There’s history: The Ballon d’Or dates back to 1956, which means it predates the European Championships, yellow and red cards, substitutions, color TV, remote controls and of course, FIFA (the video game).
There’s the fact that top players really, really care about winning it: Clubs mount campaigns on behalf of their star players, guys like Cristiano Ronaldo (despite already having five of these at home) get annoyed when it gets canceled. (like it did last year due to the coronavirus pandemic)
while Bayern Munich striker Robert Lewandowski’s face lit up like a child hearing reindeer footsteps on the roof when he found out he was among the favorites.
And then there’s the fact that it’s natural fodder for endless discussions, both of the social media and of the bar room kind: If the sport is some kind of lingua franca, then this is the equivalent of talking about the weather, a natural conversation starter when you don’t know what to say.
That’s why Paris Saint-Germain’s Lionel Messi winning his seventh Ballon d’Or ahead of Lewandowski and Chelsea’s Jorginho is, to many, a big deal. Particularly since — after Messi or the yin to his yang, Ronaldo, had won 11 of the 12 previous editions — this looked like the year somebody else might get the crown.
But maybe that’s the point of the Ballon d’Or. It’s not meant to be scientific — the criteria are silly and, probably, ignored.
The voters range from folks with access and knowledge and experience to folks with a monitor, thousands of miles away, who will only ever see these players in 2-D.
It’s meant to be a celebration of the sport’s elite performers. The players we all admire, the stars we look up to, the folks who do what we can’t, but once wished we could (and often still do).
If you take it like that, discussions over whether Lewandowski or Jorginho or Karim Benzema or Ronaldo deserved it more than Messi will be that much less stressful.