A Child's 'More.. More' and the Adult Choir of Hatred

I sat just far enough from the screen that the dark room in Da Nang did not rob me of the only sound worth hearing: the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán stands rumbling like a sea before a storm. That night, a seventeen-year-old boy named Lamine Yamal missed a shot. The ball flew over the bar. The whole stadium erupted. And the boy turned, waved his hand lightly, muttering two words that every camera in Europe would capture within three seconds: 'more.. more.' At sixty-seven, I have sat through countless matches, heard countless threats from the stands, and witnessed countless young players bow their heads in fear. But the way a child said 'more.. more' to a sea of people who wanted to swallow him — that is something I could not let pass without pause. Not because it was cool. Because it was sad. Behind those two words lies an entire football industry that has taught children that being hated is also a form of asset. And no one has taught them when to put that asset away. I watched this match from the first half, when Sevilla — the struggling hosts in the middle of the table — played the football of a man standing at the edge of a cliff. They did not hold much of the ball, but they knew what they needed: a moment, an error from the opponent, a roar to pull the stands toward them. Barcelona arrived as visitors for the seventh round of La Liga. Before the match, every number spoke of Raphinha — who had scored ten goals in just seven rounds. But football is a thing that cannot bear simplification, and I knew that a match at Sánchez Pizjuán was never just one story. In the seventeenth minute, Sevilla opened the scoring. The stands exploded. I saw on the faces of the adults in the front rows an emotion I recognized very clearly: hunger. Not hunger for goals. Hunger to be remembered. Sevilla had endured several difficult seasons, and every time a big club came here, the stands had to strain to prove they still existed. I do not blame them. At this age, I understand that a stadium is never frightening because it is big. It is frightening because it needs to be heard. Then Raphinha equalized. The goal came at a moment I watched four times, and each time I thought of something different. He did not score with a flamboyant touch. He scored with the patience of a man who has learned that at this level, chances do not come from magic, but from standing in the right place when others are tired. Ten goals in seven rounds. A milestone that, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would have thought was a statistical error. Raphinha has never been the type of player who made me believe in poetry. He is a man of numbers, of off-ball runs, of shots that are not beautiful but lethal. But precisely because of that, I began to see him with different eyes. For there is a kind of poetry that does not display itself in movement, but matures within achievement. And then the boy appeared. The boy did not score. The boy did not assist in this match. The boy took a shot, the ball flew over the bar, and the whole stadium laughed. That was when I understood that the real story of the match lay not in the one-all score, but in how a seventeen-year-old boy chose to respond to the laughter of twenty thousand adults. He turned. He raised his hand. He said 'more.. more.' And in that moment, I — a man who takes pride in being called too poetic on television, because the ball is poetry — realized I was no longer watching football. I was watching a child learn to become an adult with an adult's weapon: arrogance. Let us speak of arrogance seriously. In modern football, arrogance is no longer an individual's fault. It has become a commodity designed from the moment a player is not yet old enough to drink beer. If you look at how Europe's leading academies have trained youth over the past decade, you will see a consistent model: they teach technique, tactics, fitness. But they also teach — implicitly — that emotion on the pitch is not to be hidden, but displayed. A young player receives a high grade not only for running fast, dribbling well, shooting hard. He receives a high grade for generating content. And the best content is content that makes the stands think about him after the match ends. That boy did not need tactics; he needed someone to read the hunger of his ambition. But this time, the adults misread. Those who coach him, those who film him, those who edit his highlights for him — all focused on that defiant moment of waving and called it courage. No one asked the simplest question: if this were my son, would I want him to say that? And if the answer is no, why do we cheer when he does it to someone else's son? Let me tell you an old story. In 2026, when I was still wandering in stand B of Hòa Xuân Stadium, I sat in the wrong place because I was lost. It was the U19 SHB Da Nang versus U19 Hanoi match. The first half was so dull I was about to leave. But in the seventy-third minute, a young player named Đặng Văn Tới controlled the ball with the outside of his right foot and drew a curve like the letter S before the ball struck the post. I sat there, in the heat of central Vietnam, and asked myself what I had just seen. I did not know who the boy was. I only knew my heart