelo. The rest of us mortals had to settle for the fake paper ones they were handing out outside.

So I entered the Azteca with no sombrero and no ID.

But with my hope intact. I was not going to let anything ruin the party. Or, well, almost anything.

The walk toward the stands, climbing up those enormous ramps, felt like entering the insides of a colossal monster, with huge concrete columns instead of teeth. When we finally reached the seats, I felt something similar to what I feel when I look out at the ocean horizon or up at the stars at night — only instead of feeling small before the eternity of the world, here I felt invincible before the wonder of human possibility and the force of the collective.

The stadium is so vertical that it gives you vertigo to walk through the almost non-existent aisles between the rows of seats. Everything seems to be above you, and falling toward the pitch.

And down there, on that green rectangle, another opportunity to break 40 years of history was about to be played. A history that, whether we love football, hate it, or feel indifferent toward it, runs through more than 130 million Mexicans.

On Sunday morning, before leaving for the Azteca, I had written:

“If you asked me whether I would rather have won one World Cup, or five, or forever be the fanbase that enjoys football the most, dreams the most, and finds the most hope in it — I would choose the second one 100% of the time.”

That was not just some thought I invented. The English, Colombians, Japanese, Koreans, Moroccans, Spaniards, and representatives from almost every country lucky enough to play in Mexico left in love with our country and our people.

My feeling did not change after the match. But it did become more complicated. Because one thing is to feel proud of what Mexico creates during a World Cup. Another, very different thing, is to use that beauty as an eternal consolation prize.

The match was a true roller coaster of emotions. After the 0-1, a physical impulse forced me to stand up and walk toward the section of English fans. Not to fight. Not to insult them. But because that is the only thing you can do from the stands when the rival’s roar profanes the silence in front of the altar of your cathedral: sing, shout, push and try to silence them.

At one point, I started a “fuera, fuera” chant against one poor Englishman who was standing too close to the Mexican section. Don’t feel too bad for him; they didn’t actually kick him out and he surely was happy by the end. Then I went back to my seat and celebrated Quiñones’s goal with everything I had. I screamed as if the stadium had collapsed. As if 40 years of waiting had turned to dust.

What I didn’t know — and only later understood because of the strange Mexican silence and the intense English celebrations four minutes earlier — was that we had not equalized.

It was 1-2.

Still, we went into halftime with our heads held high. Only Jordan Pickford stood between our faith and history. Then, in the 56th minute, Quansah was sent off, and we believed again. We flew again. All we had to do was land. But that feeling lasted less than five minutes, when Tala Rangel slammed Anthony Gordon into the ground inside the box, and with that same fall, the morale of an entire country came crashing down.

Then came the penalty for 3-2. Raúl Jiménez, infallible from eleven meters and a record-setter in the Premier League, broke a narrative that seems to inevitably chase us: he shot as always, and missed as never.

There are moments when football stops being tactical, technical, strategic, rational. Moments when everything is reduced to a collective conviction that appears in no statistic, but that everyone who has truly lived football inside a stadium knows.

On the pitch, I think the team gave everything it had. We can discuss Aguirre’s substitutions and tactics — and I will in the next piece — but in that moment, I felt that it no longer depended only on them.

In that moment, it was up to the one-in-every-2,000 of us to make the stands play too: to carry the voice of the millions left outside and pass on to the players that energy that changes matches. It was up to us, like Raúl, to do our part to break the history of “we played like never before, we lost like always.”

The impulses took over me again. I took off my shirt and started running up and down the stairs, through the entire aisle, climbing onto the railing, asking the most animated fans to help spark something. I lit up a few. Others flipped me off and said all kinds of things which I prefer not to remember. Most seemed to be watching the memory of a new defeat before it had finished happening.

The fuse never caught. The nerves and tension were too much. And that is when a tremendous disappointment and helplessness hit me. And sadly, I gave up too.

We had more than 30 minutes with an extra man to equalize, but with very little clarity, the final corner arrived.

Minute 102.

The south end did not have a single empty seat. It was completely full. And although in the video you can hear a lot of noise, the feeling inside was different.

What was missing was the real Mexican people.

Because FIFA decided that this World Cup was for those who could pay for it, not for those who could feel it the most. Outside stayed many of those who would have entered with throat, faith, and a real sombrero. Inside there was too much paper: some of it on people’s heads, some of it in people’s wallets.

If, as a Mexican, you are willing to pay 100,000 pesos to enter the match, but you are not willing to support with the conviction that your energy also matters, then you did not buy a ticket to a football match. You paid for a little piece of your own country’s despair.

I know that for many people it was one of the best matches in recent World Cup history. I understand that, for the English, it was an unforgettable night. I understand that there were Mexicans hugging them, celebrating with them, extending the party even after the elimination.

I couldn’t.

When the referee blew the final whistle, I could not tolerate being inside the stadium for even one more second.

It is not that the English players — or even the Mexican players — did not deserve applause. Nor do I think our optimism is bad. It is not that joy and celebration are incompatible with success. If not, ask Brazil. Wordplay, alcohol, music, beach, dance, carnival, and five World Cups can coexist perfectly.

The problem is not joy.

The problem is when joy becomes an alibi, when hope becomes anesthesia.

The problem is not the “what if?”

Mexico does not need to stop dreaming.

It needs to start demanding with the same force with which it dreams.

As I left the stadium, at the second checkpoint, the girl from the 2nd access was waiting for me with my ID. I hugged her, and for a second I recovered a little bit of hope. It felt like a perfect image of Mexico: a country where people are almost always better than the structures that surround us.

I walked outside the Azteca with that very Mexican feeling of not knowing what to do with the sadness. Because in Mexico even death gets a party.

And that is part of our greatness.

But I also wonder whether that ability to face our pain with sarcasm and celebration has not trained us to endure too much: to laugh too soon at what should hurt us for longer, to turn every fracture into a meme before turning it into a demand.

Mexico knows how to celebrate its wounds.

And that is beautiful.

But when a society learns, unconsciously and collectively, to turn pain into celebration before turning it into demand, it also becomes dangerous.

I also believe we have to take a step forward. To use that magical social fabric we have, but to give ourselves a little more credit, without living in a confidence paradox: either excessive or non-existent.

Early Monday morning, I woke up wanting to do something with the disappointment. Not to solve it, because a sadness like that cannot be solved in a morning, and not everything is in our control. But to prevent it from turning into cynicism.

The night before I had stumbled into renowned restaurant Canton Mexicali after we got back and my friend Daniel headed back to the airport for his red-eye flight to Vancouver. My fortune cookie after my delicious meal read “Your perseverence will make you invincible”.

So I wrote to my great friend Aldo Farías and, to my pleasant surprise, in the middle of his chaotic workday, he found a moment to exchange points of view and possible solutions. Maybe that is where everything begins: not in having a definitive answer, but in refusing to let the wound end, once again, in resignation.

And of course, a little mezcal helped inspire our cause.

After that conversation, one thing became clearer to me than ever: that same social fabric that offers tequila to the rival, that sings with the foreigner, and that guards your Mexican ID without anyone asking, can also become an enormous collective force when we decide to build together.

Because many of us still believe that Mexico has almost everything it needs to become much more than it has been: population, passion, history, stadiums, cities, money, children playing everywhere, an immense football culture, and a powerful league, even if it is badly designed. Not just to reach a World Cup quarterfinal, but to build a football that one day can look anyone in the eye and not only believe, but prove, that we are ready to compete for the World Cup.

We are missing difficult things, yes. But not impossible ones.

I do not want Mexico to stop being Mexico. I do not want a country that is cold, calculating, silent, arrogant, or incapable of laughing at itself. I do not want us to lose the party, the wordplay, the sombreros, the tequila, or that absurd and wonderful ability to embrace the foreigner as if he were our cousin.

That is ours, and we have to protect it.

But I also do not want that magic to become an excuse not to demand more of ourselves, or that being the best fanbase in the world to become our way of avoiding the question of why we do not have one of the best teams in the world.

In a recent interview, Juan Villoro said that “Mexican football is designed not to succeed athletically.” In the next piece, we step fully onto that pitch: how much Mexican football is really designed to fail, and what it would actually take to change it.

But before we talk about the system, maybe it is worth accepting something more uncomfortable: the system has to change, yes. But so do we. Because Mexico does not need to dream less. We just need to wake up.

3 min. English Below.

En el primer partido de la Copa del Mundo en Monterrey, entre Suecia y Túnez, lo que mas me impresiono no fue el amarillo sueco. Mientras los tres mil suecos se preparaban para su marcha, cientos de tunecinos tocaban sus tambores, los acompañaban muchos miles de mexicanos más.

Lo que más me impresionó fue la cantidad de camisetas verdes! Mexicanos que no necesitaban una razón demasiado lógica para sumarse a la fiesta.

Porque eso también somos. Un país que adopta partidos ajenos como si fueran propios. Que convierte cualquier bandera en pretexto para cantar. Que no sabe mirar el deporte desde lejos. Que, incluso cuando no juega, encuentra la manera de sentirse parte.

Entre ellos, Ricardo y Érica Soltero, un padre e hija de aproximadamente 50 y 25 años que viajaron desde Ciudad Juárez, a quienes mi amigo Tomás López Menchero corresponsal del NYT, entrevistó.

Érica dijo algo tan cierto y tan obvio que quizás es muy difícil para los mexicanos ver:

“Tal vez no hemos ganado un mundial, pero creo que con el ambiente mexicano ya ganamos. La afición mexicana sería la mejor.”

Sus palabras me dieron en el corazón. Además de ver el lazo tan bonito que une a este papá e hija —un lazo que espero yo también poder generar con mi hija Mikaela— me hicieron pensar: si hubiera un premio a los campeones del mundo de los que más disfrutan el deporte, los que más se inspiran y se atreven a soñar, los que encuentran más esperanza en él, en eso sí que seríamos campeones del mundo.

Y no es solo en el fútbol. Lo vivimos con Checo Pérez en Red Bull. Y lo estamos viviendo ahorita mismo con Isaac “El Torito” del Toro: hoy, mientras escribo esto, ganó la etapa 2 del Tour de Francia —la primera victoria mexicana en la Ronda Gala en 36 años— después de que el mismísimo Tadej Pogačar, el mejor ciclista del mundo en este momento, decidiera regalarle el cruce de meta a su compañero. Ese gesto, y la cara de Isaac al cruzar la línea, es justo de lo que hablo. No necesitamos ganarlo todo para sentir que ya ganamos algo.

Así somos.

