Roberto Baggio: A Portrait of Genius, Tragedy, and Redemption

The mullet, the number ten, and the echoing cries of "É fino di Baggio" from the terraces—these are the enduring images of Il Divin Codino. Roberto Baggio was more than a footballer; he was a paradox, a figure of both fragility and defiance, as ethereal as he was tenacious. Few could have foreseen his revival after numerous physical and psychological tribulations. And yet, there he stood—eight years after terrifying the legendary defensive duo of Paolo Maldini and Franco Baresi at the San Siro—drifting beyond Juventus’ Ciro Ferrara with effortless grace, meeting Andrea Pirlo’s exquisite through ball with a touch that bordered on the divine.

That moment was a microcosm of Baggio’s career. Not merely a goal, but a symphony of movement and instinct. He did not simply evade defenders; he rendered them obsolete. He did not merely deceive Edwin van der Sar; he humiliated him. The Dutchman, a future four-time Premier League champion, was left stranded, much like so many before him. Perhaps Nikos Dabizas should count himself fortunate.

All of it—his artistry, his defiance, his unyielding spirit—finds its perfect accompaniment in Dancing by Elisa, a song that encapsulates his career: majestic yet rugged, poetic yet visceral. Italy knew him as Il Divino Codino, the Divine Ponytail, but beneath the aesthetic brilliance lay the soul of a warrior.

The Rise and the Fall—A Career Nearly Lost

Baggio’s journey began in the unassuming surroundings of Vicenza, where, as a luminous 16-year-old, he promised something Italian football had long been craving: fantasia. Not since Gianni Rivera had Italy seen a player capable of awakening stadiums with a flick of his boot, a shift of his balance, an irreverent disdain for defensive structure.

Yet, just as his ascent began, fate intervened.

They say childbirth is the most excruciating pain one can experience, but those who have ruptured an anterior cruciate ligament may contest that claim. The pop of torn cartilage, the collapse of a promising career before it had truly begun—Baggio, at 18, faced his first great battle. An allergy to painkillers ensured he felt every agonizing stitch—120 in total—as doctors pieced his knee back together. Their prognosis was bleak: he would never play again.

But football has a way of defying medicine.

Eighteen months later, against all logic, he returned—not in obscurity, but in grandeur. In the cauldron of the Stadio San Paolo, he found the bottom right corner with a shot that silenced 70,000 Neapolitans, including a certain Diego Maradona. The Argentine had conquered the world just months prior, yet here, in his own arena, he was momentarily eclipsed by a man who had been in a wheelchair when Maradona lifted the World Cup.

The impact was instant. Fiorentina legend Miguel Montuori declared, "More productive than Maradona; he is, without doubt, the best number ten in the league." Hyperbole? Perhaps. But what was undeniable was that Italy had witnessed something beyond conventional brilliance. They had seen a resurrection.

A Player Beyond Definition

Baggio was many things—a fantasista, a trequartista, a mezzapunta, a rifinitore. His role was debated, his position ever-fluid. Michel Platini, himself a master of the playmaking arts, described him as a “nine and a half”—neither a pure striker nor a traditional number ten, but something in between, something uniquely his own.

His gift was his multiplicity. He was a creator and a finisher, a conductor and a soloist. He could orchestrate play with his vision, dissecting defences with laser-like precision, yet he could just as easily dispatch them himself with an impudent flick, a feint, a shift in balance that rendered markers irrelevant.

Comfortable with both feet, despite his natural right-sided preference, he dribbled with a hypnotic rhythm, often initiating movement with his left before seamlessly switching to his right. He was not physically imposing, nor dominant in the air, but his movement, acceleration, and agility allowed him to slip through defensive lines with the grace of a ballet dancer.

His dribbling, arguably among the greatest of all time, was an art form. Balance, close control, and an uncanny awareness of space gave him an ability few possessed—he did not merely beat defenders; he rewrote their understanding of positioning. Tricks, feints, body swerves—each movement was calculated, each deception preordained.

Zico once described him as "technically flawless," while Gianluigi Buffon, in his autobiography, hailed Baggio’s touch as "unique." Even Arrigo Sacchi, whose rigid tactical systems often clashed with Baggio’s free-spirited genius, could not deny his artistry: "Baggio is creativity, flair, unpredictability, intuition, harmony."

The Burden of a Missed Penalty

And yet, despite all this, history often attempts to reduce Baggio to a single moment—the missed penalty in the 1994 World Cup final.

It is a tragic oversimplification.

Yes, the image of Baggio, hands on hips, eyes lost in despair after his shot soared over Cláudio Taffarel’s goal, remains indelible. But to confine his legacy to that miss is to misunderstand the man. Without Baggio, Italy would never have reached that final. His performances in the knockout stages—goals against Nigeria, Spain, and Bulgaria—were acts of individual brilliance, dragging an otherwise uninspired Azzurri side to the brink of glory.

His response to heartbreak was quintessential Baggio. He rebounded, winning the Scudetto with Juventus in 1995 and repeating the feat with AC Milan in 1996. He never allowed a single moment—no matter how monumental—to define him.

The Forgotten Genius?

Roberto Baggio retired with 276 goals and 111 assists in 605 appearances. He won the Ballon d’Or in 1994, secured league titles with Juventus and Milan, and remains fourth in FIFA’s 1999 poll of the greatest players of the century. And yet, curiously, he is often omitted from discussions of the all-time greats.

Perhaps it is because he existed in the twilight between eras—too late to be venerated like Maradona, too early to be enshrined with Messi and Ronaldo. Perhaps it is because his story is one of heartbreak as much as triumph, a career that always seemed to battle forces beyond his control.

But those who watched him, those who felt the breathless anticipation whenever he received the ball, know the truth.

Baggio was not simply a great footballer. He was a footballing poet, an artist whose canvas was the pitch, whose brushstrokes were dribbles, and whose verses were goals.

Il Divino Codino was, and always will be, eternal.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar