Iván Luis Zamorano
The legendary Chilean striker, famously nicknamed 'Bam Bam', was a force to be reckoned with during his playing days. Zamorano spent two seasons with Sevilla, from 1990 to 1992. While his time at the club may seem short, with only 59 La Liga appearances and 21 goals, those numbers don't tell the full story. To fans raised in the era of record-smashing machines like Messi and Ronaldo, those stats might seem, at first glance, a little underwhelming. But back in his time, Zamorano was anything but average — in fact, he was one of the most efficient and respected strikers in world football.
His sharp eye for goal and lethal finishing made him a standout forward. So much so that after his stint at Sevilla, he secured a move to Spanish giants Real Madrid — a testament to his rising reputation. There, he didn't just warm the bench or fill the squad — he dominated. Zamorano went on to win major honors, including being crowned the top scorer in La Liga, proving that his time in Sevilla was just the beginning of his ascent to the top.
For today's generation, though, some might remember him best not just for his goals, but for a hilarious episode during his time at Inter Milan. Picture this: three footballing titans — Ronaldo Nazário, Roberto Baggio, and Iván Zamorano — all arriving at the same club, and all wanting the sacred number 9 jersey. What followed was a behind-the-scenes number battle worthy of a Netflix documentary. Ronaldo wanted the 9. Baggio wanted the 10. But Zamorano, who had already made that number his identity, wasn't letting go without a fight.
Eventually, the club had to step in. The solution? They gave Ronaldo the 9 and Baggio the 10. Zamorano? Well, the man didn't sulk — he got creative. He took the number 18… and then, in one of the most iconic jersey modifications in football history, he added a plus sign between the digits. That's right — he literally wore a shirt that read 1+8, making sure everyone knew he was still "9" in spirit. If that's not elite striker confidence, what is?
Beyond the jersey drama, Zamorano was known for more than just his funny anecdotes and goal-scoring touch. His game was built on excellent positioning, relentless work rate, intelligent off-the-ball movement, and a ferocious hunger to win. But more than anything else, what truly elevated Iván Zamorano above the rest — the skill that made him unforgettable — was his… aerial prowess.
Zamorano, standing at just 5 feet 10 inches, wasn't exactly the most intimidating figure at first glance — but in the air, he was a dominant force of nature. A machine wired for aerial warfare.
His explosive vertical leap allowed him to soar above defenders who were half a head taller. He could rise like a coiled spring unleashed, muscles firing in perfect synchronization. His timing was near-perfect, as if he had an internal metronome that clicked with every cross and corner. While others waited, Zamorano attacked the ball, storming toward it with the ferocity of a man possessed. His goal conversion in the air was elite — countless goals came from whipped-in crosses and deadly set-pieces. And above all, his bravery was unmatched. He never flinched, never pulled back — not even when it meant risking a clash of heads or a boot to the face. He wanted it more.
Zamorano was, quite simply, an aerial beast.
"He was one of the best headers of the ball of his time."
"Zamorano would throw himself at crosses with zero fear."
"In the air, he was a monster — short but could jump like hell."
Those were just a few of the words spoken by fellow players, defenders, pundits, and fans alike. Iván Luis Zamorano might not be a household name like his former teammate Ronaldo Nazário, and he may not be as widely celebrated for his heading ability as Peter Crouch, Van Basten, Zlatan, or especially Cristiano Ronaldo, but anyone who watched him knew: he was lethal in the air. A true master. And among strikers under 6 feet tall, there was no question — Zamorano stood shoulder to shoulder with the best aerial threats in the history of football.
For a player like Mateo, who shared a similar build — standing at an average height of just 5 feet 8 inches — discovering this was nothing short of a revelation. A gift.
As he stood silently on the pitch during the pre-match handshakes, the crowd a blur and noise fading in the background, Mateo was somewhere else — deep in thought. His body was going through the motions, but in his mind, he was locked in, absorbing every bit of information about the former Sevilla striker.
At just 17 years old, even though Mateo was a football fanatic who had studied the game and knew about its legendary figures, this was the first time he had come across the name Iván Zamorano — and he couldn't deny it, he was hooked. The stats, the highlights, the legacy — it all impressed him. But what truly sent his heartbeat into overdrive was what happened next: the impact the "Sign-In" system had.
His Header stat jumped from 70(75) to a jaw-dropping 85(90).
His Shot Power ticked up from 86(90) to 87(92).
Even his Attack Power received a bump — now 85(92) from 83(91).
Mateo stared at the numbers in awe. Not even a flicker of disappointment that he hadn't received a stamina boost. Not a second of regret. Because all his thoughts were now on just one thing — how dangerous he had suddenly become.
In an era where old-school aerial threats were becoming a rarity, Mateo was now one of the few — and with an 85-rated heading ability, he was confident he ranked among the best in the world. To think… someone who was once terrible at headers was now a certified nightmare in the air. The idea alone made him grin like a fool.
