“Genius is not enough, it takes courage to change people’s minds.” – Green Book, 2018
The debate of whether or not individual awards matter, or should matter, is old. We can talk about the team narrative, but it is hard to find a player who would ever be unhappy about winning an award such as the Ballon D’or. Regardless of how these awards are decided, it takes a professional footballer a lot of time, patience, and hard work to be in the conversation of winning such a thing.
It’s been a week since Vinicius was denied the prize he was all but confirmed to win in Paris. We have seen a wide range of views justifying the farcical snub— orchestrated to almost perfection by those who are in charge of the forever unclear criteria of the award.
In the immediate aftermath, however, a different spotlight was cast on Vinicius. There was no shortage of media scrutiny, dissecting not just his absence from the ceremony but the very fabric of his character. Some questioned why he didn’t show up to witness what was clearly a painful blow, as if he owed the world his attendance at a farce crafted to reward anyone but him. Others attacked his on-pitch demeanor, portraying him as hot-headed or unsportsmanlike.
What these critics miss—or perhaps choose to ignore—is that Vinicius’ reactions are not without reason. Every outburst, every protest, is a response to a pattern of hostility that has followed him for years. It’s a hostility woven into his experiences in Spain. This isn’t about how Vinicius handles the pressure; it’s about the intensity of the hate aimed specifically at him. To see Vinicius only through these reactions is to overlook the triggers he endures in nearly every match, a constant barrage of vitriol that transcends the game itself.
Consider the earliest chapters of his career in Spain — in his first Junior Derby for Castilla, an Atletico youth player bit him on the head, desperate to somehow stifle his talent. More recently, we saw shocking reasoning from one of the Ballon d’Or voters, who reportedly chose Rodri over Vinicius not for his skills, but because Rodri went to college and has a nice public image. This narrative—the notion that education or affability somehow trumps ability—is absurd when it is a fact that as a UNESCO Goodwill Ambassador and the founder of the Vinicius Institution, he has made strides to ensure that underprivileged children in Brazil get access to the very education that supposedly set Rodri apart.
Every week, he endures the chants: “Die, Vinicius,” shouted from the stands, slurs that follow him not only at away games but even when Real Madrid isn’t playing. He has witnessed horrific acts like a life-sized black doll dressed in his jersey, hung from a bridge, a grim reminder of the hatred directed at him simply for the color of his skin. Yet, in the face of all this, Vinicius has not shied away. He stands as a tormentor of racists, a relentless advocate for respect and equality. He refuses to be silenced.
No, the Ballon d’Or isn’t the toughest battle Vinicius has fought. This setback, no matter how hurtful, is minor in comparison to what he endures on a near-daily basis. To win a Ballon d’Or would have been a well-deserved nod to his talent. But for Vinicius, the journey is not about collecting accolades. It’s about transforming a sport that still struggles to embrace those like him fully, and it’s about standing up for himself and others who may face the same fate. The battle Vinicius fights is not for a trophy. It’s for respect, for change, and for the right to be more than just another player of color on the pitch. And if anyone can win that fight, it’s him.