When I first saw Jimuel Pacquiao training alongside his legendary father Manny, something struck me about the nature of football greatness. We've spent decades debating who belongs on football's Mount Rushmore—Pelé with his 1,283 career goals, Messi with his eight Ballon d'Or awards, Ronaldo with his five Champions League titles. But watching this father-son dynamic made me reconsider what true greatness really means in our sport. The conversation typically revolves around statistics and trophies, yet I've come to believe we're missing something fundamental about what makes a player truly immortal in football history.
Having covered this sport for twenty years, I've noticed how our collective memory tends to privilege certain types of achievements over others. We remember Maradona's "Hand of God" and his incredible solo run against England in the same 1986 World Cup match, but we often forget about players like Garrincha, whose technical brilliance was overshadowed by personal struggles. The numbers tell one story—Pelé's three World Cups, Cristiano Ronaldo's 800+ career goals, Messi's record 91 goals in a calendar year—but the emotional impact tells another. I've always been fascinated by how certain players transcend their statistics to become cultural icons. Zinedine Zidane's career shouldn't be defined solely by his 107 career goals or World Cup victory, but rather by moments like that breathtaking volley in the 2002 Champions League final—a moment of such technical perfection that it feels almost spiritual when I rewatch it.
What strikes me about the Pacquiao story is this idea of legacy—not just statistical legacy, but the human impact that extends beyond the pitch. In football terms, we see this with families like the Maldinis, where Cesare paved the way for Paolo, who then watched his own son Daniel continue the tradition at AC Milan. This multi-generational influence represents a different dimension of greatness that statistics can't capture. When I interviewed Paolo Maldini in 2018, he mentioned how his father never pressured him but simply shared his love for the game—much like what we're seeing with the Pacquiaos in boxing, though the principle applies equally to football.
The metrics debate inevitably leads us to compare different eras, which is where I part ways with many traditional analysts. I firmly believe you cannot simply compare Lionel Messi's expected goals statistics with Pelé's goal totals from the 1960s. The game has evolved too dramatically—the balls are different, training methods have revolutionized, defensive systems have become exponentially more organized. I recall watching grainy footage of Ferenc Puskás playing for Hungary in the 1950s and realizing we're essentially watching a different sport from today's Champions League matches. Yet there's something timeless about true genius—the way Johan Cruyff's philosophy continues to influence managers from Pep Guardiola to Erik ten Hag decades after his retirement shows a greatness that transcends era-specific statistics.
We also tend to undervalue players who transformed how the game is played. Alfredo Di Stéfano doesn't have Pelé's World Cup pedigree, but his complete mastery of every position revolutionized what we expect from a footballer. Franz Beckenbauer didn't just win trophies—he invented a new role with his libero style that changed defensive football forever. In my view, these tactical innovators belong in the conversation alongside the prolific scorers, though they're often overlooked in popular debates.
Then there's the question of longevity versus peak performance. Ronaldo Nazário's career was plagued by injuries, yet his peak between 1996 and 1998 featured arguably the most dominant individual performances I've ever witnessed. Meanwhile, players like Ryan Giggs maintained elite performance for decades—13 Premier League titles spanning three different decades is a testament to sustained excellence that's almost incomprehensible in modern football. Personally, I value sustained excellence slightly higher than brief dominance, which is why I'd rank Cristiano Ronaldo above Ronaldo Nazário despite the Brazilian's otherworldly talent.
The Champions League has become the ultimate measuring stick in contemporary debates, which I think unfairly disadvantages earlier greats. When we consider that Di Stéfano won five consecutive European Cups with Real Madrid from 1956-1960, we're talking about a level of continental dominance that surpasses even Cristiano Ronaldo's five Champions League titles spread across different clubs. Context matters tremendously in these comparisons, and I worry that recency bias distorts our perspective.
What ultimately separates the truly great from the merely excellent, in my experience, is this intangible quality of changing games when it matters most. Diego Maradona's 1986 World Cup performance wasn't just statistically impressive—it was mythic. The same can be said for Zidane's 1998 World Cup final, Messi's 2015 Champions League campaign, or Cristiano Ronaldo's hat-trick against Wolfsburg in 2016 when Real Madrid looked destined for elimination. These are the moments that elevate players from great to immortal, and they're what I look for when having these debates.
As I reflect on the Pacquiao father-son dynamic that sparked these thoughts, I'm reminded that football greatness, like parenting, involves both creating moments of magic and building something that lasts beyond your own career. The true legends aren't just those with the most goals or trophies, but those who change our understanding of what's possible in this beautiful game while inspiring the next generation to continue the journey. That's why my personal Mount Rushmore includes Messi, Pelé, Maradona, and Cruyff—each transformed football in ways statistics can't fully capture, leaving legacies that continue to shape the sport today.