Nos ilusionamos rápido. Sí. Nos rompemos el corazón seguido. También. Pero volvemos. Volvemos al estadio. Volvemos a prender la tele. Volvemos a cantar el himno. Volvemos a decir “ahora sí”. Volvemos a creer, incluso cuando creer parece una trampa.

México puede hacer historia o puede volver a quedarse a la orilla. Puede romper 40 años de espera o puede dejarnos otra cicatriz mundialista. Puede ser una de esas noches que se cuentan para siempre, o una de esas que tardamos años en digerir.

Pero pase lo que pase, qué orgullo es ser mexicano!

Y sí, si me preguntaran si preferiría haber ganado una Copa del Mundo, o cinco, o ser para siempre la afición que más disfruta, que más sueña y que más esperanza encuentra en el fútbol — 100% escogería la segunda.

Por cierto con lagrimas en los ojos les cuento: VOY A IR AL MUNDIAL!!! VOY A IR AL PARTIDO HISTÓRICO. Lo único que les puedo decir es que me llegaron unos ángeles desde Nueva York y Vancouver! Mas sobre mi experiencia en la proxima, por ahora, vamonos al Azteca!

At the first World Cup match in Monterrey, between Sweden and Tunisia, what struck me most wasn’t the Swedish yellow.

While the three thousand Swedes prepared for their march, hundreds of Tunisians beat their drums — and thousands upon thousands of Mexicans joined them.

What struck me most was the sea of green shirts.

Mexicans who didn’t need any especially logical reason to join the party.

Because that is also who we are.

A country that adopts other people’s matches as if they were our own. That turns any flag into an excuse to sing. That doesn’t know how to watch sport from a distance. That, even when it isn’t playing, finds a way to feel part of it.

Among them were Ricardo and Érica Soltero, a father and daughter of roughly 50 and 25, who had traveled from Ciudad Juárez and were interviewed by my friend Tomás López Menchero, correspondent for The New York Times.

Érica said something so true, and so obvious, that maybe it is very difficult for Mexicans themselves to see:

“Maybe we haven’t won a World Cup, but I think that with the Mexican atmosphere, we’ve already won. The Mexican fans would be the best.”

Her words hit me right in the heart.

Partly because of the beautiful bond between this father and daughter — a bond I hope one day to build with my daughter Mikaela — but also because it made me think: if there were a World Cup for the people who enjoy sport the most, who are most inspired by it, who dare to dream the most through it, who find the most hope in it, then in that, yes, we would be world champions.

And it isn’t only football.

We lived it with Checo Pérez at Red Bull. And we are living it right now with Isaac “El Torito” del Toro: today, as I write this, he won Stage 2 of the Tour de France — the first Mexican victory at the Grande Boucle in 36 years — after Tadej Pogačar himself, the best cyclist in the world right now, decided to gift the finish line to his teammate.

That gesture, and Isaac’s face as he crossed the line, is exactly what I mean.

We don’t need to win everything to feel like we have already won something.

That is who we are.

We get excited quickly. Yes.

We get our hearts broken often. Also yes.

But we come back.

We go back to the stadium. We turn the television back on. We sing the anthem again. We say “this time, yes” again. We believe again, even when belief feels like a trap.

Mexico can make history, or it can once again stop just short of it. It can break 40 years of waiting, or leave us with another World Cup scar. It can be one of those nights people talk about forever, or one of those nights it takes us years to digest.

But whatever happens, what a privilege it is to be Mexican.

And yes, if you asked me whether I would rather have won one World Cup, or five, or forever be the fanbase that enjoys football the most, dreams the most, and finds the most hope in it — I would choose the second one 100% of the time.

By the way, with tears in my eyes, I have to tell you:

I’M GOING TO THE WORLD CUP!!!

I’M GOING TO THE HISTORIC MATCH.

All I can say is that a couple of angels arrived from New York and Vancouver.

More on that experience in the next one.

For now, let’s go to the Azteca.

But 3,000 kilometers away from Estadio Azteca, Julián’s story reveals something much deeper about football, geography, and the invisible ecosystems that shape human potential.

It is true that ninety-nine players at this World Cup were born in France, 53 in Paris alone — more than Germany, Spain, England, Argentina or Brazil. It’s a remarkable, well-earned story. It’s just not the only story. Or even the most extreme one. Because once you stop counting players in absolute terms and start asking what a place produces relative to its size, Greater Paris falls to 14th in my Football Cosmos research — the book project in the making that sent me looking for football’s most fertile hidden regions.

Julián could have very well been scouted from a non-fictional Macondo. Instead, his story began in Magüí Payán, an almost forgotten jungle town in Colombia’s Pacific lowlands where the roots run deep and the people, over 98 percent, according to some studies, identify as Afro-Colombian. Instead of Buendía, every other person’s last name is Quiñones. A real-life Macondo of 25,000 without mestizaje, where rivers serve as the official roads, and Google Maps doesn’t even bother offering directions.

That’s where Julián Quiñones grew up—barefoot, dodging tree roots, chasing a weathered ball with so much joy he’d forget to eat. Not because he didn’t have food, but because in the moment nothing else mattered.

Julián was 17 when he boarded a plane for the first time. Destination: Monterrey, Mexico.

Twenty-three years before Julián found his way to Monterrey, I was born there.

Julián and I briefly crossed paths in 2016. I was just starting out in the world of football data; he was warming the bench in Tigres’ first team behind a squad loaded with offensive stars — the calm before his own data exploded.

And that is where this story, strangely, begins for me too.

Monterrey is the most passionate football city in Mexico. On paper, it has all the ingredients to become a football talent factory: two of Mexico’s richest and most successful clubs, Tigres and CF Monterrey; two massive fanbases; world-class facilities; one of the most intense rivalries in the Americas; and enough money, pressure, obsession, and infrastructure to make football feel less like a sport than a civic religion.

It is the kind of place that feels like it should produce stars naturally, almost inevitably. Like Lisbon, with Benfica and Sporting. Rosario, with Central and Newell’s. Bilbao and San Sebastián, with Athletic Club and Real Sociedad. Places where rivalry, belonging, repetition, and aspiration seem to act like invisible academies.

And yet, when Tigres went searching for their next great attacking talent, they did not find him in San Nicolás, Guadalupe, San Pedro, or Monterrey’s endless sprawl of private schools, gated neighborhoods, industrial parks, and synthetic pitches.

Julián Quiñones didn’t take long to adapt to the arid mountainous land. His raw speed, his untamed hunger, his feral obsession with hunting the ball set him apart. He had earned an invitation to try out for the U20s of Tigres, one of the best clubs in the Mexican league.

It took Julián less than six months to claw his mark. In his debut season, the Torneo Apertura 2015, he shattered the Liga MX U-20 scoring record: fifteen goals in seventeen matches.

One day during a session with the club psychologist in that first season, he was asked what fueled La Pantera Negra, the nickname he had earned immediately. Julián reached into his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper: a photo of his family. His mother, three sisters, and newborn daughter.

Talent brought him to Mexico. But what kept him going was purpose.

Tigres had found a diamond. Not one from their own backyard, but that didn’t matter. They saw the edge, the rawness, the brilliance waiting to be shaped — and they took it upon themselves to polish the final cuts.

Two years later, his story became part of my job. Tigres’ academy was struggling to produce homegrown players, and the club wanted to understand where the next Juliáns might come from. So I began, as I often do, with the data.

The birthplace was the anchor. I mapped players across Latin America, tested filters by age, level, and market value, and translated the results into something relative: players per 100,000 inhabitants. A crude metric, but a revealing one. It allowed small places to compete with giant cities on fairer terms.

That was when I first came across Esmeraldas.

By coincidence, or maybe not, it lies just 200 kilometers northeast from Magüí Payán. Similar flag—except an additional crest, similar afro-descendant roots—except mestizos abound, similar isolation—except 1967 the rivers were substituted by a proper highway that connects them to civilization. The contrast, though, is impossible to miss: Esmeraldas stretches out into 250 kilometers of open Pacific coastline. If we let our minds drift, this could be like the promised land the Buendías spent generations searching for. So close, yet always out of reach. Except here, it quietly exists.

Ten of Ecuador’s 26 players at the 2026 World Cup were born there — Piero Hincapié (Arsenal), Pervis Estupiñán (A.C. Milan), Willian Pacho (PSG) among them — from a province holding barely 3.3% of the country’s population. That’s not a talent pipeline. That’s a flood, running at somewhere around twelve times the rate you’d expect.

Esmeraldas molds rare, black-tinted diamonds—rough, resilient, and polished to thrive elsewhere. They’re forged barefoot on sand pitches, under suffocating humidity and unrelenting sun. And still, somehow, they keep daring to dream, again and again, as if they were part of a meticulously resource-rich system crafted by Red Bull or City Group.

I had the fortune to meet and work with one of them personally. Enner Valencia, Ecuador’s legendary captain and I shared a locker room at Tigres in the 2017-2018 season, the one where he kicked a Panenka penalty at the most important match in Monterrey’s history; Monterrey fans and even some Tigres still haven’t forgiven him.

Despite his career, his fearlessness, and the almost mythological place he occupies in Ecuadorian football, Enner remains one of the most humble, down-to-earth footballers I have ever met.

When I first discovered the data on Esmeraldas, I showed it to him with genuine excitement, hoping for some elaborate first-hand insight. He was not surprised.

He just shrugged and said “We play on the beach. There aren’t many other opportunities for play or life. When we grow up, we look out for each other, and those of us who made it out give back a hand as often as we can.”

Follow that same coastline north, back across the border into Colombia past Julian’s province of Nariño, past Valle del Cauca and Cauca and the story persists.

Chocó holds barely 595,000 people — about 1.1% of Colombia’s population — and is, by most measures, the poorest department in the country. It’s also 83% Afro-Colombian, the highest share of them all. Four of Colombia’s 26 players at this World Cup were born there: Jhon Arias, Jhon Córdoba, Carlos Andrés Gómez, and Deiver Machado. Fifteen percent of a World Cup squad, from one percent of a country’s population — roughly the same multiplier Esmeraldas produces, five hundred kilometers south, across a border that means nothing to a rainforest, or apparently, to a football.

A place with no major club, no powerful academy system, and none of the infrastructure usually associated with football factories. And yet, Esmeraldas ranks as the eighth most productive football hotbed in the world, and second in South America.

It was true back in 2016 and maybe even truer today.

While part of my drive to find these regions comes from the treasure-hunter’s rush of discovering the next Paris — places where the soil is quietly becoming more fertile than the harvest yet shows — the deeper pull is understanding what shaped them, so that other places, like Monterrey, might learn how to tend their own soil.

