A Beautiful Suffering

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I have to give a big hug to my mother. 

Without her, none of this would have happened. I would not be a Premier League champion. I certainly would not be a World Cup champion. Maybe you would not even know my name. 

In December 2020, I got on FaceTime with her, and I was sobbing. I was at my flat in Brighton, and she was back home in Buenos Aires. I had lost my head.  

I said, “Mum, I can’t do it anymore. I’m coming home. I need to get out of here.” 

At the time, I was barely playing for Brighton. It was embarrassing, because I had the No. 10 shirt for a Premier League club, which is the dream of so many kids in Argentina, but I was a nobody. My name was nothing. I thought that I was cursed.

When I first moved over to England from Boca Juniors at the beginning of 2020, I came on as a sub for one match, and a few days later, the world came to a stop. COVID. Bang. Everything shut down. No football. No friends. And the worst part was that I was stuck in a country where I didn’t speak the language. I actually started taking basic English classes over Zoom. 

“Hola. Hello. My name is Alexis. How are you? Nice weather today we are having. Mucho rain.” 

“Good, good. Say it again.” 

“Hello. My name is Alexis….” 

Hahaha. So depressing. 

As footballers, we always say that you become a man very early. But in other ways, you’re still a boy. I was calling my mom on FaceTime every day, asking how to turn on the oven and where to put the detergent. And being alone, without playing, you get depressed. Many don't know this, but by that Christmas, with no fans in the stadiums, I had my bags packed. Literally, they were packed. I had two offers to leave — one from Russia and another from Spain, and my mind was made up. My mom was back in Buenos Aires, and I called her one day crying my eyes out, telling her, “I quit. I can’t do this anymore.” 

But moms…. They always know what to say, don’t they? 

No matter how old you are, you’re still a little kid when you’re talking to your mom. She took me back to the times when I was playing in the backyard every day with my brothers. At the start of summer, the grass would be completely green and smooth and perfectly cut, and by the end of the summer it turned into a brown mud pit from us trying to kill one another with sliding tackles. 

1 v 1 v 1. Total war. 

One brother with a gashed toe, another brother with a cut cheek, another brother with a bloody forehead. 

“Hey, don’t go crying to Mom, Ale! It’s only blood.” 

Whenever someone missed a shot very badly, we’d scream out, “Costacurta!!!!”

(A little joke for the Boca fans.) 

Growing up, whenever the teachers asked me what profession I wanted to be, I would just look at them like they were crazy.

“What job? What do you mean? Footballer, footballer, footballer.”

Most people think it’s because my father is El Colorado — “the Redhead”—  and he is a Boca legend. But honestly, my father could have been a plumber, and I would have still been obsessed. I remember one of the first times he took me and my brothers to La Bombonera to watch a match.

It took us about an hour to walk the last two blocks. Everyone stopped him, asking for a photo, an autograph, wanting to talk to him…. That was the beginning of all the passion, starting to understand what my dad, the footballer player, was all about. It was the beginning of the whole journey. 

But man, I was such a little savage. If there was a player who messed up, well … what do you do? Maybe you curse at them, right? 

So that’s what I did. 

I must have been 6 years old. Just imitating what I was hearing, you know? 

“¡Dale pelotudo! Asshole!! Pass the ball!!” 

Hahahahah. What can I say? I was passionate?

Then my dad finally had enough. He told me, “Ale, stop. You want to be out there some day, right?”

I said, “Yes. Of course.” 

He said, “It looks so easy from way up here. You have no idea what it feels like to actually be out there. I never want to hear you curse a player again.” 

When my dad says something to me, I listen. 

I stuck my tail between my legs, and I apologised. (And to this day, I only curse at the TV in the privacy of my home – hahaha.) 

My dad made a deal with me. He said, “I’m never going to ask you to do a million things. All I’m asking you to do is choose one thing. Whatever that thing is, always do it with passion.” 

The same deal he had struck with my brothers.

As teenagers, we all played for Argentinos Juniors, and we’d drive the 90 minutes every day to training in a black Ford Ka, 1.6 litre. You’d turn on the air conditioner on a hot day and it wouldn’t start. We called it La Cuca — the cockroach. If you thought we were driving Audis then you clearly don’t know our dad. No, we were blessed, of course, but the blessing of El Colorado had its limits. We passed La Cuca down from my oldest brother, Francis, to Kevin to then finally to me, and we drove 10 million miles in that thing. All I wanted to do was listen to reggaeton but my brothers got really into La Mona Jiménez one summer. I love his music, but that’s all I ever heard. To me, that’s still “the sound of football.” 

