My moments with legends: 21-30

 Volume 1-10 here

Volume 11-20 here

Volume 21: Patrícia Morais

Portugal’s Last Line. Always First in Heart.

She stood for Portugal when few believed.
Before the Euros. Before the big stages.
Back when crowds were thin, and faith was thinner.
Patrícia Morais stood. And saved.

Not just goals —
but standards.
She showed what it meant to wear that shirt.
To give every inch. Every dive. Every shout.
Always composed. Always focused.
With hands like stone and a heart that never wavered.

When I met her, there was no arrogance.
Just calm.
That keeper calm.
The kind you can't teach — only become, over years of reps and heartbreak and belief.

She took the photo like she takes crosses:
Decisive. No fuss. Solid.

Patrícia didn’t ask for attention.
She earned respect — from France to Portugal, from Braga to the world.

And when the big tournaments finally came,
and Portugal walked into the arena,
she was ready.

Because she'd been ready all along.

Patrícia Morais —
more than a goalkeeper.
A promise kept.
To a country that’s still catching up to her courage.

Volume 22: Maria Thorisdottir
Grace Under Pressure. Power Without Pride.

She plays with presence.
Maria Thorisdottir doesn't overcomplicate.
She steps in, clears the danger, lifts her teammates —
and somehow still finds the time to make people feel seen.

Chelsea. Manchester United. Brighton.
The badge changed. The spirit never did.

I met her post-match.
Calm, thoughtful, with that unmistakable mix of steel and softness.
She posed without rush. No performance. Just her.
Present. Grounded. True.

Maria’s story is one of resilience.
Injuries. Doubts. Comebacks.
She’s not just a centre-back —
she’s a builder. Of trust. Of walls. Of teams.

She makes tackles with timing.
And conversations with care.
You walk away thinking: this is how you lead — without needing to say it.

Maria Thorisdottir 
a defender by position.
A connector by nature.
The kind of player you want in every battle —
and every photo.

Volume 23: Ewa Pajor
The Striker Who Let Her Goals Do the Talking

She didn't need headlines.
Ewa Pajor made hers with goals.

From Poland to Wolfsburg,
from raw talent to feared finisher 
she ran like she meant it,
and struck like she never doubted.

I met her on a summer day outside the stadium.
She was carrying a full crate of water bottles 
a top scorer with no ego, no entourage.
Just hustle.
Just Ewa.

She smiled, posed, and went on with her task.
No drama.
But if you’ve ever seen her with the ball at her feet,
you know: she writes drama in the box.
One touch, one sprint, one finish 
and silence, because it’s already done.

Ewa Pajor doesn’t need many words.
She needs space.
And if you give her that  even half a metre 
you’ve already lost.

Ewa Pajor 
the striker who carried bottles off the pitch,
and carried Wolfsburg on it.

Volume 24: Kristine Minde
The Glue Player. The Unsung Engine.

She played wherever they needed her.
Left back. Right wing. Midfield.
Kristine Minde didn’t care about positions.
She cared about purpose.

She was never the loudest on the pitch.
But she was always the one you missed when she wasn’t there.
Smart runs. Silent tackles. Constant movement.
The kind of player that coaches love
and fans only truly understand with time.

I met her on a quiet afternoon,
after a game where she’d probably done three jobs in one.
She smiled, friendly and calm 
as if she hadn’t just run 90 minutes for the badge on her chest.

Kristine was part of Norway’s transition years.
Between generations. Between formations.
And she always fit.
Not because she changed who she was 
but because she knew who she was.

Kristine Minde 
a name that rarely made headlines,
but often made the team whole.

Volume 25: Charlotte Rohlin

They say legends wear golden boots.
But sometimes, they wear the same smile eight times a day.
Charlotte Rohlin stood for loyalty, light, and quiet courage.
And on this day — just a brief exchange — she made me feel seen.
She didn’t have to.
But that’s who she is.

Volume 26: Lisa De Vanna
The Wild Heart of the Matildas

You didn’t watch Lisa De Vanna.
You felt her.

She didn’t just run —
she charged.
She didn’t just dribble —
she defied.
She didn’t just score —
she struck lightning into nets around the world.

She played with a chip on her shoulder and a fire in her chest.
And somehow, beneath that intensity,
there was also a deep love for the game
and for the badge of Australia.