So what shapes these football diamonds?

There is an obvious surface pattern in the rise of powerful Afro-descendant footballers across the modern game. But that explanation is far too thin. It sees the body and misses the world that shaped it. It reduces a living ecology to a scouting shortcut. Besides, most of the regions in the top 10 of my research are not heavily influenced by Afro-descendant ancestry.

Chocó and Esmeraldas are sister regions on the same Afro-Pacific coast, but not identical ones. Esmeraldas’ story is closer to cimarronaje: enslaved Africans, escaping after a sixteenth-century shipwreck, built autonomous Afro-Indigenous communities in a land whose rainforest, swamps, and river-only access made it nearly impossible for Spanish forces to follow them in — and nearly as hard for the communities themselves to survive once they had. A maroon coast, in the truest sense.

Chocó’s story ties more to gold: enslaved Africans brought into the Atrato and San Juan river worlds to mine it, staying on afterward as free miners, farmers, and river communities. Esmeraldas begins as refuge. Chocó begins as extraction. Both became homelands.

But the football producing corridor actually connects Chocó and Esmeraldas North to south in a similar Afro-Pacific belt. Many are river worlds like Magüí Payán behind the coast, separated from the Andean interior by rainforest, mountains, mud, and water. That is the real divide: not simply west and east, but Pacific lowland and Andean inland. The coast and its rivers became Afro-descendant because colonial extraction pushed enslaved Africans into gold, ports, mangroves, and alluvial mines; and because those same difficult geographies later allowed free Black communities to endure, scatter, and root themselves beyond the easy reach of the state. Regions that have spent generations at arm’s length from the Andean capitals that run their countries. That distance meant chronic neglect — extreme poverty, enclave economies, close to zero industrialization. But it also meant something rarer: a culture left alone long enough to stay fully intact.

The story of this land is not much different to that of Jamaican sprinters. In The Sports Gene, David Epstein explores the sprinting belt around Trelawny and Cockpit Country, where self-liberated Africans built Maroon communities that resisted British control for generations, and where towns near that landscape later produced athletes like Usain Bolt (8x gold medalist 2008-2016) and Veronica Campbell Brown (3x gold medalist 2004-2008). The lesson is not that talent reduces to blood — Epstein is careful about that, and so am I. The lesson is ecological: hotbeds grow where geography, trauma, resistance, isolation, culture, and opportunity tangle together over generations. Not breeding. Pressure.

That’s the lens Chocó, Esmeraldas and the corridor in between deserve. Not poor, marginal regions that happen to produce footballers — Afro-Pacific societies forged in some of the hardest conditions in the Americas, where the margins of empire became centers of identity and physical culture. Football didn’t create that. It just gave the world a way to finally see it.

With fewer institutional ladders on offer, football becomes one of the only visible ways to change a family’s fortunes. And the talent it produces doesn’t come from academies. It comes from the street, the beach, the informal pitch — competition that never stops just because no coach is watching.

It is, in a way, Paris without the pavement: the same logic of s’en sortir par le football — to make it out, to get ahead through football — but carried by rainforest rivers, coastal isolation, and a talent economy that has to be discovered before it can be developed.

But unlike Paris, and almost every other highly productive region worldwide where club density is one of the best predictors: neither Esmeraldas or Chocó has a single historically reliable professional club. Here it runs backwards. Scouts from Cali, Medellín, Bogotá, Quito, Guayaquil come early to spot the best talents.

And once a place starts producing, the cycle feeds itself — though Ecuador’s own history shows the story of Esmeraldas is only about 20 years old. The federation’s breakthrough Montenegrin coach, Dušan Drašković, arrived in 1988 already convinced the answer was Afro-Ecuadorian talent; for that generation, it was the Chota Valley, in the Andean highlands, that answered first — seven of the 22 players on Ecuador’s history-making Japan-Korea 2002 squad came from Imbabura alone, more than any other province. Esmeraldas didn’t take over as the country’s leading source until Germany 2006. Once it did, it never gave it back. No fewer than eight players in every Ecuadorian World Cup squad since: 2006, 2014, 2022, 2026.

Enner is part of that cycle now, not just a product of it — running a foundation, backing young players, doing the job the institutions never showed up to do. Once a place produces a hero, the hero becomes infrastructure. He becomes proof. Then a route. Then others start walking it. Enner is only one name in a much longer lineage: Iván Hurtado, the second-most capped player in CONMEBOL history behind only Lionel Messi, and Antonio Valencia, the former Manchester United and Ecuador captain.

Strip away the heat and the poverty, and the pattern holds somewhere else entirely: the Arctic littoral of northern Norway, surprisingly the third most productive in the whole world. Cold and wealthy where these coasts are hot and poor, but matched on the strongest factors — isolation, low density, an identity strong enough to survive being peripheral to its own country (more on this to come).

Ecuador is out of this World Cup, eliminated by a country that gave birth to a boy from 200 kilometers up their own coastline in a very similar ecosystem to their Esmeraldan football diamonds region. Mexico and Colombia play on. And yet broadcasters across the world might not mention this region once in the next three weeks, no matter how much it has shaped the fate of three nations.

Julián Quiñones is not from Chocó or Esmeraldas by department. But he is from the same pacific ecological pocket: a place where rivers are roads, isolation is inheritance, and the old stories of extraction, refuge, and migration keep producing new routes out.

That is why his goal against Ecuador was not only a Mexican moment. It was an Afro-Pacific one. A coastline speaking through three countries at once.

Numerodos is back!

After a long break, I’m back inside the Mexican World Cup fever now that the real tournament has finally gotten started.

Today’s newsletter is also a bit of a restart/update. I will cover:

• My impressions of the World Cup so far, and why I’m still thinking about my 64-team Sudden Death proposal. (5 min)

• A small Mexican airfare tip that could help you travel far. (<1 min)

• My 6-month alcohol-free experiment: what I gained, what surprised me, and what I still don’t know. (2 min)

• And what’s coming next for Numerodos. (<1 min)

Let’s go!

The 64-Team World Cup Makes More Sense Than Ever

My last real piece, back in January, was about how disappointing the World Cup draw had been for Monterrey. It was also a critique of the new 48-team format and a proposal for something that sounded paradoxical at first: a better World Cup with 64 teams.

The problem was never the number of teams. It was that 72 matches had to be played before the first direct elimination match earlier today between Canada and South Africa in Los Angeles. Roughly 70% of the matches were used to eliminate just 33% (16 teams) of the field. For reference, the 32-team format, first introduced at France 1998 and last used at Qatar 2022, had 64 matches in total.

That is why I still think expanding to 64 teams could be the most consequential decision FIFA could make. The democratization and expansion of the World Cup is one of the best things that can happen, not only to football, but to the world. The question is how to do it without lowering the quality or making qualification feel too easy.

My answer was simple: make every match matter.

My 64-team proposal solves this with one rule: every match is elimination. 100% of games carry stakes. Losers don’t go home — they enter the Silver Cup, guaranteeing at least two matches and keeping a return path for the Silver Cup champions back into the quarter-finals. In practical terms, only 33 teams would fully qualify for the main World Cup every four years.

To be fair, the football itself has been much better than many feared. The tournament is on pace to become the highest-scoring World Cup since 1958. There have been underdog stories — Cape Verde above all — big-team failures from Turkey and Uruguay, and the cast of legends carrying the stage: Messi, Mbappé, Haaland, James… And then there are the names nobody knew before this month: Vizinha, Marcus Holmgren Pedersen, Tim Payne…

And yet, I still keep thinking about what this World Cup might have felt like under a sudden death format.

Imagine tournament favourite Spain’s (Fifa ranking: 2nd) opening match against newcomers Cape Verde (73) going to extra time. Everything could have changed, the drama would have been unreal. Spain could have been forced into a comeback route through the Silver Cup. The same could have been true for Portugal (5th) vs underdogs DR Congo (46th), Uruguay (16th) vs Saudi Arabia (60th), Switzerland (19th) vs Qatar (56th), or host nation Canada (30th) vs Bosnia-Herzegovina (64th); all of them facing extra time and/or PKs in match one instead of playing out safe group-stage draws.

Thankfully, the Round of 32 has now arrived, and with it the feeling that the World Cup has finally entered its proper state of danger. No country will be resting its stars now, as Norway and Argentina did in the group stage, even with Haaland and Messi in the middle of the arguably fiercest Ballon d’Or battle in history. Imagine paying upwards of $1,000 for a ticket in Boston, travelling all the way there to see one of the best matchups of the group stage, only to watch Norway’s B team. Good thing my sister sold those tickets she got in the raffle!

For Monterrey, too, there is some consolation. After the disappointment of the original draw, the city now gets arguably the strongest Round of 32 match of all: Netherlands (8th) vs Morocco (7th).

And next Thursday, if everything goes to plan, I’ll be travelling to Mexico City for Mexico vs England in the Round of 16 — knocking on wood, of course. It would be the goodbye of the Azteca, and of Mexico in their record-breaking third World Cup. It could also be the night Mexico reaches the quarter-finals for only the second time in its history, forty years after Mexico 86, when they lost to West Germany on penalties.

Should clarify: I do not actually have a ticket yet. But I’m keeping my hopes high that the universe will conspire in my favor. And if it doesn’t, just being in Mexico City for the atmosphere around that match will probably be worth the trip.

Regardless, I hope that four decades later, some of Maradona’s spirit is still floating around the Azteca, waiting to be summoned by El Tri.

Travel Tip: The TUA Trick

If you've never flown within Mexico, here's something that catches most people off guard: airport service charges (known as TUA) are always billed separately from the fare itself. This doesn't really exist as a standalone charge in the US or EU, where it's folded into the ticket price. In Mexico, you pay it on its own, and you can do it before check-in.

So, in the heat of the aftermath of Mexico’s match against Czechia, I decided I couldn’t miss the possible Round of 16 match in Mexico City. Of course, we still need to beat Ecuador first. Knocking on wood.

But I went ahead and bought the flight anyway.

Because the one-way fare itself was only around 200 pesos (roughly 10-12 euros/dollars) I was able to secure a very low price without committing to the full cost of the trip. If tragedy strikes and Mexico is eliminated, that is the only amount I would lose.

Luggage I could add last minute if needed. No point in paying for it upfront.

For reference, the TUA will probably be around 700 pesos per flight — roughly 35-40 euros/dollars — so the real cost comes later. But as a way to reserve the possibility of being there, it felt like a risk worth taking.

