هناك لحظات لا يصنعها الزمن، بل تصنعه، ومشاهد لا ترسمها الريشة، بل ترسمها الروح، وأصوات لا تعزفها الآلات، بل تعزفها الخطوات فوق العشب الأخضر. هناك ومضات من السحر تتجاوز حدود الرياضة لتصبح لغة للقلوب، تنبض بها الملاعب كما تنبض القصائد، وتذوب فيها الجماهير كأنها أمام معجزة تتجلى على مرأى العيون. في كل عصر يطل نجم يحمل في يديه نوراً مختلفاً، يوقظ الطفولة في صدورنا، ويعيد إلينا إيماننا بالجمال، ويذكرنا أن الحياة لا تُقاس بعدد الأيام، بل بعدد اللحظات التي تسلب أنفاسنا.
ومن بين كل تلك اللحظات، وُلد اسمٌ أصبح مرادفاً للدهشة، اسمٌ صغير الجسد كبير الطموح، فتى نحيل شقّ طريقه بين العواصف حتى صار أيقونة، وأسطورة، ووجهاً للمتعة الخالصة: ذاك هو ليونيل ميسي.
لم يأتِ إلى الملاعب لاعباً فقط، بل جاء شاعراً يكتب قصائده بقدميه، وجاء رساماً يلقي بريشته على العشب لوحاتٍ لا تمحوها الذاكرة. كلما لمس الكرة تبدلت قوانين اللعبة، وكأنها لم تعد تُلعب بالعقل وحده، بل بالإحساس، بالفطرة، بالموهبة التي لا تُشترى ولا تُعلَّم.
هو الحلم الذي أفاقت عليه الملايين، والدهشة التي لم تشبع منها العيون. من طفولته في روزاريو إلى مجده في برشلونة، من أهازيج باريس إلى لحظة التتويج الخالدة بكأس العالم، ظل يزرع في القلوب يقيناً أن الجمال قد ينتصر في النهاية، وأن العظمة الحقيقية لا تصرخ، بل تهمس فتبلغ الآفاق. لقد علّمنا أن التواضع هو أبهى صور المجد، وأن العظمة لا تكتمل إلا حين تكون مغموسة بالبساطة. لم يكن نجماً متكبراً ولا بطلاً متجبراً، بل إنسان يلعب الكرة كأنها لعبة أطفال، ويمنح العالم كله معنى جديداً للرياضة: أن تكون إنساناً أولاً، فناناً ثانياً، وبطلاً أخيراً.
هو ليس مجرد بطل تتغنى به الميادين، بل ذاكرة حيّة ستبقى ما بقيت الكرة تدور على العشب. لم يمنحنا انتصارات فحسب، بل منحنا معنى أعمق للدهشة، أعاد إلينا الإيمان بأن في العالم لحظات نقية تستحق أن تُعاش. لم يكن حدثاً في الرياضة، بل كان زمناً كاملاً، زمناً من الضوء والعذوبة، من السحر والبساطة، زمناً سيظل في القلوب كما يظل الندى على الورود عند الفجر، قصير العمر في حضوره، خالد الأثر في غيابه.
وكما تمضي الليالي تاركة في قلوبنا بصمات من نور، تمضي بعض الأرواح لتصير علامات لا تزول. ثمة من يرحل في الجسد ويبقى في المعنى، من يختفي عن العيون لكنه يتوغل في الذاكرة كالنشيد.
إن الجمال الحق لا يحتاج إلى اسم ليُستدعى، يكفي أن يمرّ في خاطرنا فنشعر أن الحياة كانت أكرم بنا، وأن الدهشة قد زارتنا مرة، وربما مرة تكفي لتظل أبديّة.
ميسي.. حالة الدهشة كقصيدة
19 سبتمبر 2025 - 01:18
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آخر تحديث 19 سبتمبر 2025 - 01:18
تابع قناة عكاظ على الواتساب
د. أحمد قران الزهراني
There are moments that are not made by time, but rather create it, and scenes that are not drawn by a brush, but rather by the soul. There are sounds that are not played by instruments, but rather by footsteps on the green grass. There are flashes of magic that transcend the boundaries of sport to become a language for the hearts, pulsating in the stadiums as poems do, and the crowds dissolve in them as if they are witnessing a miracle unfolding before their eyes. In every era, a star emerges carrying a different light in its hands, awakening childhood in our chests, restoring our faith in beauty, and reminding us that life is not measured by the number of days, but by the number of moments that take our breath away.
