My Hero, Batistuta

At some point as children, we look to heroes who provide us something our parents cannot. For me, that person was Batigol, the great Argentinian striker of the '90s.

Note: This story was updated to its book version in October 2023.

In Mrs. Squittieri’s history class during my eighth-grade year at PS 14, we read excerpts from Greek mythology and one day, in the way of great teachers past and present, she prompted us with the question “What does it mean to be a hero?” In the ensuing discussion, Mrs. Squittieri stepped to the board at the front of the room and charted a course in chalk from Odysseus, Hercules, and Achilles to the heroes we as 13-year-olds looked up to. Then she told us to write a report about one of our choosing. 

I wrote mine about Gabriel Batistuta—an Argentinian soccer player who, in the 1990s and early 2000s, would have passed for Italian Jesus (or Jesus Jesus, if you grew up Catholic) and was for many years the greatest goalscorer in the world.

From birth, the first people we look up to are our parents. They feed and clothe us when we can’t do it for ourselves—and, if you grew up in an immigrant family, as I did, for many years afterward. They put a roof over our heads, drive us to rehearsals and sports practices, and pay the water bill without griping about how long our showers take. But there comes a point in all of our lives, once we understand better who we are and what space we want to create for ourselves in the world, that something changes. This transition comes before teenage rebellion, before realizing that our parents may have their own rich inner lives and—much later—that they may know more than we give them credit for. My parents watched it happen with me as I’ll watch it happen with my children when their needs extend beyond the immediate. Soon they’ll pick new heroes who can meet the acute longings they feel but may not yet have the words to articulate.

Batistuta has long held a special place in my heart. I proudly enlarged his picture for the cover of my eighth-grade report. I chose the same picture for my first Facebook cover image in December 2014. In it, he’s wearing the sky blue and white of Argentina, balling his fists in the air, his golden mane whipping in the wind as he celebrates one of 56 goals he’d put into the back of the net during his 11-year national team career. 

I first learned of Batistuta during the 1994 World Cup. Nono, my maternal grandfather, who lives with my grandmother in the apartment downstairs from my parents, was at work during most of the group stage games, so she taped them for him to watch while they ate dinner. I was five years old then. All I knew about sports was soccer and the Argentinian national team.