Six Months Without Alcohol: What I Found on the Other Side

This past Friday marked six months without alcohol.

To celebrate, my wife, brother, and sister-in-law took me to La Sala de Despecho — a singing bar in Monterrey that could only have been invented in Mexico. A fitting venue for the season.

I could write a long piece on the experiment at some point, but since I’ll be focusing mostly on football from now on, here’s the short version.

The first few days were hard. The new year, a family vacation, a social calendar designed to test you. Then I found my rhythm and started to feel the benefits. February and March flew by like the 10K and 20K marks in a marathon. But when I reached mid-April, two-thirds of the way, I hit “the wall”.

I was in Sevilla for the Copa del Rey final. Nearly 40 degrees. The whole city invaded by Real Sociedad fans. A 10p.m. kickoff. The heat, the festiveness, the occasion. None of it helped.

From there, it became a tougher race.

For many people, six months without alcohol might not sound like a major achievement. But for me, it mattered. I’ve wanted to complete something physically significant for a few years, an ultra-marathon was the original goal. But in the end, it was not my willpower or consistency that gave in. It was my knees.

This was different, but it was mine. I feel a level of confidence from finishing it that I hadn’t expected, and I’m hoping that carries into the book.

One of my main goals was not necessarily to stop drinking forever, but to drink more consciously and for the right reasons. After these six months, I feel much better equipped to make decisions around alcohol, to remove some of the anxiety around it, and to understand when I actually want a drink — and when I’m just following the momentum of the room.

More Soon…

There is much more I want to cover over the next few days.

I owe you a book update. Also, my ongoing campaign to get published in a football magazine and some of the story ideas I’ve been chasing along the way.

There is also a podcast cooking!

And, of course, the World Cup itself: the atmosphere in Monterrey tomorrow, the strange privilege of watching Mexico host this tournament again, and my upcoming trip to Mexico City.

For now, I’m just happy to be writing Numerodos again.

Thanks for sticking around. I’ve spent a little too long on the bench, but this feels like the perfect chance to play myself back into form.

Related articles…

Share

Hello all!

I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ve just being focusing my time and energy in other platforms aka Instagram and TikTok and its just been impossible to keep up with my newsletter during the past few weeks.

So quick life update!

NO, I didn’t land the job from my earlier plea.
And NO, I didn’t find a couch.

So I decided to take it into my own hands.
And found something even better.

I’m documenting the trip and doing something I never thought I’d dare to do:
To grab my phone. Speak to the camera. And post online.

Because becoming a father taught me something unexpected.

𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗻 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀.

That if I want my son and daughter to live with courage and follow their hearts.

𝗜 𝗼𝘄𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗵𝗼𝘄.

I planned this trip on a €100 per night budget and I’m sleeping right in Cortina’s city center.

Is that even possible?

Follow me on socials and you’ll see how!

📸 𝙄𝙂 𝙉𝙪𝙢.𝘿𝙤𝙨 https://www.instagram.com/num.dos/
🎥 𝙏𝙏 𝙣𝙪𝙢_𝙙𝙤𝙨 https://www.tiktok.com/@num_dos

Lots of love from Cortina d'Ampezzo!

Reading Time - 3 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

Hello Team,

Today a very quick one. But one that could be quite important for me moving forward. Let’s jump right to it.

It all started with a question…

Could Social Media help us land our dream job in a two-week timespan?

⚠️ Warning: This might be a terrible idea, but I’m trying it anyway...

When I was a little boy, I aspired to become a professional footballer. But as those who have been with me since the beginning know, my two left feet delivered a reality check early on (more on that here).

But I have one athletic fantasy that still simmers: Becoming a winter olympic athlete.

Yes, you heard it right. And yes, I’ve probably watched Cool Runnings and Eddie the Eagle a few too many times.

But for now, I have a much more realistic dream:

Attending my first-ever Olympics!

NOT as an athlete or a spectator, but as part of the team that makes them happen. But how?

Applying for a job through social media… But what do I bring to the table?

This is my Swiss Army knife approach. With a Mexican & German passport. In the Italian Alps.

👃 The Story Sniffer: I write for a living. I can sniff out good stories like a truffle pig and casually drop bizarre Winter Olympics or Italian Alps facts.

👂 The Empathetic Ear: Comfortable listening first and asking the right questions next. I could comfortably interview savage Canadian hockey players or fans if needed, even if gold slips south of the border.

✋ The Local Touch: I lived in the Cortina region for 45 days. I know the hidden gems, the shortcuts, and the spirit of the place. I can be a fixer, a local guide, or concierge. I’ll make you feel VIP while I handle the chaos behind the scenes.

👅 The Useful Tongue: Fluent in English and Spanish, and I can make my way in Italian 🤌?

👀 The Sharp-Eyed Drive: Symbolically, coming from the grit & gratitude to just be part of the movement. Literally: I have an international driver’s license and experience driving in snow. Fast? When necessary. Safe? Always.

I’m VERY flexible. Volunteer badge? If it comes with a couch, perfect. Sleep in a tent? I’ll bring my sleeping bag. Graveyard shift? Done.

If there is a messy, human, high-speed and/or tragicomical job to be done around the Winter Olympics, I am your person.

I am seeking for an organization or team—across Media, Olympic Federations, Tourism, Hospitality, Brands, Logistics—that is ready to exploit my Olympic fever into 2+ weeks of endless energy, inspiration and high-pressure problem-solving.

So this is my ask to you my dear reader. You already give me so much simply by gifting me your time to read me on Sunday’s. I am aware that I might be asking for too much. But I’ll do so anyways…

Do you, by cosmic chance, know of someone in any of the mentioned industry that might be needing a hand during the upcoming olympics that might benefit from having someone on-site? Or just anyone in northern Italy that might have a spare couch?

I know this is really last-minute, but if sports teach us anything, it is that the last minute—or even second—is often the only one that matters.

I would immensely appreciate any shares, introductions, ideas or longshot miracle to spare.

I tried Linkedin on Thursday and I already started to get some traction🤞. Substack tis next and Instagram early next week.

If this works, human generosity and one social media platform would deserve a gold medal! 🥇

Grazie mille :)

Reading Time - 10 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

I am taking a break from a long relationship with a potentially toxic high school sweetheart.

Not with my wife of course, but with beer.

After nearly 20 years together, I realized I could no longer answer a simple question honestly:

If alcohol were a person in my life, would I still choose this relationship today—or is it simply one I never stopped to question?

Tough question. Where should I start. Maybe here…

When was the last time I was completely sober during the first hours of a new year?

That would be 2006. I was fourteen, and from that point on alcohol became an important part of my social life. Pretty much every single week for more than 1000 weeks.

Coincidentally or not, I didn’t let this New Year become my 20th anniversary starting the year buzzed.

This was not Dry January, and it was not a New Year goal either. I do not do those anymore.

Why?

Short answer… Cause I was always too ambitious and I kept failing, or rather just changing my priorities as the year advanced.

Long answer…

The shift was reinforced over time by ideas I kept encountering from different directions. Brené Brown helped me see how goals can quietly mutate into shame-driven scorecards, while intentions keep you anchored to values and to how you want to show up. James Clear draws a sharp line between chasing outcomes and shaping identity, arguing that systems, not goals, are what actually change behavior. And Tim Ferriss, in his own experimental way, replaced finish lines with themes, rules, and guiding questions designed to optimize alignment and decision-making rather than declare success.

For 2026, suddenly and unintentionally, I arrived to the following two themes: connection and balance.

Living true to them gave an alcohol-free half year a weight I had not anticipated or planned.

Why do I write about this?

Not to convince anyone to join my boat. No one ever convinced me.

But because alcohol is so deeply woven into our social lives that most of us never pause to objectively question our relationship with it. We just accept it as part of the script.

Why do I drink to start with?

One, to relax myself. Mentally, after a long day of work for example. Physically, after becoming tense from social strain. And socially, to beat my insecurities and avoid becoming more mentally and physicaly tense in social situations

Two, as a reward for something that gives me pleasure both in taste and effect.

You might be thinking the same question I’ve asked myself before… Am I an alcoholic?

First, we need to question a misconception so familiar we barely notice it anymore. The term “alcoholism” and “alcoholic” can mean different things in different contexts, but what most people actually refer to when using these terms is what accurately would be called Alcohol Dependance.

In that case, NO, I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve never utilized alcohol compulsively leading to significant behavioral, physiological, and psychosocial problems as the American Psychiatric Association defines it. Or at least I’ve spoken with my therapist many times about my alcohol use and he has never even started to suggest it.

But alcohol dependence is not the only alcohol related disorder.

In the 1980s another disorder was qualified, Alcohol Abuse.

Am I an alcohol abuser?

During my high-school and college years, most definitely. I used to put myself in physically hazardous situations such as drinking and driving and excessive drinking leading to blackouts, intoxication and sometimes even aggressive behavior. To be frank, I feel quite grateful that my abuse of alcohol didn’t have more severe effects on me. Technically, I wouldn’t be an alcohol abuser as these days I would say I don’t put myself in physically hazardous situations or get aggressive, but in the past year I can think of at least five time when I blacked-out, and was clearly intoxicated. Funnily, or not, I remember most of those as highlights of my year, at least to the point which I remember.

Alcohol disorders, it seemed were not so black & white as these two implied.

So in 2013 the American Psychiatric Association (APA) eliminated this binary system with the hope of also eliminating the stigma behind it and introduced a new one into the DSM-5: Alcohol Use Disorder (AUD).

Like autism, and like most things in life, misuse of this controversial substance is better understood as a spectrum.

AUD is composed of 11 symptoms that classifies you from mild if you score 2 to 3, moderate 4 to 5 and severe, if more than 6.

Do I have Alcohol Use Disorder?

Turns out that YES, I do have Alcohol Use Disorder and without knowing it, I’ve probably had it since I first started drinking.

Drinking more alcohol or over a longer period than originally intended. ❌

• As mentioned a few times per year this will happen. Regardless of the amount defined by the institutions, waking up feeling like absolute shit or having “blackouts” is a clear sign of this.

Craving, or a strong desire or urge to use alcohol. (Wanting a drink so much it’s difficult to think of anything else). ❌

• This is the biggest yes for me, and will delve deeper into it later.

Repeatedly using alcohol in physically hazardous situations ⚠️

• This is a big question mark for me. What would be classified as physically hazardous situation? I for example have had chronic reflux ever since around I was 15. Was this caused by alcohol? I do have a diagnosed “mechanical” problem in my esophageal sphincter (muscle that acts as the gate between esophagus and stomach) and a small hiatal hernia, but how much more does alcohol exacervate it?

