Giant Killer
When logic breaks, magic is born. From Matasiete to Lanús at the Maracanã, football lives on impossible feats, on giants falling, and on teams that sink their teeth into history. Because when the underdog defeats the mighty, the most incoherent sport in the world reminds us why it is also exciting.
Lately, football has gifted us plenty of surprises. Wonderful for some, traumatic for others. But that’s precisely where its beauty lies: in its absolute lack of coherence. Football is a sport where logic walks in… but doesn’t always walk out.
That’s why prediction pools exist. The quinielas. Because we believe we can decode it. That if we study the thousand mathematical variables of a matchup — the stats, the manager’s tactics, the president’s wallet, the left-back’s psychological profile, what they had for breakfast, their favorite superstition, and whether they argued at home for leaving their boots dirty in the living room — we’ll get it right.
Lie. Getting it right is luck. A lot of luck.
And if there’s something that makes football addictive, it’s the giant killers.
The term goes way back. To a 14th-century Leonese legend about a humble swordsman who killed seven bailiffs and was nicknamed “Matasiete.” Literature later transformed it into “Giant Killer,” associated with knights defeating monsters like Fierabrás, the Saracen giant of chivalric tales — the same stories that inspired our noble hidalgo, Don Quixote.
European football has plenty of these episodes. The famous “Alcorconazo” against Real Madrid. Or the day mighty Barcelona stumbled against Girona. Or when Real Madrid crashed out of the Copa del Rey against Albacete. The same happened to Manchester United, eliminated by a fourth-division side in the League Cup. Because in football, money helps… but guarantees nothing.
And speaking of recent shocks, Bodø/Glimt deserves its own chapter: the modest Norwegian club beating Manchester City and knocking Inter — last season’s runner-up — out of the Champions League.
But South America has its own earthquakes. The Maracanazo of 1950: Uruguay silencing Brazil in its own house. Independiente del Valle becoming true giant killers after eliminating Boca and River in 2016. Once Caldas lifting the Libertadores against Boca.
And this year, the biggest surprise: Lanús defeating Flamengo 3–2 at the Maracanã in the Recopa. Yes, another Maracanazo. A squad full of European stars against a roster where many have never crossed the Atlantic. Who knew Castillo? The Paraguayan José Canale? The young Dylan Aquino, recently promoted to the first team? And Nahuel Losada? He saved three penalties against Atlético Mineiro in last year’s Copa Sudamericana final.
That’s South American football. Grit. Clenched teeth. Pitches that don’t always look like Persian carpets. Matches that aren’t always pretty, but always intense. Primitive, visceral, uncomfortable football. Sometimes chaotic. Almost always electric.
Of course, we love watching European giants move the ball with elegance and intelligence, in immaculate stadiums, with polished boots and socks pulled up to the knee. The jogo bonito. The perfect touch.
But we’re also fascinated when the underdog bites, runs, scrapes, unsettles… and wins. Even if it’s with an ugly, dirty, hard-fought goal. Because football isn’t fair. And that’s exactly why it’s wonderful.
South American football may not be the most aesthetic. But damn, it’s often the most thrilling.
Congratulations, Granate.
You earned it.
