They were meant to rule the world. 

Two teenagers from different corners of football’s map, one from Morocco and one from Croatia, both burdened with impossible labels before they were even grown men.

Hachim Mastour, the “next Ronaldo.” 
Alen Halilović, the “next Messi.”

In 2015 and 2016, their names echoed across YouTube compilations and football forums. Mastour’s stepovers could fill a highlight reel in seconds. Halilović’s low centre of gravity and weaving dribbles drew gasps from fans who saw a young magician in the making. Both were tipped to carry football into a new era. Both faded before their stories could truly begin. 

This is a story about hype, hope, and the quiet cost of expectation.

Alen Halilović was Croatia’s answer. At Dinamo Zagreb, he looked born for the big stage. He scored on his debut at 16, his dribbling smooth and natural, his vision sharp. Barcelona called soon after. 

There he was, smiling in photos beside Iniesta and Messi, a teenager caught between dream and destiny. Croatia hailed him as the heir to Luka Modrić’s creativity and Messi’s magic. The future seemed certain.

For a brief moment, the two stood as symbols of a new generation, flair players who could light up football’s next chapter. 

But football rarely follows the script. 

Being labelled “the next Ronaldo” or “the next Messi” is not always a compliment. It can be a curse disguised as praise. It turns growth into pressure, mistakes into headlines, and potential into expectation.

Mastour’s career stumbled at Milan. Loan moves followed to Malaga, Zwolle, and Lamia, each one chipping away at his confidence. He had moments of brilliance, but they came too far apart. The boy who once ruled the internet was now fighting for minutes in lower leagues. 

Halilović’s journey was similar. In Barcelona, competition was fierce. In Hamburg, inconsistency followed him. He had the talent but not the rhythm, and by his early twenties, he was already a journeyman.

The comparisons had done their damage.

By the end of the 2010s, both players had quietly disappeared from mainstream conversation. The same football world that once celebrated them stopped asking where they were. 

Mastour drifted into the background, playing in Morocco and the lower divisions of Italy. Halilović, too, kept moving from Spain to Germany to England and the Netherlands, searching for stability that never came.

Their names became whispers, then memories. 

Football’s spotlight is bright, but it rarely shines for long.

There is a lesson in their stories, one that goes beyond failure. Not every prodigy becomes a legend. For every Messi, there are countless Halilovićs. For every Ronaldo, a hundred Mastours. Talent opens the door, but timing, mentality, luck, and patience decide what happens next.

They were victims of a sport that moves faster than it grows. Of the media that builds idols too early. Of fans who crave the next star before the current ones have faded. 

And yet, there is something quietly beautiful about it, too. Somewhere, Mastour still dribbles past defenders on small pitches. Halilović still threads passes in the second tiers of Europe. Away from cameras, away from noise, they still play for love.

Once, they were called the next Ronaldo and Messi. 

Now, they are reminders that greatness is not only about who makes it, but also about those who teach us how fragile the path can be.