Centre of gravity is one of those concepts that sounds academic until you watch enough football and realise it explains almost everything. Strip away the terminology and it comes down to weight, hips, and balance. Every dribble, every shoulder-to-shoulder, every recovery run is decided by who controls their body better, and who forces the other player to lose control first. When I watch elite players closely, I am rarely thinking about skill moves. I am watching how they carry their weight.
Low-centre players succeed because their weight stays close to the ground. It is not just about height, it is about how compact a player keeps their body while moving.
When I watch Lionel Messi or Eden Hazard in their primes, the first thing that stands out is how little excess movement there is. Their hips stay low, their steps are short, and their upper body stays quiet. Everything happens underneath them. When they change direction, they are not fighting their own momentum, because there is not much of it to fight.
This is why their dribbling looks effortless. The ball stays close because their body is already prepared to turn. A defender might be quicker over 30 metres, but in a five-metre duel it does not matter. The attacker can stop, twist, and go again before the defender has even reset their feet.
Low centre of gravity also explains why these players are so difficult to dispossess. Players like Sergio Agüero or Maradona were never the biggest on the pitch, but they were incredibly strong through the hips and thighs. When contact came, they absorbed it rather than resisting it. Because their balance point was lower than the defender’s shoulder line, challenges often bounced off them instead of stopping them.
One underrated part of this profile is deceleration. The ability to stop quickly is just as important as acceleration. Dropping the hips before stopping allows a player to kill speed instantly without losing balance. That is why elite dribblers seem to pause time. They are not slowing down randomly, they are controlling their weight better than everyone else.
A higher centre of gravity is often treated like a flaw, but it is really just a different set of tools. Tall players cannot move like smaller ones, so the best of them stop trying. When I watch Erling Haaland closely, what surprises me is not his pace, but how often he bends deeply at the knees before contact. In duels, he actively lowers himself. By doing this, he stabilises his frame and makes his size harder to move. He is effectively bringing his balance point closer to the ground when it matters.
Tall players also use their mass differently. Someone like Virgil van Dijk is not trying to win every duel by poking the ball away. He blocks space. His body becomes the obstacle. Once he positions himself correctly, the attacker has to go around him, not through him.
In the air, centre of gravity becomes about control rather than height alone. The best aerial players spread their arms and brace early. That wide base keeps them upright when contact comes mid-jump. Balance is what allows them to head the ball cleanly instead of just colliding with opponents. There is also the recovery aspect. High-centre players may turn slower, but their stride length allows them to cover ground efficiently. Over distance, they make up space quickly. This is why so many elite centre-backs are tall. They are not built for tight turns, they are built to control territory.
Rather than comparing players directly, I find it more useful to think in profiles. The low-centre “glider” survives in tight spaces. They beat opponents by slipping through gaps, changing direction, and keeping the ball attached to their feet. The high-centre “enforcer” controls space. They shield, block, dominate aerially, and make certain areas of the pitch inaccessible.
Neither profile is superior. Problems start when players are asked to perform outside their balance type. Asking a glider to constantly play with their back to goal, or asking an enforcer to dribble through traffic, usually ends badly. The best coaches build systems that protect these natural balance strengths rather than fighting them.
In one-on-one defending, the ball lies. Feet lie. The hips tell the truth. When I defend, or when I watch elite defenders, the focus is always on the attacker’s centre, not the ball. The goal is not to win the ball immediately, but to force the attacker to shift their weight too far in one direction. Once their balance goes, the duel is already over.
Against low-centre attackers, defenders must lower themselves. Standing upright against someone like Messi is a mistake before the move even happens. Bending the knees and getting low allows the defender to mirror direction changes rather than react late. Elite attackers know this, which is why feints work. A shoulder drop or hip shift is not about fooling the eyes, it is about moving the defender’s weight. The moment the defender commits their balance, the attacker attacks the space that just opened. Good defending, then, is not aggressive. It is patient. It is about waiting for imbalance rather than forcing a tackle.
Football is a constant negotiation with gravity. Every step, turn, jump, and stop is an adjustment of weight. Speed matters, strength matters, technique matters, but none of it survives without balance.
When I think about the best players I have watched, across positions and eras, what connects them is not a specific skill, but body control. They understand when to stay low, when to rise, when to lean, and when to stop.
Whether you glide past opponents or impose yourself on them, control of your centre of gravity is what decides who stays upright, who keeps the ball, and who ends up reacting instead of acting. At the highest level, that difference is everything.
