One indicative scene is from a game in the late 1990s, with a packed football stadium where the atmosphere was tense in the stands. The game had reached a crucial juncture, in around the 80th minute, when Vassilis Karapialis, Olympiacos’ central attacking midfielder and its primary “playmaker”, takes the ball just below the kick-off line. Two sturdy defenders approach him, their bodies tense, ready for a collision. Anyone else in his position would probably have looked for a simple pass towards a teammate on either side, or possibly anticipated the brunt of a punishing tackle in an era when VAR was still on the drawing boards. However, Karapialis was not your mere player.
Suddenly, in a move that seemed to defy both gravity and logic, he lets the ball roll under the sole of his right foot, while simultaneously pulling back on his left knee in a weird angle resembling a geometrical div. The first defender, confused as if trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube right there on the field, is caught off balance in a split second. The second attempts a “heroic” tackle but Karapialis has already moved away and advanced towards the opponents’ penalty box, leaving a thin strip of turf raised like a signature on the field.
The play wasn’t just great because of some nice dribbles or a demonstration of a skilled midfielder’s technique. There is something more substantial. It is revealing of the way Karapialis understood football: measured, almost ritualistic movements embedded in a sport that exalts speed.
‘If Cristiano Ronaldo’s pace on the field is “heavy metal” compared to Lionel Messi’s “jazz improvisation”, then Karapialis’ movements would be more akin to a classical music sonnet’
A rarity
To understand the player Karapialis, one must first accept the following: he wasn’t particularly fast. If he had competed against a third division goalie in some hypothetical 100-meter dash, there was a good chance he’d lose. But speed, as any football “romantic” knows, is at times overrated when your mind is accelerating in tandem with your body – and compared to your opponents’ movements.
Karapialis belonged to a rare category of players who move through a game as if they are controlling the flow of time. He didn’t run faster than most others, but he always got to where he needed to be first.
This apparent ability to manage the pace of a game to his particular tempo wasn’t evident in his younger playing days. When he began his senior career in Larissa, as a slightly built teenager with scruffy hair and a look that betrayed an odd combination of innocence and insolence, no one could have imagined that he would develop into one of the most subtle attacking midfielders in Greek football history.
It wasn’t just his dribbling and his strategic play, it was also his awesome passes and precision shots.
A caressing first touch
In terms of style, what first comes to mind when recalling Karapialis was his first touch of the ball when it came his way, described as “caressing”. The ball appeared to cling to his foot like a magnet to metal, without much apparent force. His passes were never just mere “transfers” of the ball, they were deliberate, “reasoned”, creative. Karapialis didn’t pass the ball to buck responsibility, he delivered passes like a director giving instructions to thespians. Fans recall a movement on the field that was neither jerky nor explosive.
For the sake of an analogy and without implying anything bordering on an exaggeration, if Cristiano Ronaldo’s pace on the field is “heavy metal” compared to Lionel Messi’s “jazz improvisation”, then Karapialis’ movements would be more akin to a classical music sonnet. And then, of course, there was his shot on goal. His kicks were never wild, powerful shots taken by more muscular players, but precision shots that often resembled the curve of a pool ball moving at just the right angle to sink into the pocket.
To be fair, Greek football in the 1990s didn’t appreciated such players as much as it should. The local football model had for decades been obsessed with toughness, speed, passion – all the elements that make the sport spectacular, but not necessarily beautiful. Karapialis seemed somewhat out of place, a finesse playmaker who would have been better suited in the Spanish or Italian leagues at the time. He was ahead of his time, as far as Greek football goes.
He remained, and from 1997 to 2000 Olympiacos won four consecutive championships with Karapialis playing a central role. In 229 appearances with Olympiacos, he scored 61 goals and left a unique mark in his wake.
Arrival in Piraeus
Karapialis began his professional career in 1982 in his native Larissa (AEL), when he was only 17 years old. At the time, Greek football was still somewhat dismissive of players with heightened technical skills but without brawniness and power. When he started at the seniors’ level, he looked like a youngster who had veered into a man’s game by mistake. Nevertheless, within a few years AEL’s starting lineup was built around him. With famed Polish manager Jacek Gmoch on the bench and other “franchise” players on the team, such as Voutyritsas, Ziogas, Valaoras and Mitsibonas, Karapialis served as the catalyst for a team that won the Cup in 1985 and the championship in 1988 – the first and only one by provincial team in Greek football history.
In the summer of 1991, after 145 appearances and 29 goals for Larissa, Karapialis leaves for Olympiacos. His transfer was not just a change from one team to another; it was a football event. Olympiacos was desperately seeking a return to the top and Karapialis appeared as the “missing piece” of the puzzle for the title.
In Piraeus, he became the soul of a team that was searching for its identity in the early 1990s. Although his early years with the Reds were marked by instability and titles lost in the details, he remained, and from 1997 to 2000 Olympiacos won four consecutive championships with Karapialis playing a central role. In 229 appearances with Olympiacos, he scored 61 goals and left a unique mark in his wake.
If there is one question that arises when referring to Karapialis’ significant football career, it’s why his name never really exceeded the narrow boundaries of Greek football.
The answer may be simpler than thought. Karapialis never created a commotion on or off the field, he wasn’t attuned with the public relations aspect of pro football and didn’t try to generate a “commercial element” linked with his name and play. He avoided pompous statements to the press, he never made gossipy headlines, and he didn’t employ an agent spreading transfer “scenarios” involving Real Madrid, AC Milan or the likes.
He was just an athlete who loved to play football, and he did it in a way that made fans forget, for a while, about the shrieks and violence that at times blemished the sport.
Somewhere, in a parallel universe, Karapialis is a heralded playmaker on a Club playing in a top-flight European league. In our one and only universe, however, he is something of a rarity: a quiet football “maestro” who’s made his mark not with flashy headlines, but with a skillful, effortless and almost poetic playing style.