Among all those moments, a name was born that became synonymous with wonder, a name small in body but great in ambition, a slender boy who carved his path through storms until he became an icon, a legend, and a face of pure enjoyment: that is Lionel Messi.
He did not come to the fields merely as a player, but as a poet writing his verses with his feet, and as a painter casting his brush on the grass with paintings that memory cannot erase. Every time he touched the ball, the rules of the game changed, as if it were no longer played with the mind alone, but with feeling, instinct, and a talent that cannot be bought or taught.
He is the dream that millions awakened to, and the wonder that eyes have never been satisfied with. From his childhood in Rosario to his glory in Barcelona, from the chants of Paris to the eternal moment of being crowned with the World Cup, he continued to plant in hearts the certainty that beauty can triumph in the end, and that true greatness does not shout, but whispers and reaches the horizons. He taught us that humility is the most splendid form of glory, and that greatness is only complete when it is steeped in simplicity. He was not an arrogant star nor a tyrannical hero, but a human playing the ball as if it were a children's game, giving the whole world a new meaning of sport: to be a human first, an artist second, and a hero last.
He is not just a hero sung about in the arenas, but a living memory that will remain as long as the ball keeps rolling on the grass. He has not only given us victories, but has also given us a deeper meaning of wonder, restoring our faith that there are pure moments in the world that deserve to be lived. He was not just an event in sports, but a complete era, an era of light and sweetness, of magic and simplicity, an era that will remain in hearts like dew on roses at dawn, short-lived in presence, but eternal in absence.
And just as nights pass leaving in our hearts imprints of light, some souls pass on to become indelible marks. There are those who depart in body but remain in meaning, who disappear from sight yet penetrate memory like a hymn.
True beauty does not need a name to be summoned; it is enough for it to cross our minds for us to feel that life has been kinder to us, and that wonder has visited us once, and perhaps once is enough for it to remain eternal.
Among all those moments, a name was born that became synonymous with wonder, a name small in body but great in ambition, a slender boy who carved his path through storms until he became an icon, a legend, and a face of pure enjoyment: that is Lionel Messi.
He did not come to the fields merely as a player, but as a poet writing his verses with his feet, and as a painter casting his brush on the grass with paintings that memory cannot erase. Every time he touched the ball, the rules of the game changed, as if it were no longer played with the mind alone, but with feeling, instinct, and a talent that cannot be bought or taught.
He is the dream that millions awakened to, and the wonder that eyes have never been satisfied with. From his childhood in Rosario to his glory in Barcelona, from the chants of Paris to the eternal moment of being crowned with the World Cup, he continued to plant in hearts the certainty that beauty can triumph in the end, and that true greatness does not shout, but whispers and reaches the horizons. He taught us that humility is the most splendid form of glory, and that greatness is only complete when it is steeped in simplicity. He was not an arrogant star nor a tyrannical hero, but a human playing the ball as if it were a children's game, giving the whole world a new meaning of sport: to be a human first, an artist second, and a hero last.
He is not just a hero sung about in the arenas, but a living memory that will remain as long as the ball keeps rolling on the grass. He has not only given us victories, but has also given us a deeper meaning of wonder, restoring our faith that there are pure moments in the world that deserve to be lived. He was not just an event in sports, but a complete era, an era of light and sweetness, of magic and simplicity, an era that will remain in hearts like dew on roses at dawn, short-lived in presence, but eternal in absence.
And just as nights pass leaving in our hearts imprints of light, some souls pass on to become indelible marks. There are those who depart in body but remain in meaning, who disappear from sight yet penetrate memory like a hymn.
True beauty does not need a name to be summoned; it is enough for it to cross our minds for us to feel that life has been kinder to us, and that wonder has visited us once, and perhaps once is enough for it to remain eternal.