Ramito de Violetas….

Beso a beso…..

Three Mac Allisters in a Ford Ka, cruising on the highway, with La Mona blasting ….

My God. 

“Come on, let me play my music! Just one time!”

“Shut up, little bro. Respect your elders!”

I was so nostalgic for those times when I was in Brighton, all alone, sitting on the bench. The grass is always greener, isn’t it? I wanted to go home so bad. But my mum made me see the light. 

“Ale, remember how much you always wanted this? Remember La Cuca? You have to be brave. You can’t quit now.” 

Can you imagine if I had left for Spain? For Russia? I would be an answer in one of those pub quizzes they have in England.

 “Next question: who was the Argentinian guy with the Irish name who played 15 games for Brighton?” 

“Ahhhh, damn. Who was that guy? Mac something… What happened to him?”

But no, that was not my fate. My mom saved me. 

After Christmas, we had so many injuries at Brighton that they basically had no option but to play me. I think a lot of people were probably watching Match of the Day saying, “Who is this Mac Allister guy? Is he Scottish? He’s from Argentina? What?! The kid with the ginger beard?!” 

When I scored two against Everton in January 2022, it felt like everything clicked for me. It reminds me of a story my dad told me when I was a kid. He really struggled at first when he played for Boca. He was having a miserable time, and he couldn’t figure out what the problem was. He had tried everything to change his luck. One day, the last thing he could think of was to change his studs to the longest he could find. 

And then he started playing with the knife between the teeth, as we say in Spanish. 

He became a hardman. You needed to kill him in order to get past him. He still can’t even explain why, but the boots changed his whole mentality. Every player has that click. For me, it was that day at Goodison. I became something different. 

We were 11 months from the World Cup, and I remember my dad telling me, “Ale, if you keep starting in the Premier League, you’re going to make the Argentina squad.”

And literally, I was telling him, “Dad, you’re crazy. They’re a tight knit group. They just won Copa America. It’s impossible.”

“Ale, I’m telling you….”

He’s very into statistics and analytics, and he’d be sending me all these screenshots….

“Ale, look, this guy has only played in 51% of his club games. You’re currently playing 73%” 

Hahahaha. OK, old man. Sure, sure. 

When De Zerbi came in as our manager that next season, a few months before the World Cup, it changed everything for me. The main thing that he helped me improve was my scanning of the field — my “profiling” of the situation. Taking little mental pictures of the chess board every two seconds. We looked at Ødegaard as an example of this. For me, he’s one of the best in the world at scanning. His head never stops moving. De Zerbi gave me this gift, and it really elevated my game. 

Playing every week, with the manager’s trust, the idea of the World Cup started to seem not so distant. I will never forget, we were away at Wolverhampton, and I was in the hotel when I received the call of my dreams. My father was right. I was in the squad. I was actually going to Qatar. I immediately called him and my mom on FaceTime, and we just cried together.

Two years earlier, I couldn't get off the bench at Brighton.

Now I was going to the World Cup with Argentina, trying to make history.

And in the first match, we definitely made history. The wrong kind! No disrespect to Saudi Arabia, but they played such a high line that when we watched video of them before the match in preparation, we were all thinking, “Wow, if they don’t play perfectly for 90 minutes, we could score 15.” 

Unfortunately, they played perfectly. 

We scored 2 or 3 goals where the VAR guys told us that we had a fingernail offside. 

Everything about that match felt cursed. In the second half, when we were already losing, some of us were warming up. I was looking at the bench, hoping. Suddenly, I saw the manager pointing at me, like, "Come on, let's go!"

I got goosebumps. OK, here we go. I'm going to play in a World Cup. I started running toward the bench.

And then he started waving his hands, like, No, no, no.

He was pointing behind me.

"Huh?"

"Him! Him!"

"What?"

"Not you, the other guy!"

Hahaha. At the World Cup! The most embarrassing part was that my family was sitting right behind our bench. I turned around and saw my dad, shaking his head like, "Oh God, Ale, what the hell???"

