Of course he is. Of course.

Lionel Messi will play again in Sunday’s World Cup final, because he’s Lionel Messi, soccer’s greatest ever. I’m not sure why Alexi Lalas keeps saying arguably on TV, like he’s worried that Cristiano Ronaldo or the Spirit of Pelé is going to bust into the Fox studio and kick him in the shins.

Hasn’t everyone seen enough? Messi’s the goaty-goat goat, hooves down, blow the whistle, game over. Argentina’s mega upcoming showdown versus Spain—Messi’s former home, academy and cathedral—is nothing less than a goat’s destiny.

Messi in the Meadowlands, for it all. Is anyone shocked?

England, apparently! Or at least England manager Thomas Tuchel. I’m not sure about Tuchel’s strategy in Wednesday’s semifinal against Argentina—some timid variation of score a goal, retreat, and try to hang on for dear life.

Futile, brother. That’s doom. That’s when Messi went to work. The final 25 or so minutes of Wednesday’s match felt like watching a shark circle a lifeboat. Argentina kept getting the ball to Messi, and Messi kept swirling, swirling, swirling and thinking, thinking, thinking.

Is there a scarier predicament in sports than Messi with even just a little bit of time to figure it out?

Six minutes, two goals, two brilliant Messi assists later, the game was over. Truthfully, it felt over after the first goal . All the momentum was Argentina’s. England had long ago surrendered. The stoppage time 2-1 winner was just the obligatory hammer.

Both goals, from Enzo Fernandez and Lautaro Martinez, were sensational. Messi’s setups were instrumental. It was a case study in how to dominate a game without putting the ball in the net yourself.

Tell the kids. Tell the grandkids. Tell anyone you know eating an orange slice in a youth soccer jersey or any sport, really. That’s what makes the great ones great: When the game flows through them, as if they’re the one channeling it into existence. When they can control everything, even if they don’t have the ball.

We’re watching crazy history. I know that we live in Hyperbole Nation and people assign superlatives too often now, but this time it’s true. It feels like this World Cup has jumped the rail into a spectacular confirmation of everything we ever knew. It feels like we’re all going to remember this one, even the defeated and sad. The greatest remains among us and he’s still…quite great.

Now we shake our heads and remind ourselves that Messi is 39. That Messi is in his fourth season living and playing in Miami. No one would have held him in disfavor if he’d quasi-retired down in South Florida, pulled that pink MLS jersey over a sun-tanned pot belly and coasted on old glories like Barcelona and Argentina’s World Cup title in 2022.

Or if he played—how surprised would you have been if we were sitting here after an early knockout loss, thinking Argentina had made a common mistake, relying on one last run from an aging master?

Happens all the time, in every sport. Hasn’t happened here.

The full-tournament domination, I didn’t expect. Sure, Messi might rattle home a few goals playing subpar teams in the diluted group stage and make it respectable, but this performance has been age-defiant and absurd.

See 23-year-old Jude Bellingham roaring down the pitch for England? See Spain’s teenage wonder Lamine Yamal? That’s who soccer is supposed to revolve around now. Not near-quadragenarians playing in pickleball country.

Messi is the World Cup’s all time leader in goals and the all time leader in goals plus assists. He isn’t in the World Cup conversation. He is the conversation.

When you watch Messi on Sunday, watch him with the ball, but especially watch him without the ball. Watch him walk his famous walk—shoulders over, head down, like Linus looking for his blanket. Don’t be deceived. He isn’t checked out. He is waiting to strike. Watch his economy of motion, his one-touch passes, the way he can dribble in every direction as if possessed by a joystick.

Yes, I know: Argentina isn’t for everyone. People think they’re FIFA’s favorite, the teacher’s pet, VARgentina , blessed with friendly whistles and dubious reviews. They were fortunate to get past Cape Verde and they were definitely fortunate to escape Egypt with three goals in 13 minutes . Sore feelings remain. Conspiracies abound.

I get it. Messi mania can feel like a cult. Argentina’s a lot. There’s a swagger and presumptuousness to their style, the way they bully and muscle through games without fear, confident it’s all going to work out in the end.

I know the haters may skip watching Sunday. I suspect everyone in England will go out to the countryside for a picnic and a quiet sob. Tuchel, why? Whhhyyyy?

For the rest of us, it’s an appointment. Spain’s the clear favorite here—younger, faster, fresh off a dusting of France. There’s obvious drama. Spain helped raise Messi, Messi’s almost supernaturally intertwined with the ascendant Lamine Yamal , and now it is Spain that stands in the way of a second consecutive World Cup.

Would you rather be the favorite—or would you rather have Lionel Messi?

Email: jason.gay@wsj.com