• Is my persistent depressive disorder linked to my alcohol usage? Potentially. I will probably never know for a fact, but I can explore how I feel without an extended period of alcohol use.

By DSM-5 criteria, that would correspond to mild Alcohol Use Disorder (AUD), with 2–3 symptoms.

All 11 symptoms and more information on AUD can be seen here.

Treatment for mild AUD is not necessarily abstinence. The most commonly suggested treatment is therapy. Well I’ve already checked that box, in a few months I’ll reach my 10 year anniversary with my therapist.

So why then, would I do this to myself? Take away something that I love so much even though it is not necessary?

Because at some point, I noticed how alcohol had quietly woven itself into my routines.

I started to notice how often I chased (or craved) the short-term pleasure beer offered, undermining my ability to stay present and my long-term well-being.

And within those thoughts, many questions started popping up:

Do I want to go to this event… or do I want the beers that come with it?

Why does a meal feel incomplete without the absurdly expensive wine pairing I “love”?

Would I watch this football match if beer wasn’t involved?

Why do I automatically plan my celebratory beer after skiing, hiking, cycling etc?

Nothing dramatic just small moments and social defaults. Beer wasn’t ruining my life in any way, but it quietly pulled me out of the present into anxious dependence on the future. And real happiness, as you might well know, comes from being connected to the present moments without an anxious dependence on the future

Does realizing I have AUD make me feel ashamed?

It definitely doesn’t make me feel proud of myself. And if I am honest, yes, it does make me feel ashamed.

But normalization rather than shame, and education rather than ignorance, is the only way forward.

That is why the stigma around Alcohol Use Disorder is intentionally lighter than older labels like alcohol dependent, alcohol abuser, or alcoholic. The change was not cosmetic. It was meant to lower barriers, not reinforce them.

And yet, the gap remains staggering. In the U.S., only about 5% of people diagnosed actually receive treatment, even though roughly 5% of all deaths worldwide are attributed to alcohol. Between 20 and 30% of the global population will be affected by AUD at some point in their lives. That is two or three friends in a group of ten. Or one person in a family of four.

I have three siblings. We are four in my family.

My hope is that I can carry that burden for them. But the truth is that the rate of AUD is three to four times higher in close relatives of individuals with AUD.

How can I avoid passing it on?

This past summer my good friend Vladislav came to visit with his girlfriend Rita. Rita is in her mid twenties and spoke only Russian. Vladislav, like myself loves his Aperol Spritz. But over the days they stayed with us, I noticed something. Rita never asked for a drink.

She was not pregnant. Vladislav confirmed it after my quiet suspicions.

On the last afternoon before they left, after a couple of drinks, I found myself talking with Rita through Vladislav’s casual Russian-to-English translation. She explained that she rarely drinks. Almost never.

I asked her what I thought was a complicated question.

“What is the main reason you do not drink? I would love this for my children. What is the secret?”

She giggled, and didn’t hesitate for a second.

“My parents did not drink.”

Her message was clearer than any language I could understand.

Back then I did not even know Alcohol Use Disorder existed. I only learned about it a few days ago as I began researching this piece.

Awareness, though, is always the first step toward change. I often wonder how much higher that 5% would be if more people even knew they had a disorder. Or how much the global prevalence of AUD might drop if we paused long enough to ask ourselves not only how alcohol fits into our own lives, but what version of it we are handing down to those who come after us.

Will I stop drinking forever?

Probably not.

When used moderately and intentionally, alcohol can play a positive role as a pleasure-producing craft; think wine pairings. And as a social, relaxing enhancer. There is a reason it appears as a recurring factor in more than one of the so-called Blue Zones, the regions with the highest concentration of people living past 100, as popularized by Dan Buettner.

But the important point is this: it is difficult to make decisions about what we do not know. An alcohol-free life, at least in my adulthood, is largely unfamiliar territory. It is a world I have not lived in.

So if I do decide to return to drinking, it will be with intention. Not out of habit, pressure, or escape, but with a clear understanding of what both worlds offer, and the freedom to choose one over the other on any given day.

Why 6 months?

Because one month is too short to notice a lasting difference. It feels more like a challenge, or a test of willpower, than a real shift in habits or mindset.

Twelve months, on the other hand, might make it feel unattainable. At least for a first attempt.

Has it been hard?

Yes. But far less than I expected.

Unconsciously, it was a shift in perspective that changed everything.

Not, “I want to stop drinking because of X, Y, Z.”

But, “What new energy, opportunities, and clarity might an alcohol-free six months provide?”

Coincidentally, the day after I made my decision, I heard a line on the The Tim Ferriss Show with Arthur Brooks that perfectly captured what I was feeling (episode 841, around the 32-minute mark):

“When you drink, you borrow tomorrow’s dopamine tonight. You borrow happiness from tomorrow.”

That framing is exactly why this has not felt restrictive, but eye-opening. And once I started, the practical answers to my worries came quickly:

What will happen to social gatherings where alcohol was involved (About 9 out of 10 at least)?

I’ll only go to the social gathering that I actually want to attend, for the right reasons. And I’ll aim for real connection, not alcohol-assisted connection.

How will I relax after a long, stressful week?

By returning to old, healthier habits: movement, meditation, reading, films. And by experimenting with new ones.

What will substitute alcohol’s reward system in my life?

This is a tough one.

I have already started giving myself other short-term rewards. Spicy food. Coffee. Dessert. Things I used to avoid because of my acid reflux. But it makes me pause. Is the reward system I have built simply a replacement, or is it actually healthier?

Planning alcohol-free weekends still feels like a big incógnita. This is my first one after coming back home after the holidays.

I suspect the answer lies in shifting toward long-term rewards. The problem is that these are harder to plan and even harder to feel in the moment. They require patience and attention. Something I will need to be very mindful of.

I have already taken a few steps. I gifted myself a membership to a gym I genuinely enjoy, one with a sauna, and a coworking space to help me be more focused and efficient. I am also planning a couple of ski trips over the next few months.

More importantly, I think I need to become conscious of the long-term rewards themselves. The extra time. The sustained energy. The quiet compounding effect that does not announce itself right away.

Which leads to another question…

What will I do with this extra time and energy?

Honestly… what a great problem to have.

Connect more deeply with my family. With myself. Push forward personal projects. Sleep better. Exercise more. Find a better body, mind, spirit balance. Great ways to reward oneself, but a lot more intangible than a good beer served in a nice glass.

But that may be the whole point, the most meaningful rewards rarely announce themselves. They compound slowly, and they’re easy to miss unless you’re present enough to notice them.

Sources & further reading

• CDC – Alcohol Use and Your Health
  https://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/facts-stats/index.html

• World Health Organization – Alcohol and global health
  https://www.who.int/news/item/25-06-2024-over-3-million-annual-deaths-due-to-alcohol-and-drug-use-majority-among-men

A final note

There are many resources available online for anyone looking to rethink their relationship with alcohol. Two I would personally recommend: Avioneta, founded by my good friend, Fernando Fuentes, and the Huberman Lab Podcast episode What Alcohol Does to Your Body, Brain & Health, which I listened to a couple of years ago and which became a real turning point in how I began to question my own relationship with alcohol.

Subscribe now

Reading Time - 3 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

Hello team,

Happy slightly belated New Year 2️⃣ 0️⃣ 2️⃣ 6️⃣ ! After some not-so-relaxing but love-charging days with our large, loving and intense families during the holidays, I am back at it!

Today’s newsletter is all about 2025 split into two parts.

Part 1: 6 Lessons from a Chaotic Yet Harmonious Year

Part 2: My Top5 Linkedin Posts

But before we get going a small poll. I am thinking of expanding NumeroDos to another social media platform. My main objectives are 1) to continue to connect with unexpected individuals and opportunities, 2) expand my community, brand and reach and 3) continue to practice my writing and storytelling to be better positioned to launch my book.

Let me know why in comments!

Leave a comment

Now lets kick it off!

Part 1: Spoiler: 𝙸̶ ̶𝚍̶𝚎̶𝚌̶𝚒̶𝚍̶𝚎̶𝚍̶ ̶𝚝̶𝚘̶ ̶𝚙̶𝚊̶𝚛̶𝚝̶ ̶𝚠̶𝚊̶𝚢̶𝚜̶ got fired. And finally chose the driving wheel over the passenger seat.

Early on January 7, 2025, after a 2 week break, my good friend and boss Nico asked me for an urgent call.

His face said it all.

And the timing, I thought at that time, couldn’t have been worse...

Let’s zoom out:

🏡 T–30 days: Upgraded home. Higher rent.

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 T–2 days: Tried for baby #2.

😄 T–1 day: Wrapped up my New Year’s goals and chose harmony as the theme of my year.

😰 T+14 days: Clearblue turned positive.

I turned blue, blurry and negative.

What I felt wasn’t panic. It was EMBARASSEMENT. GUILT. FEAR.

But I decided to slow down, and try and make the best of this situation.

For the last 12 months I…

1️⃣ Jumped right into the current of my own energy and passions.

Instead of forcing myself to paddle upstream down the conventional path I was taught my whole life I had to follow.

2️⃣ I took a chance on my yearning to write, without formal training or a book-nerd past.

I felt irresponsible, reckless, but I persisted because I believe that my stories will matter, especially to my kids.

And that they won’t remember my foregone income, but my words, I hope, is a legacy they will carry with them.

3️⃣ Started this Substack in August.

Brought in my first 100 readers, my first $1,000 dlls, and more importantly: found the voice I recognize as mine.

Thank you to all that take time to read me, I don’t take it lightly and special thanks to all of you who have taken the time to leave me a comment, provided some valuable feedback and/or have showed unconditional belief and support through a paid subscription.

4️⃣ By sharing my work openly, I’ve crossed paths (reconnected) with outstanding individuals who think and care in similar ways.

Once I aligned with my flow, the currents naturally carried me toward places & opportunities I never could have planned.

5️⃣ I stopped separating my professional job, creative work and family time and let them flow together.

Drawing inspiration from my day-to-day is where I truly found my harmony.

6️⃣ I learned that getting fired, and the embarrassment it brought, is not as scary as the fear that paralyzes us from seeking something meaningful.

This year, I chose the wheel over the passenger seat.

Because freedom without conscience is meaningless, and life’s greatest privilege may be the wonder of becoming by choice.