He never lets me forget that moment.

Saudi Arabia suffered for 90 minutes, and they shocked the world.

Then, it was our turn to suffer. Everyone was already destroying us in the media. I think we could all feel the pressure, but thankfully we had Leo to speak up. He told the fans back home that they had to keep believing, because we weren’t going to let the country down. 

Simple words. But when it’s Leo who says it, you truly believe it. 

Thankfully, as Argentines, we know how to suffer. It’s in our DNA. In football, there’s 90 minutes for a reason. If you play perfectly for 80 minutes, but you don’t know how to suffer for the last 10, then you are never going to be a champion. 

As a country, I think that’s our secret. Maybe we even enjoy the madness a little bit, no? 

Just look at that moment in the quarterfinals against the Dutch when everything went crazy and we all started fighting. As Argentines, we’re at home at that moment. We love it. I remember Bergwijn ran up to me when their bench stormed the pitch, and he was trying to grab me, and his face was so intense. He looked genuinely pissed off, like he was going to hit me. And it literally made me laugh a bit. I couldn’t help it. I was looking at him like, “Are you not enjoying this? It’s just a little fight, like with your brothers in the yard. What’s the problem?” 

Virgil and Cody are always bringing that moment up to me now, and they complain, “Ahhh, you Argentinians are such bastards. You’re always showing off.” 

And I just laugh about it. 

What can I say? You started it, by talking too much. As Argentinians, it's like we've been invited to a party!

That moment set the tone for us for the rest of the tournament. We were fearless. And it’s so strange, because ever since I was a kid, I always had nerves before a football match. Even when I was 8 years old, I would have that feeling of butterflies rumbling in my stomach. But I swear, I was not nervous during that entire tournament. Not even against France. 

The night before the Final, I slept for 10 hours. 

Most of the match, it’s a blur. But the image that always comes into my mind from that Final is when I passed the ball over to Ángel Di María to make it 2-0. 

Ángel. “El Fideo.” The Noodle. He is such a special person, and he took so much abuse in his career. Nobody appreciated El Fideo like they should have. When he scored, I ran over to him to celebrate, and he was crying. But I mean really crying. It was so powerful. 

Imagine – you just scored in the World Cup Final, and it’s like it’s a relief, not just a joy. I can only imagine the memories that were going through his head. 

I know so many countries love football, but for Argentina, it’s something spiritual. Sometimes I think it means too much to us. Ángel’s face was the face of the country. There was so much pain mixed in with so much joy. 

And then of course, in extra time, Dibu Martínez saved us all. He saved an entire country. 

122:40

I’d already been substituted. It was 3–3, heading to penalties. Everyone on the bench was really quiet, waiting for the whistle. The whole stadium was quiet, actually. It was weird. And then, all of a sudden, the world stood still. You know when it feels like the air is sucked out of the stadium? For three seconds, nobody breathed. 

All I remember was a blue shirt right in front of Dibu with the ball at his feet. Nobody around him. I’ve never felt more helpless.

I thought, It’s over. There’s no way. We’ve lost the World Cup. 

But you know what we say about keepers in Argentina right? 

“To be a keeper, you either have to be crazy or an idiot.” 

Thank God, we have El Dibu, the craziest one of them all. I always say that he has the spirit of a child playing football. He does things that only a kid would think of doing, because he plays in the moment, you know? 

The only way that I can describe that save is to remember what it was like when you were a little kid, jumping on the bed, pretending to be Buffon or Casillas or El Pato Abbondanzieri. You know what I mean? Were me and my brothers the only ones who did that? Whenever our mom would go out to the grocery store, we would sneak into her room, because she had the biggest bed in the house. That was our pitch, for the hour. One brother would throw the ball, and the other brother would jump around on the mattress, pretending to be El Pato making crazy diving saves. 

Leaping into the air with your arms and legs stretched out, like a starfish. Doing the impossible. 

“El Pato!!!!! Oh my God!!!! How did he stop it????”

That’s what El Dibu did that night. He stuck out his left leg like a crazy kid jumping on the bed, and he answered the prayers of 45 million people. 

I remember turning around to the other guys on the bench, and it was like they were in shock. Nobody spoke. Nobody blinked. I think I was the only one who reacted. 

I yelled, “That son of a bitch saved the ball!” 

