Ansu Fati wasn’t supposed to fade away. He was supposed to shine, to carry Barcelona into a new era, to start every game not just because there’s no other player to fill in, but because he was that good.
Ansu Fati wasn’t just promising, he was a baller. A spark in a club gasping for light.
And I hated it.
Not because he was bad. No, far from it. I hated it because I’m a Real Madrid fan, and we had just gotten rid of Messi. For over a decade, that man tormented us, broke our hearts, shattered our records, and ruined good weekends.
Then finally, finally, he was gone. Barcelona were broke, bruised, and broken. The sky was clearing.
Then came this kid.
He wore number 31, then suddenly 10. He dribbled like a ghost. Scored like he had ice in his veins. Carried the swagger of someone who hadn’t yet learned fear. And in just a handful of games, Ansu Fati had Real Madrid fans holding their breath again.
But somewhere along the way, the magic flickered. Injuries crept in. The rhythm left. The fire dimmed.
And now, what we’re left with is a haunting story of what could have been.
Ansu Fati was supposed to be their next golden boy. Their next Messi. Instead, what we’ve watched over the last few years is one of the most painful declines in recent memory, a slow unraveling of a story that began with fireworks and ended with whispers.
The Dream Debut – A Meteoric Rise
Back in 2019, Barcelona was a strange team. Messi was injured. Suarez was aging. There was confusion in the dressing room and dysfunction on the pitch. But amidst the fog, a teenage boy emerged.
He made his La Liga debut against Real Betis and immediately showed that he wasn’t like most young debutants. He played like he belonged, moving across the pitch with an energy that Barcelona fans had missed.
He was the second-youngest debutant in club history, but his maturity betrayed that number.
A week later, he scored. Not just a tap-in or a fluke. He leaped and guided a header into the far corner like he had done it a thousand times before. With that, he became the youngest goalscorer in Barcelona’s long, glorious history.
Against Valencia, Fati was unleashed from the start.
He needed just seven minutes to stamp his name all over the match – scoring one and assisting another in a dazzling display of youth unchained. Barcelona won 5–2, but the night belonged to a teenager wearing the number 31 who played like a star.
His fairytale didn’t end there. When Barcelona played Inter Milan in the Champions League, Fati came off the bench and struck a winner that carved his name into history – the youngest ever goalscorer in the Champions League.
He was just 17.
He was fearless, full of flair, and unshackled by pressure. While defenders hesitated, Fati flew. While others played safe, he danced into danger and came out alive.
And for a brief moment, it felt like Barcelona had found another miracle.
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Injuries – The Cruel Detour
Then came the cruelty of sport. The part where fairytales take a darker turn. In November 2020, Fati suffered a torn meniscus in his left knee.
At first, it didn’t seem too serious. Players bounce back from these things. But for Ansu, it was the beginning of a nightmare.
Barcelona, desperate to get their golden boy back, rushed his rehab. The knee swelled. Pain persisted. A second surgery followed. Then a third. Each time, the same story – hope, recovery, relapse. It was a cycle that stripped him of rhythm and stole entire seasons.
He missed the rest of the 2020–21 campaign. Then parts of the next. Every time he looked ready, a new niggle would come. Every time the crowd believed, he would disappear again.
By now, fans had started wondering – is he cursed?
It wasn’t superstition. It was mismanagement, impatience, and the brutal reality of modern soccer, where a young player is expected to heal like a robot and perform like a veteran.
By the time he returned, the game had moved. So had Barcelona. New faces. New systems. Less space for someone trying to rediscover his feet.
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The No. 10 Shirt – Blessing or Burden?
Giving Ansu Fati the number 10 shirt after Messi left was seen as a sign of faith. Maybe it was. But maybe it was also a curse.
No one should have had to carry that burden. Not at 18. Not after a year-long injury. Not after watching your idol walk away from the club in tears. But Fati wore it. Smiled through it. Tried to live up to it.
But how do you live up to Messi? You don’t.
You just get crushed by the weight of expectation. The comparisons. The pressure. Every missed shot becomes a statement. Every substitution, a headline.
And soon, Fati went from being the new Messi to being just another player struggling for minutes.
A Premier League Experiment – A Detour Gone Wrong
In 2023, Fati needed a new start. Somewhere fresh. Somewhere forgiving. Brighton seemed like a curious choice, but also a smart one. A club that nurtures young players. A manager who believes in development. A style that could suit his flair.
But it didn’t work.
He made 19 appearances. Started just three games. Scored four times. There were flickers of the old Fati – a darting run, a cheeky finish, a dribble into space. But the rhythm wasn’t there. The confidence wasn’t there. The freedom? Gone.
Injuries returned, too, haunting him like an echo. The Premier League’s pace and physicality didn’t allow for soft landings. And Brighton, despite their patience, couldn’t make it work.
By the end of the season, he looked like a player out of place. A boy was trying to find his way back to the spotlight, but every road led to nowhere.
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Return to Barcelona – But Not to the Team
When Fati returned to Barcelona after his Brighton spell, there was no homecoming celebration. No banner. No excitement. Just uncertainty.
The team had changed. Lamine Yamal was now the new young sensation. The fans had moved on. The system had evolved. Fati, once a diamond in the making, now looked like a leftover gem that no one knew what to do with.
He sat on the bench. Sometimes, not even there. Training, waiting, fading.
And yet, he is only 22.
Monaco – A Glimmer of What Could Be
Now, he has moved to AS Monaco. A club less glamorous, but a place with patience. A place where young players can grow again without being in the constant gaze of the world.
Maybe it’s the right move. Maybe the slow winds of the French Riviera can help him breathe again. Recover. Rebuild. Reignite.
Because the talent never left. It’s just been buried under pain, pressure, and poor management.
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A Tragic Reminder of Football’s Brutality
Ansu Fati is not just a story of a young player who lost his way. He is a mirror to the modern game’s cruel side. The side where wonderkids are treated like machines. Where injuries are seen as weaknesses. Where expectations drown joy.
His rise was meteoric. His fall, painfully human.
He went from a boy who made grown men gasp in disbelief to a man struggling to find his place on a bench. From Messi’s heir to a name barely whispered in Barcelona’s plans.
And yet, there is still hope.
Hope that Monaco will be his revival. That football, in all its madness, will give him a second act. A quieter one, maybe. But beautiful in its way.
Hope that his name won’t end as a “what if,” but as a story of resilience. A reminder that brilliance doesn’t fade. It just sometimes takes longer to find the light again.
And for those of us who watched him play through defenders at 16, the memory lingers. Ansu Fati, the boy who made the game look easy. The boy who wore the number 10. The boy who still might come good.
If football has taught us anything, it’s that the game always gives one more chance. Let’s hope Ansu gets his.
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