Now, yes, captain of the world champion, with a little pride and self-esteem at the worst time (REUTERS/Sarah Meyssonnier)

Of course we love and admire Messi, but don’t come back. Never live here again, if it crosses your mind.

It is a beautiful country, that goes without saying. You know it well, therefore built by an invincible identity. Its endless plains, the sky, the Andes, the jungles, the cities that amaze in some of its regions, the precious corners, the sea coast for miles and miles, the jungles, the possibilities of a future perhaps imaginary where oil and gas will provide the world with manna when the wandering Hebrews were hungry. But it’s not the Bible. It’s about the heating. Well, well, yes, Lionel, but the same thing always happens: it looks like it’s going to start, but everything stalls, as they say with the engines of veteran cars, three or four guys and push to see if it comes out .

And it’s not that it happens, that it begins, by following this poor comparative resource: nothing, there is no case. All very rich, like simple people who thank you, kind, after an invitation. It doesn’t work, Lionel, dear genius. Don’t even come back remotely. Here many are those who work tirelessly to establish a despotic mediocrity: mediocrity is the mortal enemy of talent and modesty, of those who make the difference, of the good heart.

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The people -yes, the people, as if an arm were moving in the air to express it- are getting worse and worse with the intellectual retardation that prevents them from getting out of the well and living with the minimum of satisfaction of what are necessary: ​​work, education, flexibility of thought, freedom, respect for those who must begin life or face the final stretch. Think about it, Lionel: a disturbed place, invertebrate, poor in spite of its sorrows -we have always stolen a lot, Lionel-, a country of papers and honeyed promises where no one even believes the contrary of what is promised.

This does not exist, there is no possibility of thinking without stone dogmas. You have to be this or that. Surely you see this clearly through your superb intelligence, able to unite mind and body in moments of great beauty, artistry and euphoria. Don’t come back Messi.

Just as the perverse thermos has been responsible for criticizing and insulting you for years: cold, slow, dejected, while walking the games -to you, a strategist who sees the whole game at all times-, “you you’re not from here”, until they had to bow the head of the beast. Now yeah, world champion captain, with a little bit of pride and self-esteem at the worst time, poor little country that doesn’t hit one and still takes the old dirt road, like eighty for hundred.

Don’t come back Messi.

The explosion against the shutters of one of the supermarkets owned by the Roccuzzos -some have been sold and the aggressor is the one your father-in-law directs and drives to Rosario-, at three o’clock in the morning: a motorbike, a guy goes down and shoots, not without leaving a note: “Messi, we’re waiting for you, Javkin is a drug dealer and he won’t deal with you”, the mayor of Rosario (Javkin precisely) shouts at the aid and suggests that there is complicity with the security forces. Do we still say chocolate because of the news?

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Don’t come back Messi.

Yesterday an eleven-year-old child from Rosario died from multiple gunshots – it was a group of boys on the sidewalk during the day. We see on television a good journalist talking to a hitman, a hitman, of course from behind, with a cap and covered with a white tunic: “It’s my job. I do it alone. The fare is 50 Lucas, but it can go up. I only kill men, but of all ages. That’s my standard.”

In a late overplay, searches were carried out in prisons: we know that the drug bosses operate from the inside. And everything remained the same, which reveals the possibility of a complicity that has already gone very far. Rosario is the ember lit by groups or families who apparently receive, “cut” the drugs and resell them on the streets. The big ones, the tons imaginable at the borders through which the underage employees of the big drug trafficker pass on foot. And there are the runways where they land unchecked.

Don’t come back Messi.

Or, better, come whenever it’s your turn to play for the national team in Argentina, at the end of the year holidays, with your plane for the barbecue, with friends, with family. With Antonela, with the three adorable, cute and funny children. Yes it’s good. And then elsewhere. You have good homes and schools, and keep Rosario in a closed club, but not like, say, your home. Or are you going to give in, play a little Newell’s to satisfy the predictable prose of cheap sentimental bullshit: the barras are fierce criminals here, you know, Lionel. To think that there are offended and resentful for not having forgotten a minister, outstretched hand, and the team as a whole is lined with political issues, that not everyone will have the same ideas, even if they knew how to differentiate dignity from premeditated rubbish. They wanted a small piece of the World Cup victory.

It’s not advice, I don’t have to, it would be excessive. It’s a request: don’t come back, Messi.

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