Everyone looked at me like they had seen a ghost. Complete shock. 

Everything after that, I can barely remember. During the penalties, I was in another world. When Gonzalo scored to make us champions I didn’t even know how to celebrate. Everyone ran to Dibu and Leo and they were all hugging, and I was just standing alone, stunned. I didn’t know which way to walk. I turned to my family, who were sitting right behind our bench, and I just waved to them. 

Like a little kid after their first game. Hahhaha. 

“Hola, Mom. Hola, Dad. Did I play OK?” 

They waved back to me with tears in their eyes. 

I turned around and I actually bumped into one of the referees. I didn’t know what to say, so I just greeted them like a normal match. 

“Oh, hello. Good game, eh? Good refereeing. Thank you, sir.” 

I kept thinking, “No, it’s not possible. Two years ago, I was nothing. It’s not possible …… It’s not possible……..”

I remember my parents finally getting on to the pitch to celebrate with me, and it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever seen my dad cry. 

The next thing I know, we’re on a flight back home, and we land in Buenos Aires to 5 million people in the streets. I think this is the most important memory I have in life. I don’t think any of us grasped what we had achieved until that moment. There were people running alongside our bus for miles. There were old men with tears in their eyes, saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. We waited for this for 36 years.” 

It was about so much more than football. I never liked getting involved in politics or anything, but I also knew the economic situation was very, very bad. People were doing what they could to survive. But so many people have told me that for an entire month, the whole country stopped. They suffered with every kick of the ball alongside us, and they forgot about everything else. Maybe that’s why I never felt any nerves. I don’t know. I just know that it will be a long time until I forget the sight of the people running alongside the bus in the baking sun. 

I imagine myself as an old man, telling my grandkids, “Did I ever tell you about those kids? That day in the sun, when the whole country was celebrating?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

Hahahahah. 

They had to take us out of there in a helicopter. That’s how crazy it was. We were floating above 5 million people as the World Cup champions. A few days later, I was back in Brighton. England in the middle of January! Cold as hell! Pissing rain! Hahaha. It was so surreal. I’ll never forget Adam Lallana sitting with me after training, and he said, “When I watched the first few games, it was like Leo was giving you the ball, yes. But then by the semifinal and the final, it was like he was searching for you. Like you had a special connection.” 

I don’t know if what he said is true. But it was an honour just to be mentioned in the same sentence as Leo. Adam had seen everything I had been through at Brighton. For him to say that meant the world to me. 

I had no idea how much my life was about to change.

At the end of that season, Jürgen Klopp came to see me. Actually, it was a bit of a James Bond situation. He flew down and we met in secret somewhere halfway to Brighton. I was a bit shocked that he did that for me. I had won a World Cup, but I was not a star at all. We had a coffee, and he explained to me that he really wanted me to come to Liverpool, because I reminded him a bit of Gündogan, who he developed at Dortmund into one of the best box-to-box midfielders in the world. It’s so funny, because when I was young, my dad would always be screaming at me from the stands… 

“Ale, to the box! To the box!” 

Every time our team crossed the half way line. 

“To the box!!!! To the box!!!”

I don’t know, I suppose he saw in me the same thing that Jürgen saw. 

“Don’t be cute! Box to box!!!!” 

From that moment I spoke to Jürgen, I knew I was meant to come to Liverpool. It wasn't so much what he said, but what he conveyed as a person. It was a great conversation, and that was the beginning of a spectacular relationship.

But everything takes time. The club had basically turned over the entire midfield. An iconic group that had won everything. When me, Dom, Ryan and Endo came in, it took us a minute to be comfortable playing our way, you know? That midfield was very heavy metal. We were different players. A bit less direct. We like to play. But when you have players like Mo and Lucho and Cody up top, they want the ball yesterday. It took us some time to adapt. 

I’ll never forget, we went to Luton and drew 1–1, and when we got to the dressing room afterwards, we knew we played badly. 

But then Jürgen came in and he delivered a message that we really needed to hear. Honest and no-nonsense. 

He said, “My old midfield would have had the balls to go and win that game.” 

I remember just looking down at the floor, like: Damn. OK. He’s right. 

