Let’s be clear about this: the Super Ballon d'Or isn’t like the World Cup or even the standard Ballon d'Or. It doesn’t follow a timetable. It wasn’t designed to. But lately, you can feel the rumble. Fans are asking. Pundits are speculating. Is it time? Could it happen again? That changes everything.
What Exactly Was the Super Ballon d'Or—And Why Only Once?
The original Super Ballon d'Or was handed to Alfredo Di Stéfano in 1989. Not Maradona. Not Platini. Not even Cruyff, though many thought it would be him. The award was meant to crown the best European footballer of the previous 30 years—essentially a lifetime achievement prize wrapped in golden nostalgia. It coincided with the 30th anniversary of the Ballon d'Or itself. A one-off celebration. A monument in trophy form.
Why Di Stéfano? Because he dominated the late 1950s. Five consecutive Ballon d'Or wins? No, the award didn’t exist back then for all of it—but his influence did. He won in 1957 and 1959, but his Real Madrid side won five straight European Cups. That kind of legacy doesn’t fade. It looms.
The 1989 Selection Process: A Flawed but Fascinating Vote
The voting pool? Former Ballon d'Or recipients. Just 27 of them cast ballots. That’s fewer than the number of players on a Premier League matchday squad. You’d think such a historic decision would demand broader input, but no. And here's the twist: Di Stéfano wasn’t even eligible for most Ballon d'Ors during his peak—he was naturalized Argentine, and at the time, only Europeans playing in Europe were eligible. So the award was, in part, a correction. A long-overdue recognition.
Second place? Marco van Basten, who actually won the regular Ballon d'Or that same year. Third? Michel Platini. The irony? Van Basten had just completed a season where he scored 13 goals in 11 Champions Cup matches. But the Super Ballon d'Or wasn’t about the present. It was about weight. About aura. About what a career meant over time.
Why Hasn’t It Returned Since?
Good question. And that’s exactly where things get murky. There was talk in 1999—30 years after 1969, another neat milestone. But nothing materialized. Then again in 2009, 2019… crickets. Organizers (France Football) have never ruled it out. But they’ve never committed either. The problem is, time dilutes myth. Di Stéfano passed in 2014. That changes how we remember him. Not less fondly—but differently.
And now? We’re far from it being a simple decision. Imagine trying to pick one player from the past 40 years. Messi? Ronaldo? Zidane? Maldini? Inzaghi doesn’t stand a chance. But Di Stéfano had no competition in ’89. Today, the field is too deep. The issue remains: nostalgia has a shelf life, and reverence now competes with data, analytics, and fan tribes on Twitter.
Ballon d'Or vs Super Ballon d'Or: What’s the Real Difference?
The standard Ballon d'Or is annual. It rewards the best player over a single season. The Super Ballon d'Or? It’s a historian’s trophy. Not a journalist’s. One measures peak performance. The other measures legacy. Like comparing a sprinter’s 100m time to their impact on the sport over 20 years.
And yet—here’s where it gets tricky—legacy isn’t always fair. We remember the highlights. The goals. The shirts sold. We forget the injuries. The bad transfers. The decline years. A player like Rivaldo won the Ballon d'Or in 1999. Would he make a Super Ballon d'Or shortlist today? Probably not. But in ’99? He was untouchable.
How Legacy Gets Rewritten Over Time
Take George Weah. Won in 1995. First (and still only) African recipient. A phenomenal achievement. But if a Super Ballon d'Or were held today based on 1985–2025, would he be in the top five? Unlikely. Not because he wasn’t brilliant—but because the conversation has shifted. The game has globalized. We’ve seen more volume, more visibility, more sustained excellence from others.
Messi has won eight Ballon d'Ors. Eight. That’s not just dominance. It’s geological pressure reshaping the landscape. If a Super Ballon d'Or happened now, would anyone else even be in the room? Maybe. But you’d have to make a damn good case.
Is 40 Years a Mythical Threshold for Greatness?
Forty years? It sounds grand. A generation and change. But why 40? Why not 35? Or 50? There’s no rule. No law. It’s just a number that feels weighty. Like turning 40 yourself—it’s not magical, but it makes you reflect. And football, for all its stats, thrives on reflection.