I couldn’t have been more wrong about the timing. Getting fired turned out to be my luckiest charm 🍀

Part 2: My Top5 Linkedin Posts of the Year

On a normal week I write 2-3 posts in Linkedin. Usually on the same topics as my Newsletter but condensed and adapted to be more easily read while sliding through quickly throught the feed. This is for anyone that follow me on LinkedIn, doesn’t use it often, arrived late to the party or simply are curious about my posts others, according to the volatile algorithm, others where most curious about…

(🔗 Click on the titles to open links.)

#5 - My All-Time Favorite Sport Book

#4 - On Mental Health, My Depression and 1926 Winnie the Pooh

#3 - Inside "The Basque Gene" – Book in the Making

#2 - I got fired. Then decided to write a book.

#1 - I became a father! Children our Artwork, Family our Masterpiece

If we haven’t already, would love to connect on LinkedIn. Here is my profile.

Next Sunday I’m writing about the break I am currently taking with a potentially toxic high-shool sweetheart after almost 20 years of relationship. Hint: Not with my wife, of course…

My best wishes for the start of this year. See you next Sunday :)

Reading Time - 9 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year, but when the big red man lost his magic, and faith in the man up above vanished, the season started to feel incoherent.

Because as as the word itself denotes, “Christmas” is a christian celebration of the birth of Christ. I won’t go too deep into my religious views, I completely respect those for whom this is the primary meaning, but for me it was just not enough.

On the other hand, from a non-secular perspective, I could see how Christmas had been exploited by western capitalism and consumerism, and how such an important symbol for me growing up as was Santa Claus, had become a product driven by Coca-Cola and other multinational brands in the spirit of profit maximization.

This year, it will be the first Christmas of my three-month-old daughter, and the first Christmas my two-year-old son, Nikolas, will truly be aware of it. Watching him, I feel myself pulled back into a kind of wonder I thought I had outgrown. Coincidentally, or not, he carries the name of the saint from whom Santa Claus originated. He is especially excited about leaving his pacifier to dip in the milk alongside the cookies, as if parting with something that has accompanied him since his third day of life were the price of magic.

Through him, I find myself reliving a childhood innocence I once believed was gone for good, but the questions remained. And then, without me looking for it, an answer came right in time in the form of an old Christmas documentary.

In 1997 The History Channel produced a documentary called Christmas Unrwapped: The History of Christmas. I am a big fan of documentaries but not particularly fond of older ones. I searched all over for one, but couldn´t find a better option, so I decided to give this 4:3 low quality graphic video a try. The bet was well worth it.

Link to documentary.

Turns out that long before the birth of Christ 2025 years ago, humans were already gathering at this exact time of year in search of meaning.

In northern Europe, a celebration called Yule would take place leading up to the shortest days of the year, the Winter Solstice. Fathers and sons would find the largest log they could find in the forest and burn it for 12 days, providing warmth and light. They brought evergreen trees inside their homes as these were the only plants that could survive a Norse winter. Meat would be abundant, as most livestock would be slaughtered before the start of the coldest months.

To the south, the Roman empire also celebrated in the lead up to the winter solstice. Saturnalia--a festival named after Saturn, the god of abundance. For days the Romans surrendered to food, wine, and sex. Normal life paused. Excess was not a vice, it was the point. But not everything in Saturnalia was R-rated. It also had its family festivities--Juvenalia--a celebration of youth, where children were indulged, given gifts and allowed to enjoy their innocence and mischievousness.

The twelve days of Christmas, rooted in the burning of the Yule log, still live on today, even if more through music rather than fire. As do the light symbolism, the evergreen inside homes, feasting and gift-giving, especially centered on children. Other excessive practices were quietly removed over the years both by christianity and governments, as its chaos was destructive to economical and moral value.

It wasn’t only in Europe. In China, families gather for Dongzhi, sharing warm foods and bringing symbols of endurance such as bamboo into the home. In Persia, Yalda was spent awake through the longest night, lighting candles and eating fruit saved from summer to welcome the return of the light. And even in the southern hemisphere, during their own winter solstice around June 24, the Incas along the Andes and the Maori in New Zealand pause to honor the sun and light in collective celebrations.

Across cultures, the pattern repeats: in the darkest times, communities answer with light, food, care, and stories that give those values a face. Santa Claus would eventually be one of them.

Born in the third century in modern-day Turkey, Nicholas was a Greek Orthodox bishop known for his generosity. Stories of his secret gift-giving spread across Europe, especially those involving children and families in need.

From that historical figure to the Santa Claus we recognize today, there are many layers of transformation. To illustrate an example, Norse traditions from the time of Yule celebrations blended in echoes of Odin, a sky-riding god believed to roam the winter night judging who would prosper in the coming year. Germanic folklore softened these figures. Over centuries, fear gave way to familiarity. Judgment gave way to reward. What once arrived from the sky with threats slowly transformed into gifts.

But the most decisive transformation did not happen in myth or religion. It happened inside the home.

Beginning in the late eighteenth century and accelerating through the nineteenth, industrialization reshaped family life. Work moved out of the household and into factories. Families shifted from economic units into emotional ones. Childhood, once treated primarily as preparation for labor, came to be seen as a stage to protect and nurture.

Christmas adapted accordingly.

The holiday moved toward children. Toward gift-giving as a legitimate expression of love. Santa Claus predecessors like Sinterklaas in western Europe became warmer, more domestic, more human.

By the time the twentieth century arrived, Santa Claus was already a powerful symbol. What corporations like Coca-Cola recognized was not an opportunity to invent him, but to utilize him.

In 1931, Coca-Cola faced a simple problem. Their product was associated with summer. They needed it to feel natural in winter. The solution was not subtle. They aligned themselves with a figure that already embodied warmth, generosity, and seasonal joy. This evolution of Saint Nicholas was the perfect carrier.

Through consistent imagery and global distribution, they fixed his appearance in the collective imagination. Jolly, grandfatherly, approachable, human an very conveniently: dressed in their own red pantonne. Coca-Cola didn’t change his colors, this was more of an accident that sticked, for his old brown fur attire in old printing press appeared slightly red purely because of technical limitations. What had once varied across cultures and names was unified into a global, standarized figure.

Coca-Cola did not invent Santa Claus. They masterfully chose him.

Unlike Santa Claus, Rudolph was not shaped slowly across centuries. He was created deliberately, inside a corporation. In 1939, Montgomery Ward a leading department store at the time, faced a cost problem. Licensing existing Christmas characters for their free children’s booklets had become too expensive. The solution was to invent a new one. That is how Rudolph, who was almost named Reginald, was born.

The result was a fantasy story perfectly calibrated for children, centered on a core psychological need: to express individuality and receive approval for it. Rudolph is not accepted despite being different, but because his difference proves useful. The message mirrors the American Dream, amplified by Christmas, the most emotionally charged stage of the year.

And then there is my favorite Christmas character of all, the Grinch. He too was created in response to a problem, though a very different one in nature. In 1957, Dr. Seuss published How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, a short illustrated book released at a time when postwar American Christmas was becoming increasingly commercial. Seuss later acknowledged that the character reflected his own discomfort with the season’s excesses. The Grinch was deliberately conceived as a counter-figure to Christmas cheer: isolated, resentful, and defined by his rejection of consumption rather than his participation in it.

The result was a story grounded less in fantasy fulfillment than in moral reversal. Christmas, the book argues, does not disappear when gifts do. It survives without consumption, without spectacle, and without approval from the marketplace. Unlike Rudolph, whose difference is redeemed through usefulness, the Grinch is redeemed through emotional change. The story offered American children a rare inversion of the season’s dominant message: that belonging and joy are not earned through acquisition, but through connection.

All of these characters point to one of the core reasons I love Christmas. It is a fertile ground and a creative canvas for new stories, rituals, gifts, traditions, music, and acts of kindness emerge. Each of the example responds to a different moment, a different tension, a different need. Christmas provides the emotional structure. The stories do the rest. That openness is not incidental. It is what allows the season to keep generating characters that feel immediately familiar, even when they are entirely new.

I purposely chose an American and Anglo-Saxon lens because it has shaped Christmas globally more than any other, largely through its capitalist infusion. But there are far too many stories across the world to cover without turning this into something unreadable. Stories closer to me include the Basque Santa Claus, Olentzero, a charcoal burner whose origins, much like the Basque language itself, remain uncertain. Klaus, directed by Sergio Pablos, which is by far my favorite Christmas film of all time. Or the Mexican posadas and pastorelas, traditions my mother has made a specialty of and that we continue to hold every year, that would merit another whole post of its own.

More importantly, all of this reveals that Christmas, despite its name, did not begin as a religious doctrine, nor as a product or marketing opportunity. It began as a human response to darkness. Long before Christianity, long before corporations, long before Santa Claus, people gathered at this exact moment of the year to light fires, share food, and affirm that light would return. Christianity did not invent that need. It gave it language. And capitalism did not invent its symbols either. It recognized the ones that already worked.

Santa Claus was not created by Coca-Cola. He was deliberately chosen. He was already perfectly suited to carry generosity, warmth, and childhood magic through the coldest weeks of the year. Coca-Cola simply leveraged a figure that had survived for centuries precisely because he tapped into something deeper than belief or consumption. The same is true of Rudolph. Yes, he emerged from a cost-saving decision inside a department store. But he endured because his story spoke directly to a child’s most basic need: to be seen, to belong, and to discover that what makes you different can also make you valuable.

And then there is the Grinch. In all honesty, until researching this piece, I did not know he was written as a reaction against the commercialization of Christmas itself. A character created not to sell the season, but to question it. To suggest that when the lights are off and the gifts are gone, something essential should still remain. Somehow, that discovery became less coincidental and more meaninful. Caro and I have dressed up as the Grinch every December 25 since we got married in 2019. This year, our two children and four nephews joined us in their own Grinch onesies we gifted them. What began as a playful honeymoon gift, and once felt like a concession to capitalism, now feels like an intuitive alignment.

Beyond the stories we inherit, it is worth questioning how we choose to live this season. Christmas offers something that is easy to overlook. A pause. Not only to connect with others, but to reconnect with oneself. I have found this harder within Mexican and Latin Christmas traditions, where gatherings stretch across weeks and sometimes multiple reunions happen in a single day. The warmth is real. So is the generosity. But the constant motion can leave little room for stillness. Over time, I have come to see that part of what makes Christmas endure is not only its ability to bring people together, but its permission to slow down. To step briefly outside the noise. To sit with what the season asks of us, before rejoining the table.