I think that was the turning point for us. We started to play with more of an edge, more direct, faster. More cojones. And we ended up getting really close, as a group. Especially after Jürgen announced that he was leaving. That was a complete shock. I remember getting a text message from someone at the club saying that there was a really early meeting. That never happened. So I knew something was weird. But then I got into the dressing room, and I was sitting next to Mo. 

I said, “What’s going on?”

He said, “The manager’s leaving.” 

And I said, “Come on. You’re kidding, right?” 

I thought it had to be a joke. Jürgen is one of those guys who is so obsessed with football. He loves it so much that I thought it must be an illness or something. I was really worried. But he explained to us that he was just tired and he needed a break.

I can completely understand it now. The pressure at this level is so intense. I actually agree with what Guardiola said about the Premier League. To me, it’s the hardest trophy in the world to win. Harder than the Champions League. The Premier League is nine months. Mentally, physically, emotionally…. It’s f***ing murder. Look at Mo, for example. You cannot imagine how hard he pushes himself to stay at the top in this league. 

Mo, he’s hilarious. For a few weeks, I actually tried to get to the gym before him, but it was impossible. He was always there already, sweating. 

One day, I asked him, “But Mo … when do you sleep?” 

He said, “I don’t like it when I get more than seven hours. I feel tired.” 

Hahaha.

“You feel tired?” 

“Yeah, it’s too much. You only need six-and-a-half.”

He would be in the gym for an hour, and someone would say, “Mo, are you finished? Let’s go eat.”

“No, no. I just did my abs. Now I have to really work out.” 

When I first arrived, I tried to compete with him. I thought: OK, the guy is 31. I’m 24. Let’s do some abs. 

Damn …. I think I did three sessions with Mo before I gave up. I would wake up the next morning, and I was so sore I could barely sit up in bed. Hahahah. 

Mo sets the tone for everyone at Liverpool. He is the best professional I’ve ever seen. He’s a monster. 

I really have to show gratitude to Arne Slot as well. He was the perfect “bridge” from Jürgen. It’s funny because I was so close with Jürgen that my teammates were always making fun of me saying, “Ahh, Klopp is your dad. Go give dad a hug!” 

What can I say? I like to speak to my managers on the training ground and understand what they want from me. It was the same with De Zerbi and now it’s the same with Arne. I have four or five dads, I guess! When Arne came in, it was a huge change for us, because his style is a bit different. It’s less rock and roll and more possession, but it worked out so well for us. But his support off the pitch was even more important for me. 

I don’t want to go into details, but I was going through some very personal difficulties last season. I told one person what I was going through, and it ended up reaching Arne. He called me into his office one day. You never know how something like that is going to go in football. But Arne was amazing about everything. He let me get everything off my chest, and after that, I felt like I could breathe a bit easier. 

And my teammates, they were incredible. They kept me smiling through difficult times. Especially our little South American crew: Lucho. Alisson. Darwin. Even Mr. Taffarel. What a legend! He’s almost 60, and there’s no one funnier than him.

As proper South Americans, we would often get together to have barbecues or drink mate (or whatever Brazilians call it— chimarrão). And that’s where the problems would begin. Taffarel is the one who constantly criticizes you for your mate-making technique.

“It’s too hot! It’s too cold!” 

Unless it’s made by Brazilian hands, Taffarel doesn’t like it. 

“You damned Argentinians don’t even know how to make a proper asado!” 

Alisson is the peacemaker of all arguments. We joke with him that he is perfect. He’s never done anything wrong. Perfect hair. Perfect family. Perfect keeper. F***! It’s annoying! 

I tell him, “You know, when I was at Brighton, I didn’t understand what the hype was all about. I didn’t really rate you. Now…… damn. I have to admit, you’re the best. Well…. OK, you, Dibu and Courtois!”

;-)

Lucho and Darwin are like yin and yang: Lucho, the quiet one, the one who always laughs at everything. Darwin, the crazy one.

How many conversations must we have had trying to calm that madness down, eh Darwin?

Hahahahah.

Darwin is a guy with a big heart. He's been through a lot in his life. The only bad thing about him is that he doesn't know how to cook. One day he invited us to his place for a barbeque and when we walked in, his private chef was at the grill!

No, my friend! In Argentina, this is a crime! 

He thinks I’m crazy because when he comes over, I’m at the grill covered in soot and sweat. 

“Bro, you’re in the Premier League. You don’t have to do this anymore.”