To give a sense of scale: 40 years ago, Diego Maradona was playing for Argentinos Juniors. No internet. No VAR. No salary cap debates. The Premier League didn’t exist. Football was different. So judging greatness across such a span? It’s a bit like comparing vinyl records to streaming playlists. Same art. Different mediums.
Why a New Super Ballon d'Or in 2029 Makes Sense—And Why It Might Not Happen
2029 marks 40 years since the original. It’s a round number. A natural hook. France Football could frame it as a revival. A tribute. They could even call it the "Legacy Ballon d'Or" to avoid confusion. But branding aside, the stakes are high. Get it wrong, and you alienate half the fanbase.
Imagine the shortlist: Messi, Ronaldo, maybe Modrić (Ballon d'Or 2018), perhaps Iniesta or Xavi if they lean tactical. Neymar? Unlikely. Mbappé? Too early. Haaland? Maybe in 2049. The real battle would be between Messi and Ronaldo. Again. And that’s exhausting. We’re far from needing another chapter in that war.
The Risk of Overcrowding Football’s Pantheon
Because here’s the thing—we already have too many lists. FIFA Player of the Century (awarded twice, somehow). UEFA Best Player in Europe. IFFHS World Player. The fan-voted awards. The media-picked ones. The problem is, they dilute each other. A Super Ballon d'Or today wouldn’t feel rare. It would feel like content.
And that’s exactly where the romance dies. The original had mystique because it was singular. One moment. One name. One trophy that looked like a golden sunburst. Today? It would be Instagrammed before the winner’s speech ended. The aura? Gone.
Could a Team-Based Super Award Work Instead?
Why focus only on individuals? What if the Super Ballon d'Or evolved? A prize for the most influential club of the past 40 years? Real Madrid wins that easily—10 Champions League titles since 1985. Or the most transformative national team? Spain, 2008–2012. Or even the best academy? La Masia. That changes everything. Suddenly, it’s not about ego. It’s about evolution.
Or how about the most underrated player of the era? Someone like Dennis Bergkamp. Never won a Ballon d'Or. But ask any Arsenal fan. He was magic. Subtle. Unrepeatable. Maybe that’s the real legacy—not stats, but style.
Frequently Asked Questions
Was the Super Ballon d'Or an official FIFA award?
No. It was organized solely by France Football, the same magazine behind the Ballon d'Or. FIFA didn’t get involved. Not in 1989. Not since. That matters—because it means the award carries prestige, but not institutional weight. Like a literary prize given by a magazine, not a national academy.
Could women footballers ever win a future Super Ballon d'Or?
They should. Absolutely. Martina Navratilova isn’t a footballer—bad example. But Mia Hamm, Birgit Prinz, Marta, and now Aitana Bonmatí (Ballon d'Or Féminin 2023)—their careers span decades of growth. A women’s Super Ballon d'Or would honor not just excellence, but the fight for recognition. And that’s worth celebrating.
Has anyone else been rumored for a second Super Ballon d'Or?
Not officially. But in fan polls? Messi leads. By a mile. In a 2023 survey by France Football, 68% of respondents said he’d be the top pick. Ronaldo at 22%. The rest scattered. But polls aren’t votes. And France Football has stayed quiet. Honestly, it is unclear if they’re even considering it.
The Bottom Line
The Super Ballon d'Or was never meant to be cyclical. It was a monument. A one-time nod to history. The idea that it returns every 40 years is a fan-made narrative—romantic, but false. Could it return in 2029? Sure. Should it? I find this overrated. We don’t need another trophy to tell us who was great. We already know.
What we need is context. Perspective. The game moves fast. Records fall. Legends fade. But instead of reviving old ceremonies, maybe we should focus on preserving stories. On teaching new fans about Di Stéfano’s feints, Van Basten’s volley in ’88, Weah’s solo run against Verona. That’s the real award—memory.
Because in the end, no trophy, no matter how golden or rare, can capture what football means. Not really. And that’s okay. Some things should stay just out of reach. Like a perfect pass. Or a childhood dream. Suffice to say, if they do bring it back, don’t expect magic. We’ve seen too much since. And that changes everything.