THE MAN WHO DIED STANDING.

The Roberto Baggio Story

Beloved Musers,

I was commuting; breeze in my face, head heavy with thoughts, when the idea of writing came knocking. Funny how inspiration doesn’t always come at a desk, but in the blur of everyday motion, between potholes and the crazy noises in a busy town with a soothing playlist bleeding through a headphone into your own musings.

And off the top of my head, all I could think of was Roberto Baggio. The Italian maestro, the divine ponytail, the man who died standing on the grandest of stages. The FIFA World Cup!

If you’re not big on football, let me draw you in with the poetry of his tragedy.

It was the 1994 FIFA World Cup Final. Brazil versus Italy. Under the heat of Pasadena in Rose Bowl stadium, California. It came down to penalties. One kick. One man. And that man was Baggio.

All through the tournament on their way to the final, he had carried Italy on his back. Dodged tackles, buried screamers that lifted up a national at the verge of disbelief, danced through defenders with grace and elegance that would make you believe much more in the beauty of the game. But in that final moment, under the weight of a nation and the suspensive chants and silence of the stadium, he kicked the ball into the sky. Wide. High. Over the crossbar. Had he converted that penalty kick and Italy, somehow, maybe divinely went on to win the whole thing, he would have lived his Father's dream (beating Brazil in a World Cup Final) and won the Balon D'or (Best Football Player in the planet) for the second year running. But he didn't.

Brazil won.

Italy wept. But did Baggio?

Meanwhile Baggio, standing there at the penalty spot, hands on his hips, eyes hollow, head down, became something more than a footballer. He became a metaphor. A living parable of grace, failure, and dignity.

We often talk about people who fall from glory. But Baggio didn’t fall. He stood still. He didn’t cry. He didn't throw away his jersey nor his boots in disgust or anguish. Didn’t plead for mercy from the football gods. He stood in defeat with the same posture he had in victory. And that, my dear musers, is what burned him into history.

He became the man who died standing. The man who gave his all until there was not much more to give.

Sometimes, life is like that penalty. You do everything right. You show up. You train. You dazzle. You carry your group. You survive the storm. And then, in the final moment, the spotlight shines. Your hands develop tremors. Your legs begin to shake. The script flips. And you miss. Sometimes, your name is in the lights too bright it blinds your eyes to miss that penalty. But you don't stop. You become another Baggio.

But there’s something almost divine about how Baggio wore his heartbreak. Quiet. Stoic. Sometimes, human.

And isn't that what most of us are learning to do? To hold our losses with grace? To walk off the pitch— whatever our “pitch” may be with our heads high, even when the crowd has gone silent and the confetti is falling for someone else?

I don’t know why Roberto Baggio came to mind on my way back today. But maybe it's because somewhere inside, we all carry regrets, somewhat huge like Baggio’s. A moment that should’ve gone right, but didn’t. A story we don’t always tell out loud.

Still, like Baggio, we keep standing.

And that, my musers, is a kind of glory too.

Until next time,

Keep musing,

Jesse. ❤️