Christmas matters to me now for a simpler and heavier reason. It is no longer about reconciling history, belief, or capitalism. It is about what I choose to pass on.

Perhaps that is why Christmas is one of the most persistent celebrations humanity has ever held. Because it resists definition. Within its limits, it becomes what each of us decides to make of it for ourselves and our family. It can be religious and secular. Wrapped in commerce and anchored in meaning. Marketed and meaningful. A social gathering and a personal pause. Beliefs and memories, held at the same time.

And it endures because it protects the purest parts of us. Connection. Forgiveness. Gratitude. Memory. Magic. Peace. Love. It arrives when the world outside is at its darkest and invites us to make our inner worlds brighter. To do what our ancestors did. To gather. To light something small. And to remember that even in the longest nights, what we carry inside can still shine the brightest.

I hope this Christmas gives you light, meaning, and a moment to pause.
Thank you for reading, for your support, and my best wishes to you and your family. See you in 2026!

I hope you’re enjoying the festive season in your own way :)

I’m working on a special Christmas reflection that I’ll be sending early next week before the celebrations begin.

Quick teaser: I was inspired by a 1997 Christmas History Channel documentary that helped me understand many things about my own relationship with Christmas. Graphics are not great but it’s still well worth it. Haven’t found a better more recent one.

Enjoy your Sunday for now and speak soon.

Big hug,

Alan

Hello Team,

As I mentioned a few days ago, I posted a version of my letter to Mr. Gianni Infantino on Linkedin.

If my message resonates with you, I’d be grateful for your support. A thoughtful comment or even better a share, helps this travel far beyond my own network and gives the idea a chance to be seen. Maybe by Mr. Infantino himself!

Here is the link to the post:

https://www.linkedin.com/posts/alanbelden_dear-mr-gianni-infantio-activity-7407119603564285952-YIFD?utm_source=social_share_send&utm_medium=member_desktop_web&rcm=ACoAAAifqooBTGHkwLXI-l-eA-hrPZ4BGqfKLPM

Thank you for being part of my journey and for helping carry the conversation forward.

All the best,

Alan

I apologize for the delay this week, but this post is a special one, something I have been working on with a great deal of care.

You see, the magic of one of the most cherished creatures of the world is in danger of extinguishing and I am seriously worried. That is the magic of the World Cup.

So I decided to write a letter to FIFA President Gianni Infantino, on behalf of all of us for whom the World Cup no longer feels quite the same.

Next Wednesday at 4 pm in Spain (3 pm UK, 9 am Mexico and U.S. CT), I will publish a version of this letter on LinkedIn and tag him directly. If we want even a small chance of reaching him, I will need your help.

I will send a reminder at that time, and I would be deeply grateful for your support. A share and a thoughtful comment on LinkedIn makes more of a difference than you might imagine. Let’s dive in!

Dear Mr. Gianni Infantino,

You broke my heart.

You see, in 1992 I was born in Monterrey, Mexico, into a country shaped as much by indigenous legacies and European colonization, as it is by football. I used to wish that I would have been born 20 years earlier, only so I could live the 1986 Mexico World Cup. The first one, in 1970, was farther to grasp. Back then, my grandfather was roughly my age today, and my father was about the age my son is now.

Yet the magical symbiosis between Mexican culture and the world’s most important tournament has still left a deep imprint in my life. For at home I soaked it in from my father, and beyond it through every Mexican football fan from the generations above me: aka about half of the country. Experiencing the World Cup on home soil became a lifelong dream of mine.

So when the North American joint bid won in 2018 I could hardly believe it. I had dreamed of this all my life, yet in reality it felt almost impossible as it would mean Mexico becoming the first nation ever to host it three times. It was suddenly no longer a dream but a date on the calendar: June/July 2026.

That day I felt as if I was that restless ten year old waking up ecstatically at 3 am to watch a match of the Japan-Korea 2002 WC. My head went wild with questions, chasing my authentic curiosity. Who would be the Pelé (70) or the Maradona (86) of 2026? Would we get another goal of the century (Maradona dribbling past England in 86)? What could be the equivalent of the Hand of God in a VAR-policed football world? And would Mexico have a chance to play a memorable knock-out phase in Monterrey as it did for the quarterfinals against Germany in 1986, when we lost in PKs?

But as time passed the blows started coming. First I found out that of the 104 matches, only 13 would be held in Mexico. I found some temporary comfort in telling myself it was at least still something, and tried to ease myself through the fact that Estadio Azteca would host the opening match.

You see, Mr. Infantino, I am a romantic by nature and a football idealist. I fully supported you in the expansion of the World Cup, believing it should be more democratized, a tournament where every nation can dream of one day making it. I genuinely enjoyed the qualification process, watching countries like Cape Verde or Curacao qualify for the first time, while others like Scotland and Haiti returned after decades in exile.

But when the draw finally came through a few days ago, everything changed. My dreams, my heart, my optimism, my idealism, and the inner child I still carry were shattered.

Yes, it had been right in front of my eyes since 2023 when it was announced that the 48 team World Cup would keep the same four-team group format; inherently diluting the level. But maybe it was just too painful to accept. Admitting it meant grieving something sacred. Until it materialized into a visible reality and saw, for example, the matches played in my host city of Monterrey:

• South Africa vs South Korea

• Tunisia vs Japan

• Tunisia vs a mid tier UEFA nation

• And only one knockout match in the round of 16 (the earliest stage)

With all due respect to these seven national teams, but that disappointment just knocked me out. Add in the exorbitant price factor of tickets, and it is just dangerously disrespectful for the future integrity of the tournament and the sport. The magic of the World Cup, I realized, is in grave danger of extinction.

But as I was drowning in my worries and sorrow, I stumbled upon a question posed by football advisor and LinkedIn content creator Federico Mari. He wrote…

If you had to design the World Cup today from scratch, how many teams would you include?

My childlike spark was ignited again, my optimism resurfaced so I decided to get to work instead. You see, Mr. President, I believe there is a way to save the tournament. One that puts football and fans around the world first, without ignoring FIFA’s financial realities. Actually, by nature, it would only protect and nourish it in the long run.

You might think that, like many traditionalists, I would support going back to the 1998-2022 format. That 32 teams is the sweet spot and we where fine exactly as we where. But the world is changing so quickly that I believe we need to find solutions, rather that reinstating the status quo. Today football not only competes with other flashy football formats such as the King’s League. It also competes with A LOT more football: more matches, more tournaments, more leagues televised, more content via social media and the internet. It’s a cannibalization of its own. And on top of that it also competes with many other popular sports, forms of entertainment and information overload itself.

The world is a completely different place and the pace will only grow quicker. Thus the world cup needs to adapt.

Yes I believe the expansion to 48 teams is one of the main issues as it has severly diluted the quality. But what if I told you that there is a way to increase it to 64 while at the same time increasing the quality. Doesn’t make sense right? Let me explain

What is the absolute most exciting tournament in the world of sport?

The answer is subjective of course. For many, the World Cup has long been number one, but there are some facts no one can dispute. Like the one that the first 72 matches, the first 17 days from June 11 to June 28 will become an afterthought. A warm up for when things finally start to matter. Where even third places in weak groups of four can stay alive.

So I would like to ask you, why waste 70% of the tournament before sparking things up? Why not recreate that knockout excitement from day one? Why not deconstruct the anthropological and social factors that compose the success of sport’s most important competitions?

Drawing from my own experience and perspective I can clearly see a gold standard that could serve as a turning point for the history of the sport we all love. It comes from a collegiate level basketball tournament held in the USA every year: The NCAA basketball March Madness.

There is little debate that March Madness creates more breathtaking moments than any other sporting event on earth. The beauty of it is that it draws everyone in, whether you have a team in the tournament or not, even if like myself, you are not truly a basketball fan.

Its blueprint for success is simple. From day one every game matters. Every possession and mistake threatens elimination and every close ending becomes frantic.

From day one the map to the championship is perfectly and sexily laid out. Yet so imperfect that no one has ever correctly mapped it out despite billions of tries.

But more importantly, in a polarizing world, one instinct still unites us all: rooting for the underdog.

In March Madness underdogs are not an afterthought, they are the reason why the tournament organically earned its nickname, now official name: “madness”. So why not design it into the world’s most important tournament?

Because if there is one secret that football holds, and one of the main reasons why it established as the king of world sport, it is because in any given match, in the park, street or stadium, any team with a little luck and a lot of grit could beat the other.

So I decided to build a prototype of what the best possible World Cup design would look like. Because in the same way that the current 48 team WC didn’t punch me in the guts and got the wind knocked out of me until I physically saw it, I wanted to test out my hypothesis physically, visibly.

In a nutshell this would be the proposal:

Four hubs. Four mini World Cups. Sixteen teams each. All confederations represented in every region. Shorter travel. Constant tension. Teams and fans anchored to a region and generating a communion with its culture and people.

16 seeds per region given based on FIFA ranking to qualified teams similar to tennis tournaments such as Wimbledon. No waiting for the excitement to begin, because it does so immediately.

But also assigned placeholders for confederation tournament winners e.g. Euro Cup, Copa America, and for regional World Cup Qualifiers winners. Placeholders would be assigned based on shifting confederation global ranking, which promotes inter-collaboration for confederation general improvement, opportunities for smaller teams to rank higher and parity and opportunities for smaller confederations. Proposed seeding:

• Seeds 1: UEFA & CONMEBOL (4/4 teams)

• Seeds 2: Reserved for the highest rated world power houses who didn’t win their qualifiers or tournament.

• Seeds 3: CONCACAF (2/4 teams) + next 2 FIFA Rank

• Seeds 4: AFC (2/4 teams) next 2 FIFA Rank

• Seeds 5: CAF (2/4 teams) next 2 FIFA Rank

• Seeds 6: OFC (2/4 teams) next 2 FIFA Rank

• Seeds 7-16: Based on next FIFA ranking and balanced confederation allocations per regional hb.

Note: For the winners of the World Cup Qualifying tournament in my prototype I just took the nation with the highest points in the qualifying process e.g. Norway in UEFA or Curacao in CONCACAF). Having a classification champion would also support a new qualifying system with an actual winner, raising the stakes and excitement of this phase even further.

To this day, 42 teams have in reality qualified as 6 more are yet to play their qualification playoffs. So the 22 additional nations (42+22=64) were assigned based on qualifier performance and respecting the current confederation ratio (roughly: UEFA 33%, CAF 19%, AFC 17%, CONCACAF 14%, CONMEBOL 13%, OFC 3%).

So without further due, this is what the 2026 64 Nation World Cup bracket would look like.