When I met her, the stadium was nearly empty.
Just shadows, concrete, memory.
But there she was — grounded, smiling, approachable.
The storm, at rest.
And still… you felt the spark in the air around her.

Lisa De Vanna wasn’t always polished.
But she was raw, real, and ready to run through walls.
And that’s why people will remember her
long after the scores are forgotten.

Lisa De Vanna 
you couldn’t predict her.
You couldn’t control her.
But you could never ignore her.

Volume 27: Ingrid Moe Wold
Norwegian Discipline. Global Respect.

Some players are never the headline.
But every coach writes their name first on the team sheet.

Ingrid Moe Wold was one of those.
She ran without complaint.
Marked without panic.
Led without raising her voice.

Captain at LSK Kvinner.
Steady hand for Norway.
A calm presence in Spain.
Her career was built not on highlight reels, but on trust.

When I met her in Algarve,
she greeted me as if we’d spoken a hundred times.
Polite. Relaxed.
Focused — the way only true professionals are.

She never asked for attention.
She just gave consistency.
And when she eventually stepped away from the pitch,
she left behind not noise —
but respect. Pure and unanimous.

Ingrid Moe Wold —
not loud, not flashy,
but the kind of player that holds a team together
just by being there.

Volume 28: Doris Bačić
Grande Bačić. Croatia’s Keeper of Character.

She played in silence.
But her gloves spoke volumes.

Doris Bačić has been everywhere —
Juventus, Sporting, Rosengård, Levante —
and yet, she’s always carried herself like someone who still has everything to prove.

Not because she’s unsure.
But because she cares.
About respect.
About consistency.
About showing young Croatian girls that greatness isn’t just for the big nations.

I met her in Portugal, after a game.
She could’ve left. Could’ve slipped away into the tunnel.
But instead — she stayed.
Signed. Smiled. Talked.

“You brought a Croatian flag?”
Yes. Of course I did.
Because some players deserve their country to follow them —
even if their country doesn’t always follow back.

She’s been named keeper of the week in Italy.
Played backup to legends.
Saved matches for clubs that didn’t always know how to thank her.
But she never stopped showing up.

Doris Bačić 
Grande in gloves.
Grande in silence.
Grande in everything that matters.

Volume 29: Jess Fishlock
The Fire in the Midfield. The Fighter in Every Shirt.

Jess Fishlock didn’t walk into games.
She entered like a spark, already lit.

Wales. Seattle. Melbourne. Lyon. Frankfurt.
She played everywhere — and left her stamp on every pitch.

But it wasn’t just skill.
It was defiance.
It was hustle.
It was this relentless belief that even if the odds said no,
she’d make the game say yes.

I met her outside Kingsmeadow.
Olympique Lyonnais badge on her jacket.
Phone in hand. Jetlag in her eyes — and still that spark.
She smiled. Gave time. Didn’t posture.
That’s Jess: intense on the pitch, approachable in the real world.

She fought for her teams.
She fought for respect.
She fought for visibility — for Wales, for herself, for all of us watching.

You could put her anywhere:
Attacking mid. Deep pivot. Ten minutes to go.
And she’d still be the one making a difference.

And when I met her,
we didn’t speak English.

Nope.

We spoke Dutch.
Right there outside Kingsmeadow,
surrounded by confused faces.

"Wait… are they speaking… Dutch?"

Yes.
Because Jess Fishlock adapts — on the pitch, off the pitch, in every way.
She just gets it.

Jess Fishlock —
a whole nation’s voice,
in one 1.57m body,
with the soul of a lion
and the bite of someone who never took the easy route.

Volume 30: Rebecca Knaak
The Quiet German Standard.

She didn’t need drama.
Rebecca Knaak just needed the ball,
the game in front of her,
and the trust of her teammates — which she always had.

At Freiburg, she was the backbone.
Not flashy. Not loud. Just there —
every game, every duel, every time you needed a calm voice in chaos.

I met her after a match,
while the team bus stood waiting.
No big energy. No posing. Just Rebecca —
a little tired, but still kind, still present, still herself.

She didn’t play for the cameras.
She played for the game.
For structure. For reliability.
And when you watched her long enough,
you realized:
she was the reason others could shine.

She could play midfield. She could lead a backline.
She made everything around her better
— by simply being better than expected.

Rebecca Knaak —
no headlines. No nonsense.
Just ninety minutes of calm power,
week after week,
year after year.