He doesn’t understand, it needs to be my way. Every Argentine thinks only they can make an asado. (And every Brazilian thinks the same, except they’re wrong.) 

Oh yes, and I almost forgot – in the South America group we adopted Szoboszlai, too. He doesn’t speak any Spanish, but he comes over and sits there drinking all the mate. He’s our adopted Hungarian brother. 

They all started out as great teammates who became great friends.

And there's one in the group who will hold a special place in our hearts forever.

Obviously, and with great emotion, I want to dedicate this paragraph to Diogo. I still can't understand how he left us so early. I always had a good relationship with him, but this past year even more so.

He was always a very down-to-earth, family-oriented person, and never tried to pretend to be something he wasn't.

One day he would come and give you the hug of a lifetime, and the next day he wouldn't even say hello, hahaha.

We loved to “take the piss,” and we always found a way, whether it was our Messi vs. Cristiano arguments, or just playing cards. It was part of the game. I will always choose to remember him with a smile.

And I know that with that smile, he'll be supporting us from above. If you don’t believe that, then just look at the minute Frimpong scored in the Community Shield.

The 20th.

These are signs……

I’d like to take this opportunity to send my warmest regards to his family, whom we must never forget, as they are the ones who are suffering the most from the tragic passing of him and his brother André. My respect and love to all of them.

You know….. I have to admit that another tear falls when I think that Lucho, Darwin, and Taffa will no longer be at the club. 

So many mates, barbecues, glasses of wine, and shared moments come to mind that I'll never forget. I'm going to miss them very much and I wish them the best in these new paths they've taken. I have no doubts they will do well, because they are so talented. 

Luckily, Ali is staying with me. A wonderful person who hasn’t invited me to his house for a barbecue yet, so he has this season ahead to keep his word.

Our group’s bond together …. it actually reminds me a bit of my father and Maradona’s time together after they had retired. They ended up playing together in this showbol league in Argentina. It’s like our version of indoor five-a-side. They were older men at that point, trying to get back in shape. Their former teammate Mancuso had a real showbol pitch in his house with the blue floor and the walls and everything, and they would go over there to train. My dad used to take me along sometimes, and I still remember watching Diego do tricks with the ball, and then afterwards, they’d sit around for hours having a barbeque, just telling jokes and old stories from “back in the old days.”

To me, it was all normal. He wasn’t Maradona. He was just El Diego. All I wanted to do was kick the ball. If I had known what I was witnessing, maybe I would have taken more photos!

But those moments are what I love about football. The brotherhood of those who truly love the game. Maybe it’s why I was so emotional when we won the league this year. It’s weird…. The World Cup, it almost doesn’t feel real, to this day. It all happened too fast. It was a beautiful dream that I still haven't woken up from. 

But this Premier League title … and this Liverpool team …. It was so real. 

When the final whistle blew against Spurs, I dropped to my knees and I just started crying. It was like something hit me in the chest. I think it’s because we had a genuine brotherhood, which is very rare in football. After the tragedy of this summer, and the emotion of finding out I was going to be a father…. all of this has taken on a much deeper meaning for me. 

“Oh, it’s just football.”

How can we say that ever again? 

No, it’s not just football. This is not just a club. It’s our family. It’s our memories, our legacy…. And we have to cherish it, because we don’t know how long it will last.

That’s why life is best when you slow down and start appreciating everything you have. And I really appreciate everything I have.

In the end, football is just like life itself. It’s so unpredictable. 

Sometimes you’re playing bad, and you don’t know why. Sometimes you can’t miss, and you don’t know why. Look at my story. In 2020, my name was nothing. I couldn’t get a game for Brighton. I was crying with my mom on FaceTime, begging to come home. 

Two years later, I was a World Cup Champion. Then a Copa América champion. Now I’m a Premier League champion. Even a Ballon D’Or nominee. 

That’s football, no? It’s so crazy. The only way that I can explain my story is that I never gave up. That’s what I’d like to teach my daughter in a few years. 

Yes, Daddy fought against a lot of things, but he knew how to overcome them all. You just keep fighting. That’s the great lesson. 

That’s the Argentinian way, you know?

Maybe we don’t like to do it the easy way. 

Yes, we want to win. But first, we need to learn how to suffer. 

That’s what makes it beautiful.