beat fast as if I had heard a strange poem. After the match, I went home, searched the roster, watched the slow-motion video twelve times, and wrote the piece 'The Boy Who Drew an S on the Grass.' A few months later, I heard that the head coach of the national U19 team had read that article and called the boy up. That was not my doing. That was the doing of a moment I was lucky enough to witness and to tell properly. That story taught me something I have carried through all the years since: football is a match of small moments, and how we tell them decides who we become. If I told the story of Đặng Văn Tới by emphasizing that he was 'underrated,' I would turn him into a product of pity. If I told it by saying he 'showed courage,' I would turn him into a commercial product. But if I told it by letting the ball speak for itself, I would give him the most precious thing a young player can have: pure presence in the memory of the viewer. A rough gem does not need polishing — it only needs an eye patient enough to love it. And I wonder, when we watched Lamine Yamal that night at Sánchez Pizjuán, whether we were giving him that patient eye, or whether we were selling tickets to his emotions. This is where I must say the difficult thing. That 'more.. more' moment that every news outlet is publishing as an emblem of bravery — it did not come from the boy. It came from a system that has trained the boy that the opposing stands are not an enemy to avoid, but an audience to conquer. That system is not at fault with the fans. It is at fault with football. For it has turned the relationship between player and spectator — the most sacred relationship in this sport — into a seller-buyer relationship. The player sells emotion. The spectator buys emotion. And in the moment Yamal waved demanding more jeers, he was not confronting the stands. He was playing his role in a play he was never asked whether he wanted to join. There is a great journalist in this country with whom I once had coffee in Hanoi a few years ago, who told me something I have remembered ever since: 'Football does not raise children; it only illuminates them.' I agree with half of that. Football illuminates, but there are many kinds of light. There is light gentle enough for a child to sleep well. And there is light harsh enough that he can never close his eyes again. The question is not whether Yamal has talent — that is beyond debate. The question is: the light we are shining on him, what kind is it? In this annual season — a season that demands patience, when each round is a piece in a long story the table has not yet told — I see something concerning. European football is pushing seventeen, eighteen-year-old children onto the big stage at terrifying speed. And each time a young player shines, each time a moment like 'more.. more' goes viral, we unknowingly create pressure for the next child. Because now, to be noticed, a young player must not only be good. He must also have a controversial moment. He must have a gesture that makes people talk. He must create a content clip, not just a play. This is the largest blind spot in our collective memory about the younger generation. We always think we are protecting them by praising them. But praising arrogance is not protection. It is guidance. It is telling the child: 'You were right, do more of it, because the audience likes it.' And the child, trusting the adult, does more. Until one day the child does too much. And then the adults are the first to turn away. At sixty-seven, I still believe in magic, because I have seen a rough gem find itself in the mud. But that magic only comes when the gem is left alone for the craftsman to work. If the craftsman calls fans to watch the gem being polished every day, the gem will break before it takes shape. Let me tell one more story, because I want you to see that what I say does not come from cynicism about football. In 2026, I commentated on the World Cup quarter-final between Russia and Croatia on television. I called Luka Modric's pass 'a low cello note amid a snow-falling choir.' Social media immediately made memes, calling me 'a poet lost on the pitch.' Some said I was reciting poetry instead of commentating. I was not angry. I was used to being called poetic. Being called too poetic on television is something I take pride in — the ball is poetry. But the interesting thing came later. In extra time, when Domagoj Vida scored, I was silent for seven seconds. Seven seconds on live television is an enormous span. People thought I had a technical problem. Then I said: 'The Russians drown in their own winter, and the Croatians embrace the cold like a gift.' The sports channel director called me right after the match: 'Keep doing it that way. The audience hates it but keeps watching.' That was when I realized something I now want to tell young people in this profession: being different is your asset. But — and this is the most important 'but' — being different only has value when it comes from seeing what others do not see, not from trying to appear different. I was silent for seven seconds because I was genuinely moved, not because I wanted to create a pause to catch the audience. If I had done it to draw attention, it would have become a performance. And performances do not last long. That