Unpacking the GOAT Meaning in Football: Who Truly Deserves the Title?

The debate over the GOAT—the Greatest Of All Time—in football is one of those beautiful, endless conversations that fuels the sport. It’s more than just stats and trophies; it’s about legacy, impact, and that intangible magic that separates the great from the truly transcendent. As someone who has spent years analyzing the game, both as a fan and from a more professional standpoint, I’ve always found the criteria for this title fascinatingly fluid. It shifts with eras, personal biases, and the ever-evolving nature of the sport itself. And sometimes, you find poignant reflections of this monumental debate in the most unexpected places, like the aspirations of a rising star. Just the other day, I was reading about RJ Abarrientos, who, after winning a Rookie of the Year award for the second time in his young professional career, openly stated his hope that a championship comes next. That simple statement, that clear hierarchy of goals—individual accolade first, now the ultimate team prize—encapsulates a fundamental layer of the GOAT argument. It reminds us that while individual brilliance sparks the conversation, it is often team glory that cements the legend.

Let’s break down the usual suspects, shall we? For many, the conversation begins and ends with Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. Their two-decade dominance is statistically absurd. Messi, with his 7 Ballon d’Or awards and over 800 career goals, weaves magic that feels preordained. Ronaldo, with his 5 Ballons d’Or and a similar goal tally, embodies a relentless, machine-like pursuit of greatness. I have a personal preference here—I’ve always been drawn to the artistry of Messi, the way he seems to solve physics problems on the pitch with a drop of the shoulder. But to claim either is the undisputed GOAT does a disservice to history. It ignores the foundational giants. Pelé’s claim isn’t just about his 1,283 career goals (a figure often debated, but one that stands as a monument in the record books); it’s about being the first global football icon, winning three World Cups, and defining the sport for a generation. Diego Maradona’s 1986 World Cup is perhaps the single most dominant individual tournament performance I’ve ever studied, a mix of divine skill and sheer force of will that carried a nation. To dismiss them because they played in a different, less globally televised era is, in my opinion, a shallow take. The game was tougher, the pitches worse, the protection for skilful players minimal. Their genius was contextual.

This brings me to a crucial point: the championship factor. Abarrientos’s longing for a title after his rookie award highlights a universal truth in team sports. Individual awards are validating, but legends are forged in the crucible of team success, especially on the biggest stages. For all his club dominance, Ronaldo’s international trophy with Portugal in 2016 was a monumental piece of his legacy puzzle. Messi’s narrative was arguably incomplete until that magical night in 2021 when he finally lifted the Copa América, followed by the 2022 World Cup—a victory that, for countless pundits and fans, settled the modern debate. Zinedine Zidane, while perhaps not having the longevity of stats, is eternally revered for his performances in World Cup and Champions League finals. His 1998 World Cup final, where he scored twice, and his 2002 Champions League final volley are not just highlights; they are arguments. They speak to an ability to own the most pressurized moments. That’s a GOAT-quality trait. You can have all the regular-season brilliance, but without those defining championship moments, the claim feels thinner. It’s why, despite his otherworldly talent and a Ballon d’Or, I’ve always felt a tinge of sadness when considering George Best’s legacy—a meteor of skill whose team and international stage never fully allowed his light to shine as brightly as it could have on the GOAT podium.

Then there’s the question of influence and reinvention. Johan Cruyff never won a World Cup, but he arguably changed how football is played. His philosophy birthed modern Barcelona and influenced the entire sport’s tactical landscape. That’s a different kind of greatness—a systemic, intellectual one. Does that make him a GOAT candidate? For me, absolutely. The title shouldn’t be reserved only for the most prolific scorers or decorated winners. It can also belong to the most transformative. Looking at goalkeepers, Lev Yashin, the only keeper to win a Ballon d’Or (1963), revolutionized the position. Gianluigi Buffon’s longevity and aura define an era of defensive excellence. Do they get a seat at this table? I believe they must. The specialization of the game means our GOAT discussions need to be more nuanced. Perhaps we need to think in categories: the attacking GOAT, the defensive GOAT, the tactical GOAT. But human nature craves a single champion.

So, who truly deserves the title? After years of watching, analyzing, and arguing, I’ve come to a perhaps unsatisfying but honest conclusion: there isn’t one. Or rather, there are several, each reigning over their own domain. Pelé is the GOAT of achievement and global pioneering. Maradona is the GOAT of peak performance and mythological impact. Messi is the GOAT of sustained, artistic excellence. Ronaldo is the GOAT of athletic dedication and goal-scoring relentlessness. Cruyff is the GOAT of philosophical influence. We are blessed to have witnessed so many claim a version of the crown. The beauty is in the debate itself, a testament to the sport’s rich tapestry. It’s a conversation that connects eras, much like RJ Abarrientos’s current rookie award connects to his future championship dreams. Each generation has its heroes, its standards, and its own answer to the question. And as long as young talents keep dreaming of turning individual recognition into collective glory, the cycle of creating new legends—and thus, new GOAT arguments—will continue forever. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.