Right. Let me get this straight. Lionel Messi. Eight Ballons d'Or. World Cup winner. The greatest footballer who has ever lived according to anyone under 40. And he cannot win a game of football in his own back garden.

Inter Miami drew 2-2 with the New York Red Bulls on Saturday. Messi had a free kick saved in stoppage time. Still winless at their shiny new stadium. And I'll tell you what. I have never felt closer to Lionel Messi in my entire life.

In my day, I managed at grounds where the away changing room had a hole in the roof and the hot water worked every third Tuesday. We once played a home match where a dog ran on and the referee let play continue because, and I quote, "he's better than your number nine." We still won that one 1-0. Because that was our patch. Our turf. Our miserable, sodden, dog-infested turf.

But a new stadium? Don't get me started.

I took charge at a club once that moved to a new ground halfway through the season. Lovely place. Seats that folded down properly. Floodlights that didn't flicker when someone in the chippy next door turned the fryer on. State of the art. And we didn't win there for nearly three months. Three months! The lads were terrified of it. It was too clean. Too quiet. The fans didn't know where to sit. The dugout was so far from the pitch I needed binoculars to see if my centre half was bleeding or just sunburnt.

That's the problem with modern football. Everyone thinks a new stadium fixes everything. Bigger capacity. Corporate boxes. Naming rights deals with cryptocurrency firms that'll be bankrupt by Christmas. But nobody thinks about the fact that your players have to actually feel something when they walk out of that tunnel.

At the old place, wherever it was, there were ghosts. Good ghosts. The memory of that last minute equaliser in the cup. The smell of the Bovril. The dodgy corner flag that leaned at 45 degrees and nobody ever fixed because it was "part of the character." A new stadium has no character. It's got WiFi and artisan burgers and 47 different types of craft lager, but it hasn't got a soul. Not yet.

And look, I'm not going to sit here and feel sorry for Messi. The man earns more in a week than I earned in my entire managerial career. His new stadium probably has heated seats and a cocktail bar. Mine had a tea urn that gave you an electric shock if you touched the handle wrong. Different worlds.

But the football gods don't care about your bank balance, do they? They don't care if you've got a 25,000 seater palace or a corrugated iron lean-to. If the ground hasn't been christened properly, you're not winning there. Simple as that.

You know what christens a ground? Suffering. A horrible 1-0 win where the ball hits the post, comes off the keeper's backside, and trickles in while the centre forward claims it. A red card that fires everyone up. A referee decision so bad that the entire stadium bonds over mutual outrage. That's how you build a fortress. Not with underfloor heating.

Messi will be fine. Miami will eventually win there. Some poor side will turn up one Saturday, the stars will align, and suddenly the place will feel like home. But until then, Leo, welcome to what the rest of us have lived with our whole careers.

New grounds are cursed. Always have been. Always will be.

In my day, we called it "new ground syndrome" and the cure was always the same. Time, patience, and a goalkeeper who shouts loud enough to make the new walls shake.

Someone get Miami a goalkeeper who shouts.