is exactly what I think about Yamal's 'more.. more' moment. If he did it because he truly believed in it, then it is courage. But if he did it because he was taught that it is the way to become the protagonist, then it is borrowed role-play. And a seventeen-year-old child, however talented, cannot tell the difference himself. Adults must tell the difference. Adults must say to him: 'If you want to say more.. more, say it because you believe. But if you are only acting, learn to be silent.' I have watched the situation many times. I noticed a detail few mention. When the boy turned to face the stands and waved, there was a moment — just a fraction of a second — when his face flashed with something very strange. Not arrogance. It was loneliness. The way he stood on the pitch, amid twenty thousand people, in the posture of someone who had just thrown away his shield. He was not provoking. He was defending himself. And the worst way for a child to defend himself is to pretend he does not need protection. Hòa Xuân Stadium was so quiet I could hear the ball sighing — that is a line I wrote years ago, and I keep it as a reminder that football, at its deepest level, is not noise. It is the silence between two noises. The child at Sánchez Pizjuán that night had not yet learned that. And I do not blame him. I blame us — the adults who built the stage and forgot that a child was standing on it. Now let us speak of Raphinha. I know you are waiting for me to talk about ten goals in seven rounds. But I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about the fact that Raphinha is a player I once did not believe in. Not because he was not good. But because his way of playing did not match my way of loving football. I love long passes, fantastical touches, shots from impossible angles. Raphinha plays efficient football. He picks the right position, runs at the right tempo, shoots at the right time. And for years I looked at him with the eyes of a poetry reader looking at an accountant. But this season, I have had to change. Ten goals in seven rounds is an achievement that, if I had not watched it live, I would not believe. And what changed my perspective was not the number. It was how he scored those goals. Raphinha this season is no longer a man waiting for the ball. He is a man seeking the ball. He moves before his teammates realize who they need to pass to. He places himself in spaces the opponent only recognizes after the goal has been scored. That is a quiet intelligence, and I have begun to see in it a kind of poetry I had long missed. There is a saying in commentary circles that I deeply dislike: 'He scores because he was born to score.' No one is born to score. Ten goals in seven rounds does not come from instinct. It comes from analyzing opponents, from repeating training runs that earn no points, from understanding that at this level, success is a chain of small decisions the eye cannot see. Raphinha does those things. And I, at sixty-seven, am learning to love it. But — again the 'but' — I must also be honest that ten goals in seven rounds is an unsustainable number. Football history teaches us that such starts rarely last to the end of the season. That does not mean Raphinha will stop scoring. It only means that this pace, by statistical law, will slow. And when it slows — perhaps at round fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five — someone will begin to doubt him. Someone will say he is 'finished.' Someone will say he was 'only a flash.' That is when I want to return to the story of Đặng Văn Tới at Hòa Xuân in 2026. A rough gem does not need polishing — it only needs an eye patient enough to love it. But people usually reserve that patient eye for the gem only while it still sparkles. When it dims, they turn away. And here is my counterintuitive view of everything happening in La Liga this season. We — football lovers, journalists, people sitting before screens — are in the middle of a silent revolution more devastating than any tactical shift: a revolution that turns players into content and audiences into content consumers. Yamal's arrogance is not the arrogance of an individual. It is the product of an ecosystem. Raphinha's brilliance is not just a player's achievement. It is a piece in the story marketers need to sell tickets. The one-all draw at Sánchez Pizjuán is not a match. It is an episode. I do not say this to criticize. I say it so you can see that this is what is happening, and we have no right to pretend it does not affect how we feel about football. Twenty years ago, when a young player said something to the opposing stands, it was just an event. Today, it is an event accompanied by twelve analysis pieces, thirty reaction videos, and thousands of tweets. The pressure is not in what the boy said. It is in what the whole world will say about what he said. There is something I, as a man who has worked in sports journalism for over fifty years, must confess. We — the media — are part of the problem. We report on moments like 'more.. more' not because they matter to football, but because they matter to views. We know that a young player in conflict with the stands will generate controversy. And controversy generates engagement. We tell ourselves we are reporting, but the truth is we are amplifying. And