He couldn't help it — the excitement, the joy… it was overflowing.
While the match was about to start at Sevilla's stadium, just 12 miles away From Camp nou in a sun-soaked Mediterranean-style mansion nestled on the outskirts of Barcelona, Lionel Messi was at home, lounging with his family.
Messi had been handed a four-match ban. And while many assumed he'd be in the stands to support his teammates, the truth was more personal, more emotional. He couldn't. Not because he didn't want to cheer them on—he desperately did. But whenever he showed up, even without meaning to, his presence alone seemed to weigh on the team. They looked to him too often, deferred to him, sometimes froze when he wasn't the one taking charge. It reminded him of a Champions League night years ago, when the team stalled until he stood up to do everything himself—and they lost anyway.
But more than that, Messi couldn't bear watching from the sidelines, helpless. He wasn't injured. He was fit, ready, and in the prime of his form—but benched by circumstances beyond his control. It was a different kind of pain.
"Mateo! Mateo, vení para acá ahora mismo!" Antonela shouted from the hallway, her voice echoing through the mansion. Her voice had that playful yet warning tone only mothers could perfect.
Messi's middle son, Mateo, predictably, did not come. Instead, the five-year-old darted down the hallway in his Barcelona pyjamas, cackling with pure mischief, a toy lightsaber in one hand and a juice box in the other.
"¡Mateo, pará! The match is starting!" Thiago, the eldest, yelled from the living room, sounding way older than his eight years.
"They're going to beat Barcelona!" Mateo hollered back gleefully, poking his tongue out at his older brother before dashing behind the couch.
"What did you just say?" Thiago snapped, leaping up from the carpet. "Daddy! Mateo said Barça's going to lose!"
Lying comfortably on the couch was Messi himself, shirtless in sweatpants, a bowl of popcorn beside him. Three-year-old Ciro lay on his chest, giggling and fiddling with Messi's beard as if it were playdough.
Messi looked up, amused. "Mateo," he called out, his voice calm but playful. "Come here. You need to see your second. His name is also Mateo."
The name alone seemed to spark interest. Mateo peeked over the couch like a curious raccoon. "There's a player called Mateo?"
Thiago chimed in, eyes wide with excitement. "Yes! And he's really fast. Last game he scored three goals and won it for Barça. He's amazing!"
Mateo dropped everything he was holding—juice, lightsaber, and all—and rushed to the screen like it was calling him by name.
Antonela seized the moment.
"¡Te tengo ahora!" she laughed, grabbing him mid-run and lifting him off the ground.
"Nooo! Nooo!" Mateo squealed, squirming in her arms as the whole room broke into laughter. Even Ciro let out a squeaky laugh as Messi bounced him a little.
"That's him," Messi chuckled, pointing to the screen. "That's the other Mateo."
Mother and son turned their heads at once.
It was the first time Antonela had seen this new player. She'd missed the last match and hadn't yet watched the highlights. Her schedule was packed. But now, watching the young star up close on the high-def screen, something about his features made her freeze.
There was something—no, some things—about him. The structure of the jaw. The lines of the nose. The relaxed but fiery expression in his eyes. They were familiar.
Without hesitation, young Mateo voiced what his mother only dared to think.
"He looks like you, Daddy," he said plainly.
Messi blinked. "Ehn? Is that so?"
Antonela's gaze didn't leave the screen. "Yes," she added softly, still analyzing the boy's face. "He looks… very much like you."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. The resemblance was there—undeniably so. His features were more defined, sharper, but they were Messi's. Somehow. Somewhere.
"How old is he?" she asked suddenly, her eyes still fixed.
Messi, oblivious to her line of thought, smiled proudly. "He's 17. But the way he plays, he might already be better than me at that age."
The kids gasped.
"What? Even better than you, Dad?" Thiago and Mateo blurted out at the same time.
For two boys raised on bedtime stories of La Masia, El Clásicos, Ballon d'Ors, and their father's endless highlight reels, hearing him praise someone else like that—it was world-shaking.
Messi smiled warmly, tousling Thiago's hair. "Just watch. This game's going to be tough. Sevilla are really strong this season."
Even Antonela raised an eyebrow. Her husband was famously careful with compliments. She couldn't remember the last time he praised a player this openly.
The screen suddenly zoomed in on the young player—Mateo—just as he was laughing with a teammate before kick-off. And not just laughing. He had the goofiest, most innocent smile on his face.
Antonela tilted her head, amused. "Well… he doesn't seem to know it's a tough game."
Messi chuckled. "I guess not."
And for the first time all evening, his shoulders loosened a little. That smile from the boy—so fearless, so joyful—tugged something inside him. It made the weight of not being at Game just a little easier to carry.
A/N
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