Maldini, not Messi

In a world obsessed with Lionel Messis and Cristiano Ronaldos, I have been a fan of Paolo Maldini.

In a region where Shah Faesals take the spotlight, I find myself in awe of Syed Humayun Qaisar.

In the political theatre where Omar Abdullahs and Mehbooba Muftis make the news for all the right and wrong reasons, I find ordinary activists, who give their lifeblood for seeing small changes in the society, more impressive.

In the words of soccer commentator, Ray Hudson, “It’s not the statistics! It’s not the statistics! It’s not the statistics! You don’t measure that by statistics! It’s immeasurable!  You tell me: How do you measure somebody that could balance a balloon in a wind tunnel on a needle?”

It is this immeasurability that makes Maldinis and Qaisars rare.

Maldini is considered one of the greatest defenders of all time in soccer history. It is not just because of his immense talent. It is because of how he defended. He received only one red card in his entire Serie A career. Over 25 seasons, from 1985 to 2009, at AC Milan, with over 1000 professional games, Maldini embodied loyalty. In a world full of transfers, he remained a one-club man. Maldini never chased the Ballon d’Or or limelight, yet became iconic. He defended not just a goalpost but an idea.

It’s not just about football. It’s about how we treat greatness when it doesn’t scream.

In a media landscape built on TRPs, I remember the broadcaster from Kashmir whose voice soothed Kashmir’s nerves. He didn’t shout. He didn’t provoke. He’s been off the air for years. Replaced. Forgotten. But there’s silence now, and it feels heavier than sound.

Syed Humayun Qaisar, one of the greatest broadcasters of Kashmir, did not just change the clichéd broadcasting in the region but also nurtured an assembly line of youth, helping them on their career paths, helping them become better human beings. He didn’t mentor them inside classrooms or on sports fields, but in his small room at Radio Kashmir Srinagar, paying from his pocket for their tea, coffee, and snacks when others around him remained busy siphoning off money through corrupt practices.

Qaisar stood at the back, guarding the invisible values that rarely make the news, while others sprinted into the spotlight. He didn’t chase applause. He stayed behind, took the hits, and put in the hard yards. His was a career of presence, a career of excellence, not performance.

Isn’t journalism also about those who got censored, not just those who shouted?

In a world addicted to the auction price of art, I am the one who pauses at the sight of Masood Hussain.

Who still remembers the unnamed papier-mâché artisan in Alamgari Bazaar, carving out a legacy in silence?

Isn’t art also about those who didn’t sell, but felt?

In science, those who discover genetic structure, map genomes, develop vaccines, and detect gravitational waves are rewarded. But what about the achievement of a teacher in Shopian who spent from his pocket to take children on a Kashmir tour? No grants. No labs. Just passion and dedication.

Isn’t science also about the questions that never got asked?

I often think of the boy from Nowhatta who played soccer barefoot till dusk on a dirt field punctured with stones and stray dogs. He had no manager and no diet chart. But he had a dream, and the kind of fire that burns quietly. He never made it to the I-League. He never made it to the J&K team. One day, he stepped on glass and never played again. No newspaper covered his injury. No thoughts and prayers X posts. He just stopped. Now he sells fruits on a cart near Jamia Masjid. But if you ask him, he will pull out a faded photograph of himself mid-kick.

“I was good,” he says. “I think I was really good.”

I believe him.

Our measurement of worth is broken.

We celebrate those who scale, disrupt, monetise, and dominate.

But we rarely pause for those who persist quietly.

We call it failure when someone doesn’t reach the top.

But maybe they weren’t climbing at all. Maybe they were rooting themselves.

In a world where start-ups pitch and pivot, I think of the artisan from Kalashpora who restores tools his grandfather used. He refuses modern shortcuts. He refuses to scale.

“What would I do with more money?” he asks. “I have enough to live comfortably.”

We call that underachievement. He calls it wisdom.

In a world chasing unicorns, he is building a memory.

Even in literature, the hunger to be seen has become a hunger to be sold. Writers write for prizes now. Readers read what algorithms recommend.

Isn’t literature also about the stories that were never written?

When I was younger, failure wore a distinct scent. In our school, the top boy, top girl, monitor, and prefect marched in parades. The rest of us dissolved into benches. But later, I learned that the most interesting people I knew had failed at something yet persisted.

A girl in Sopore wanted to be a scientist. She topped her exams and earned a scholarship. She even received an admission letter from a university in the United Kingdom. But her father’s illness forced her back. She now teaches local kids, explaining the solar system and photosynthesis.

She says, “I couldn’t become a scientist. But maybe one of them will.”

There’s a grace in that. We need more of that. Because we are losing our grace.

Walking through Khanyar, I passed a wall where someone once painted in rough black letters: ‘Hum Bhi Thay.’ Faded by rain and time, the words are almost gone now. But each time I see those faded words, I pause. Because that’s what this is. Isn’t it? A record of those who didn’t make it but mattered anyway.

The boy who sang alone in his room. The woman whose poetry no one published. The craftsman who carved prayers into walnut wood and called it labour.

Today, we reward those who win fast, those who brand themselves.

So, in a world full of Messis and Ronaldos, I believe in Maldini because life, too, needs defenders. And sometimes, life is not just about those who score the goal. It’s also about the ones who pass. It is also about the ones who wait.

Life is also about those who miss the kick.

The author is Senior Editor, Greater Kashmir