each time we amplify such a moment, we teach the next generation of players that this is the way to be noticed. I am not saying we should be silent. I am saying we should tell it right. And telling it right, in this case, means placing that moment in the context of a seventeen-year-old being screamed at by twenty thousand adults. It means asking why the stands chose the boy as a target. It means seeing in the boy not a controversial figure, but a human being trying to survive in an environment not designed to protect him. The match at Sánchez Pizjuán had one strange thing. After the final whistle, as the players left the pitch, I saw Yamal walking alone toward the tunnel. No teammate patted his shoulder. No coach approached. The boy walked alone, with the gait of someone long accustomed to having to look after himself. And I asked myself: if I were his father, what would I say then? I think I would say nothing. I would simply walk beside him, close enough that he knew he was not alone. But at the professional level of football, no one has time to walk beside a player. There are only managers, agents, media people, and targets ahead. That is why I say the real story of this match is not the one-all score. It is not Raphinha's ten goals. It is not Yamal's shot over the bar. It is the moment the boy walked alone toward the tunnel. And in that moment, football — the sport I have spent my life loving — appeared to me as something both beautiful and cruel. Beautiful because it gives a seventeen-year-old child the chance to stand among twenty thousand people and be seen. Cruel because it gives him no instruction on how to stand. I remember once interviewing a lottery-ticket seller near Hòa Xuân Stadium. He had sold tickets outside the gates for over twenty years, long enough to see many young players come and go. I asked him who he remembered most. He said a name I had never heard. 'He played well, uncle. But he did not become a star. Because he smiled too much.' I did not understand. He explained: 'Smiling while playing means not concentrating. Coaches do not like it. But he smiled because he loved playing, that is all.' That was one of the biggest lessons I learned outside the pitch. Sometimes what keeps a person from stardom is just a smile in the right place. Or a word at the right time. Or a 'more.. more' moment among twenty thousand people. I do not know what Lamine Yamal's future holds. No one does. He has everything to become one of the greatest players football has ever seen. But he also has everything to become an icon burned by the very light we are shining on him. What decides is not the boy's talent. Talent is not lacking. What decides is whether we — the adults watching — are wise enough to know when to applaud and when to be silent. I think about that a lot, especially in this annual-season phase, when each round is a chapter and each chapter can be read in many different ways. Football does not have a single story. It has countless stories, and the story that gets told shapes how we understand those who take part. The story I chose to tell that night at Sánchez Pizjuán is the story of a child learning to say 'more.. more' to a world that has no intention of hearing him say anything else. And when I tell that story, I remember the old story of Đặng Văn Tới at Hòa Xuân. The boy drew an S on the grass with a curve of the ball. Ten years later, what might he be? I do not know. But I know one thing: he had a moment I was lucky enough to witness, and the way I told it helped preserve it in the memory of at least one person. Football does not live on trophies. It lives on moments told rightly. And at sixty-seven, I am still learning to tell rightly — every day, with every match, with every child who steps onto the big stage without knowing where he is stepping. There is one thing I want young readers of this piece to carry. When you watch a young player do something that surprises you — whether a fantastical pass or a controversial gesture — ask yourself one question only: 'Did this come from him, or from us?' If the answer is from us, then be careful how you report it. Because we are not just telling the story of football. We are writing the first chapters of a human life, and no manuscript allows revision after printing. At Sánchez Pizjuán, a child said 'more.. more.' No one knows what he truly wanted when he said it. Perhaps he wanted the stands to roar louder. Perhaps he wanted to prove he was not afraid. Perhaps he was only trying to remember a phrase someone once taught him in a locker room. But whatever he wanted, one thing is certain: he will remember that moment for life. My question — the question I leave with you, without an answer — is: how will we remember it? As an emblem of youthful courage? Or as an echo of an era that taught children the only way to survive amid screams is to scream louder? I have no answer. At this age, I no longer believe in easy answers. I only believe in continuing to watch, to listen, and to write — because that is the only way I know to keep the ball breathing. The Sánchez Pizjuán stadium fell silent when the match ended. But the 'more.. more' of a child still rings in my head, even now, as I write these lines in Da Nang, half a world away, with a cup of tea gone cold beside me.