There was a time, not so long ago, when the number 10 was not just a number on a shirt—it was destiny.

The 10 was the poet in the mud, the player who played while all others ran, the one who thought while everyone else pressed.

He was the different kind of footballer, head up, boots weaving passes as if sewing with invisible thread.

Riquelme, Zidane, Valderrama, Aimar, Ronaldinho, Totti, Kaká—a species on the verge of extinction.

Today, if you watch a Champions League match, a Premier League game, or even the Copa Libertadores, you’ll see midfielders pressing like Olympic athletes, wingers running back and forth as if paid by the sprint, and midfielders spending more time in their own box than the opponent’s.

But the number 10, the traditional playmaker—where did he go?

The answer, as with everything in football, is not simple, but it is sad.

Football changed.

The speed changed, the physical demands changed, tactics changed, even the grass changed—and with that, a player profile that once seemed eternal was swept away.

The number 10 was cornered by chalkboards, double pivots, rapid transitions, and relentless pressing after losing the ball.

He was gradually pushed aside, as if he were an unnecessary luxury.

Without ever saying so, coaches and clubs turned him into a decorative figure.

The result: today it’s hard to find a single top team in the world that plays with a classic playmaker.

And Messi?
Well, Messi is Messi—but even he had to adapt over the years.

He dropped deeper, became a false nine, a winger, a deep-lying playmaker.

He never stopped being a 10, but he was not allowed to be one in the old sense—and yet, he was still the best.

The same happened with Modric, who has the soul of a playmaker but runs like an all-terrain vehicle.

Or Griezmann at Atlético, who combines the work rate of a defensive midfielder with the class of a 10.

And then there are players like De Bruyne or Bellingham, who have all the technique in the world but were born into a football where there’s no time to think.

Today, the 10 must mark, press, turn in a second, and reach the opponent’s box in four touches.

Inspire, if there’s time.

If not, let the algorithm do it.

Coaches have also contributed to the disappearance of the 10.

The fear of losing has made many cling to order, to what can be controlled.

And the 10 is the opposite: creative chaos.

You never know what he will do, when he will do it, or how—but when he does, he changes the game.

The problem is that you have to tolerate his tempo, his pauses, his walking when everyone else is running.

And in the era of GPS, VAR, and “everyone runs,” that comes at a high price.

Sometimes it seems like the number 10 shirt remains as a symbol, but not as a function.

Today, it’s worn by wingers, strikers, or box-to-box midfielders.

But the one who used to receive with his back to goal, ask for the ball, turn, and play the line-breaking pass—that player is getting further away.

And that hurts, because the 10 was not just a player, but a way of seeing football.

He was the guy who made you stand up from your seat with a trivela pass, who showed you that not everything was about running, that sometimes the pause was more dangerous than the acceleration.

Is all lost?
Are there no more flashes of genius?
In South America, some are still being cooked up.

In Brazil, a reborn Ganso.

In Argentina, kids like Thiago Almada or Carboni show promise, but they need something rare today: patience.

The 10 is not dead.

He’s being forced to mutate, to become something he’s not.

But as long as there’s a crowd applauding a dribble, a child in a plaza shouting “Román’s pass,” or someone who understands that football is also played with the soul, the 10 will resist.

Because football without a playmaker is like a song without a melody.

You might like it, it might move you, but it doesn’t stay with you.

In my opinion, not so long ago, the number 10 was the emotional epicenter of football.

It wasn’t a position; it was a way of seeing the game.

It represented pause, subtlety, vision.

The 10 was the player who didn’t need to run more than everyone else because he thought faster.

He was the interpreter between the lines, the one who wove plays with invisible thread.

Yet today, in elite football, he seems almost extinct.

What’s happening is not just a tactical shift—it’s a cultural transformation.

Modern football has prioritized intensity over pause, pressing over creation, speed over reading the game.

Teams like Guardiola’s Manchester City, Klopp’s Liverpool, and even elite national sides have shaped a new generation of players who must be complete athletes: run, recover, turn, combine, arrive in the box.

In this frenetic rhythm, the disappearance of the classic playmaker was no accident—it was pushed by a logic of efficiency.

In a football ruled by data, metrics, and instant results, the playmaker became a luxury, a risk.

He doesn’t always score, doesn’t always run, but always thinks.

And in this context, that’s often seen as a weakness.

Today, if a player doesn’t press after losing the ball, he’s criticized.

If he walks during a defensive transition, he’s substituted.

But what if that walking is part of his art, and he needs to see the game from a different frequency?
Even geniuses have had to adapt.

Messi, for example, never stopped being a 10 in essence, but was forced to play as a winger, a false nine, a deep playmaker.

Iniesta too.

Modric, though he plays deeper, still has the playmaker’s vision.

Griezmann at Atlético combines pressing and sacrifice with flashes of inspiring football—but these are exceptions, not the rule.

The problem isn’t just that there are fewer playmakers—it’s that they’re no longer developed.

In youth academies, coaches prioritize work rate, rhythm, intensity.

Kids are told to pass quickly, not take risks, not walk.

The result: entire generations of midfielders who never learned to live with the pause.

They think everything is about speed, when sometimes the pass that breaks a defense is best seen from a standstill.

But the 10 is not just a player—it’s an idea.

It represents something beyond the tactical role.

It’s the beauty of football as expression.

The one who dared to think differently, who put the pass where no one expected, who turned an ordinary play into art.

Football without a playmaker has become more even, more organized, maybe more effective—but also, in many cases, less exciting.

Is everything lost?
No, there are still signs.

In South America, where the street game survives, talents with the soul of a 10 still appear: Thiago Almada, Matías Soulé, Carboni.

In Brazil, Ganso’s name resurfaces as aesthetic resistance.

But the question is, will they have the context they need to flourish?
Will there be a coach who supports them when they can’t run 12 kilometers per game, but win the match with a single play?

Football is cyclical.

Perhaps, with time, a return will come—because what makes this game great is not just its physical or tactical capacity, but its humanity.

And the 10 represented exactly that: the soul of football.

As long as someone values a dribble, a through ball, or a pause that breaks a defense, the 10 will live on.

Maybe not always on the pitch, but in memories, in nostalgia, and, hopefully, in the next great revolution.