Important note: ZOOM IN and follow the path of your nation or favorite teams!

Lets imagine a scenario. Lets say the opening match which I recreated. In its current format, host country Mexico could lose against South Africa. It would be highly disappointing, but their chances of coming through would remain high, above 50% even. For even a third place classification in a group would be sufficient and all three of their opponents are all weaker on paper.

Instead, imagine Estadio Azteca, the hype and the tension that would be generated as 100+ thousand lean forward on their seats, 100+ million mexicans go through the exhilarating ride via the TV and 1000+ millions across the world tune in to see who will be the first team eliminated in 2026. Can you see the nail-biting difference?

Actually loosing in the first round wouldn’t necessarly be the end. A 2nd chance would be strategically built in. An element we can call the Silver Bracket, the Europa League of the WC that would:

• Provide fans who travel the world at least two opportunities to show their worth.

• Provide more accessible opportunities to the other 95% of locals and travellers who might not be able to afford WC prices.

• But also, maintain the spark alive and the stakes high by providing the winner a 2nd chance to get back into the world cup by playing the weakest of the 8 quarter finalists!

Here is a larger view for each region with the silver bracket integrated:

This is not only an exercise of imagination, it is consistent otherworldry excitement that would sustain long-term nostalgia.

It is probably already too late for this World Cup but not for 2030. And in a World Cup planned in three continents and six countries, with about 10,000 kms of ocean right in the middle. A format of sort, where you can create proper regional hubs where teams from across the world and locals can really intertwine, is the best way that I can see such expanded geographical design be an outright success. It could look something like this.

Mr. Infantino, I’m not sure if my idea is the best one of them all, but I am certain of this: listening to football fans all over the world for whom football gives life purpose, is the only way to preserve the magic of the World Cup in the long run. Because it would protect the one thing football cannot afford to lose.

Meaning.

Turns out that scale or even financial gains are not the biggest enemy. That threat goes to meaninglessness.

Please hear us. Not as critics, but as genuine supporters worried for the extinction of this magical creature which paradoxically is turning 100 in four years.

Let us save the World Cup. Let us save football. Let us give our children, and the inner children that live within all of us, a reason to keep dreaming every four years and avoid more hearts being shattered.

With hope,

Alan Belden

Thanks for reading team! I will be sending another email on Wednesady at 4 pm CET (Europe), 9 am CT (US & Mexico) with a reminder to help out if possible. I will also include more technical details about the bracket design in case you are intrested.

In the meantime would love to hear your thoughts. What do you think is the biggest challenge for this format? Any aspects you have doubts if it would work? What do you think is the ideal number of teams and design for the WC? Do you have any other ideas.

Have a great week!

Alan

Subscribe now

Reading Time - 4 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

Hello team,

First of all, apologies for the delay. My family and I travelled to Mexico two weeks ago. It’s been lovely to be back home after eleven months, but it’s also been… a lot. Beautiful, emotional, noisy, nourishing and also overwhelming.

This week in therapy Dionicio and I explored a really insightful analogy: life today moves at a velocity far faster than what our biology was designed for.

I’ve often felt slightly out of rhythm with my surroundings, like everyone else is following a tempo I never quite learned. According to him, it isn’t just me. It’s all of us. Some people simply manage to adapt better to the unnatural pace we’ve collectively normalized.

Monterrey, where I was born and grew up, is a city where the pace is especially high. The city’s size and traffic make movement feel like a competition. Work isn’t just important here; it is the value system. As an example, doctors answer WhatsApps at all hours because if they don’t, they risk losing clients, and if they do, they risk losing the standard of life which is so important to maintain in this city. And it’s not just medicine. It’s nearly every industry. It amazes me how people fear to turn their phones off.

This week I had a conversation with a dear friend who told me something that’s stayed with me. He said he would trade all of his professional success—objectively impressive and hard-earned—to undo the personal sacrifices it cost his family.

Add to that the reality that we live far away, that we’ve been gone nearly a year, that both my wife and I come from wonderfully intense families (four siblings on my side, five on hers), plus good friends, plus Christmas… and suddenly the dial goes from fast to frantic.

Dionicio thinks this is part of the reason I ended up in San Sebastián, without fully realizing it. A city that, by Mexican standards, would be considered a town. A city where you don’t need a car, where you can cross from one end to the other on foot, where you can disappear into the mountains and lose phone signal in minutes. A city where work matters, like Monterrey, the Basque Country is an economic engine, but where status matters far less, and social parity keeps everyone on a more humane playing field. But even within this context, which truly helps, there are still days when I feel like my energy tank just won’t refill fast enough.

So this week I’ve been pondering on many questions such as:

Is it possible to slow down my rhythm when the environment around me is sprinting?

I’m trying, even if it’s not easy. Becoming aware of it is the first step. I’m especially proud of my mom—the greatest social butterfly of them all—for learning to slow her pace, if only a bit, and notice the benefits that has brought upon her. And with my dad, it’s different. He gives me a quiet peace, as if his natural rhythm mirrors mine and he’s managed to live it with honesty.

Do I use alcohol as a hand brake that helps me feel a little more present in social settings and caffeine as turbo to provide some quick energy?

Yes, I do.

If I clench my fist, I can hold it for five minutes, maybe even thirty. But if I keep it clenched for hours or days, it becomes painful, and eventually it’s hard to return to a relaxed state. That’s what my body feels like sometimes—tense, braced, under pressure for hours or days on end. It shows up as a chronic ache in the back of my head and neck, something I’ve learned to live with.

Alcohol helps me loosen that grip in the moment. Caffeine helps me keep going. But at what cost?

Since arriving last week, I’ve learned of at least five people close to me struggling with hernias or stomach problems. I can’t say these issues are directly connected, but I’m convinced the body works like that fist—that constant stress, tension, and the fast pace here take their toll. I’m also sure it plays a major role in my chronic acid reflux and even the occasional hemorrhoids (sorry for the overshare, but I think it’s important to acknowledge it).

Is a slower rhythm part of the secret to the Basque Country football success?

Speaking to one friend he told me: If you add up commute time and that every kid has a park or plaza within 5 minutes for 15 years or so it can have a significant impact. Kids here have more time to play than in most places and the farther you go from the city into the towns this only increases.

Can you reach the same level of “success” if you slow down? Or is the problem the definition of success itself?

It reminds me of modes of travel. If you fly, you miss everything between point A and point B but distances which took humans 25,000 years to travel can now be covered in less than 10 hours. If you drive, you see more, but you’re still mostly passing through. If you walk, you experience everything, but progress feels painfully slow. A bicycle could sit somewhere in between. Fast enough to move, slow enough to stop, human enough to feel the landscape rather than just cross it and you exercise in the process.

Which mode is best? It depends entirely on what you’re trying to experience.

I wouldn’t be sitting in my childhood home in Monterrey writing this if I had chosen to walk, bike or drive here.

This post is not about criticizing one place, or way of living or glorifying another. It’s about something deeper and much more human. It’s about asking: am I leaving life in my natural rhythm? And, what would I see—what would I feel—if I chose to move through life a little slower, stepping out of the car or the airplane, and notice the landscape I’ve been rushing past?

Leave a comment

Reading Time - 4 minutes. To listen in audio open in the app.

Hello team,

Every November, the Oscars of sports books—the William Hill Sports Book of the Year—announces its winner, a tradition running since 1989. I haven’t found a better source of book recommendations than the #whsboty . It’s an underrated prize that, on the surface, is about sports books But beneath that surface, it’s about inspiration, humanity, politics, memory, obession, and the worlds that open up when you follow a story far enough.

This year I decided to add some spice up and create my own personal reading challennge. I bought all seven shortlisted titles 2 weeks prior to the announcement, and ranked them using the most scientific metric I could think of: how many pages I devoured of each book before the winner was revealed (this past tuesday).

No rules. No strategy. Just following curiosity.

It surprised me was how alive this experiment felt. Some books took off like a sprinter. Others started to grow on me slowly.

Below you’ll find a short breakdown of each one:
My personal rankings, teaser quotes, reflections, and of course, the official 2025 winner!

But here’s the catch: it would be so much more fun to do this with other sports-story-obsessed, like minded readers.

In January, I’d love to run the first mission. The books? You choose and set the rules!

If that sounds like something you want to be part of, just comment.

Leave a comment

For now, enjoy scrolling through the seven books that defined this year’s shortlist.

Elegance. Longevity. Mastery. “Jimmy” is like cricket’s Federer, Brady, even its Beckham. Like them, his retirement felt to painful, impossible to let go. Yet ultimately a revealing journey to discovering who he really is.

Two sport-washing books were shortlisted this year. It’s a subject that can feel disheartening, but is crucial to understand the current state of, in this case, the beautiful game. After beginning the other one (coming up), this one let his counterpart shine in the front. I truly admire the courage of both authors in bringing this topic to light.

Wigmore nailed the history book everyone wants for their sport. Only problem: I don’t understand it! Tim, if you take me to a match I promise I’ll read your book, and fall in love with cricket in the process!

They say the books you would think you would never read are the ones you learn the most from. This deep-dive into cycling, aging and the trans world already made me smarter & more empathetic with all three.

This book is written so well it literally makes you feel like you are sitting in the car conversing with them as they follow the Tour. With its novel style and long-neglected topic, it’s easy to see why they won. Congrats David & Pippa, well deserved!

This was the last of the seven I picked up, the one I was least intrested in starting. I’m not the biggest fan of boxing or death. It turned out to be a beautiful surprise.

Don’s emotional connection with the athletes (and the reader) is extraordinary. A memoir that navigates boxing’s paradoxes and its parallels to our lives: hope and despair, salvation and ruin. It came from behind and, with a couple more days, might have won it all.

This was the first of the seven books I opened up. Sportswashing, as this year’s shortlist shows, is as relevant as it is worrying.

For Montague, it seems the tipping point was Newcastle’s purchase. The moment the world’s most powerful league, its city, its fans, and the rest of us watching collectively looked away from major human-rights abuses. Add PSG & Manchester City, the World Cup bids in Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the Saudi Pro League’s spending, the blockbuster fights, and the split in golf. Piece by piece, Montague shows how global sport slid into this new era.

As a new father to a daughter, it’s hopeful to read real proof for a fairer sporting world she can grow into.

Ultra Women blends gripping stories, sharp science and gender bias in sport. It reads like a docuseries: strong hook + compelling narrative + lands with a punch = leaves you wanting more!

Thanks for reading. Have a great Sunday and see you next week :)

Subscribe now