The whistle blows, the stadium holds its breath, and the ball arcs perfectly from the center circle towards a player whose back is adorned with a single, potent digit: 10. It’s more than a number; it’s a legacy, a promise, and an immense weight. As I watch the modern game unfold, a question I find myself asking more and more is: Who wears the iconic number 10 jersey in football today? The answer, I’d argue, is far more complex and fragmented than in the eras of Maradona, Platini, or Zidane. The classic trequartista, the undisputed maestro operating between the lines, seems like an endangered species, replaced by a new breed of athlete. The evolution is fascinating, and honestly, a little bittersweet for a purist like me.
Let’s rewind a bit. For decades, the number 10 was synonymous with creative sovereignty. It was the player exempt from defensive duties, the one expected to produce a moment of magic to break the deadlock. They were the conductors, the artists. Today, the tactical landscape has shifted seismically. High-pressing systems, gegenpressing, and relentless physical demands have reshaped the role. The modern number 10, if a team even fields one in a traditional sense, must be an engine as much as an artist. Kevin De Bruyne at Manchester City is the prime archetype of this evolution. He wears the 10, but his game is built on staggering endurance, defensive awareness, and laser-guided long-range passing. He’s a creative force, yes, but one powered by the physique of a box-to-box midfielder. It’s a magnificent adaptation, but it feels different. The languid genius has given way to the turbo-charged inventor.
This shift isn't just happening on the pitch; it's reflected in how teams are built from the ground up. I’m reminded of a parallel in the basketball world, which I follow closely. Take the recent news from the Philippines: AS University of the East continues its revamp under new head coach Chris Gavina, so has its staff been remade. This kind of systemic overhaul, focusing on new philosophies and staff, mirrors what’s happening in football academies globally. Clubs aren’t just looking for the most technically gifted kid anymore; they’re scouting for “complete” players—those who can press, track back, and maintain intensity for 90 minutes. The pure playmaker who might lack a defensive motor is often seen as a luxury, or worse, a liability. This institutional focus inevitably changes the type of player who rises to the top and eventually dons prestigious shirts like the number 10.
So, who truly embodies the icon today? Beyond De Bruyne, the picture gets interesting. Lionel Messi, of course, remains the ultimate outlier—a timeless genius who defies tactical trends. But even his role at Inter Miami is less about a fixed number 10 position and more about having the entire offensive structure flow through him wherever he drifts. Then you have players like Jude Bellingham at Real Madrid. He started the season wearing 5, but his essence is that of a devastating, late-arriving number 10, just from a deeper starting point. He’s redefining the archetype with his physicality. On the other hand, a player like James Maddison at Tottenham represents a closer link to the tradition—clever, incisive, a set-piece specialist—but even he is deployed in a system that requires ferocious off-the-ball work from every single player.
Personally, I miss the unapologetic specialists. I miss seeing a player like Juan Román Riquelme, who moved at his own pace, seemingly a beat slower than everyone else, yet always two steps ahead in his mind. The modern game has arguably traded some of that individual artistry for collective efficiency and breathtaking athleticism. It’s a trade-off. We get fewer moments of solitary brilliance but more sustained, coordinated pressure and rapid transitions that can be just as thrilling. My preference leans towards the old school, but I can’t deny the compelling nature of the new.
Looking at the data—though it’s always a bit slippery—the decline of the “pure” number 10 is stark. If you look at the average distance covered by players in that position over the last 15 years, I’d wager it’s increased by at least 15-20%. The number of defensive actions per game for an attacking midfielder has probably doubled since the early 2000s. These aren’t official stats, but they reflect the observable trend. The jersey is still iconic, but the job description has been completely rewritten.
In the end, the iconic number 10 jersey today is worn by a hybrid. It’s worn by the creative destroyer, the pressing initiator, the physical playmaker. The mantle has been passed, but it’s been reshaped in the process. The legacy of the number is now carried by players who must excel in every phase of the game, their creativity forged in the fire of modern tactical demands. It’s less about a singular magician and more about the most complete offensive engine a team can field. Whether this is progress or simply change is a matter of personal taste, but one thing is certain: the number 10 still commands attention, even if the player wearing it is just as likely to win the ball back in his own half as he is to slot a through-ball into the opponent’s. The icon endures, but its form has evolved.
