What Lionel Messi Means in America

The plan: see God, 8:15 p.m. Wednesday.

First, we had to pray God would start. That’s the hazard with late-career Lionel Messi: At 36, he’s played endless amounts of consequential soccer, with understandable toll. Nagging aches and pains that force a missed game, sensible rest for the sake of rest—these are pregame anxieties for the ticketed faithful. Until you see the Argentine legend walking the center of the pitch, shoulders drooping like a Charles M. Schultz caricature, his presence is uncertain.

Until this week, I think my kids weren’t quite sure if Messi was real, or some kind of soccer Snuffleupagus, visible only to believers. Messi was the first athlete’s name they learned, delightful to say out loud, his exploits carpeting YouTube, both mythological and relatable to kids: This small man, not much taller than them, holding the world’s game on his foot. Even in the faraway USA, his No. 10 jersey was ubiquitous on the shoulders of kindergartners and pre-kindergarteners, either in the national light blue and white stripes of Argentina, or Barcelona blaugrana.

Now: Miami pink. Messi’s in America, nearing the end of the road, playing for a lower-level league across the ocean, but making another continent spellbound. That mythological game still has magic—at least enough to lift Inter Miami out of the MLS basement and fill every stadium Messi enters. Since his arrival in July of last year, “Messi Mania" remains a fever unmatched by any athlete in U.S. sports—not Steph Curry, not Patrick Mahomes, not even Shohei Ohtani in Dodgerland.

Messi’s outrageous global fame is one reason. Urgency is the other. The Messi in America experience is driven by a sense of conclusion: come see the master for yourself, before you never can see him again.

My family and I got lucky on vacation in Florida, because Inter Miami was playing the home leg of a two-game Concacaf Champions Cup playoff series with Nashville. These games mattered, so on Wednesday night, Messi was out there. Still, I watched my children squint from their seats—was that really him, No. 10, in the loud, flamingo-colored kit?

It was, and Messi delivered early. In the eighth minute, he fed a nifty pass to old Barcelona friend Luis Suárez for a goal before Nashville even put its boots on. Not long after, the maestro himself struck, taking a delivery from 20-year-old teammate Diego Gómez and sending it home past the goalie.

Goal, Messi. Bedlam.

Not bedlam in the World Cup way, or even the ordinary score-a-goal way, but in an awestruck, jackpot, can-you-believe-our-luck way. Messi scores! It was what we’d all come to see, the opener and the encore, all in one. My children leapt to their feet. My 11-year-old son danced a little jig I’d never seen before. The temporary stadium stomped and shook.

MES-SI! MES-SI! MES-SI!

My fatherly pride swelled. I may never buy my children a unicorn, or let them eat bubble gum ice cream for breakfast, which they asked for just this morning, but I have delivered on the unpromise-able promise of a Messi goal. I lean over and tell my 9-year-old daughter that she will tell her grandchildren about the time she saw Messi score. She looks at me and smirks, like I’m the corniest human on earth.

I am the corniest human on earth, at least about this. I grew up hearing my father’s stories about Muhammad Ali, Bill Russell, Bobby Orr and Rocket Rod Laver, but I never saw the all-timers for myself, so they’ve remained almost fictional—other people’s memories. Even today, in our digital delivery, Apple-goggled VR world, there will never be a substitute for seeing human greatness live. They have seen it on this night. They’ve seen Messi. They’ve seen a Messi goal.

And sure, go ahead, take all the jabs you want at the quality of the competition—the joke about Messi looking like Curly Neal dribbling circles around the Washington Generals as he clowns the MLS opposition, which is unfair, but also a funny line. You’re very right that it’s nowhere near peak Barça or Champions League or World Cup champion Messi, but no one ever alleged that Messi would sustain that form or vintage. This is an appreciation tour with a competitive edge, good for the game, lucrative for Messi and a thrill for latecomers who’d hoped to get one last chance to see him, if they are fortunate enough to see him.

Everywhere we look in the stadium, we see versions of ourselves. The place is full of families, many with young children born long after Messi’s Barcelona peak, most of them dressed in that official No. 10 Inter Miami jersey, which is not cheap. I’ve never witnessed such fan clothing uniformity; the nearest thing is Curry’s 30 at Warriors home games—and it’s not that close.

Truthfully, Messi in Miami has more in common with a reverential pop concert than your standard modern professional sporting event. I’m trying to avoid comparing it to Taylor Swift, but it’s not that far off. I’m sure the celebrity aspect irritates the sporting purists and riles soccer know-it-alls. All I have to say is: Who cares? Entertainment is entertainment, and people are free to choose how they process it.

Five minutes into the second half, with Miami ahead on aggregate score, Messi leaves with bothersome leg pain which may jeopardize his participation in his next game, Saturday on the road versus D.C. United. Miami beats Nashville 3-1, advancing in the Champions Cup playoff, but the legend’s early departure underlines what we already knew about the mania: This is fragile.

In the walk through the parking lot to our rental car, my daughter asks what we will do if we see Messi driving himself home in traffic. Will we wave? These are the types of questions they have always asked about Messi. What does he like to eat? What kind of house does he live in? Does he have pets? These are not the sort of questions typically asked about an athlete. My kids wanted to know if Messi was an actual person.

They know now. Messi’s real, and he’s in Florida.

Write to Jason Gay at Jason.Gay@wsj.com