Joshua Zirkzee: The Man Who Plays in Reverse
Football worships urgency. It is a game of acceleration, of relentless forward motion, of men who sprint toward destiny with the fury of a storm. We idolize the explosive, the ruthless, the strikers who charge into battle with fire in their veins. But a certain Dutch striker is different. He does not rush. He does not fight. He does not even seem to try.
He moves as if time itself bends to his rhythm, as if the game unfolds in slow motion for him alone. Where others lunge, he pauses. Where defenders expect impact, he dissolves into space. Where the textbook tells him to attack, he retreats—an artist playing with negative space, a dancer stepping away from the music only to re-enter at the perfect beat.
It is unsettling. Strikers are supposed to be predictable, their intentions clear. They live on the shoulder of the last defender, they hunt, they finish. He does none of this. He drifts. He invites defenders toward him, not to escape them, but to trap them in a world where their instincts betray them.
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He is a paradox. A forward who moves in reverse. A dribbler who hesitates to accelerate. A goal threat who finds space not by rushing into it, but by creating it, gently, subtly, like a man opening a door just wide enough for the light to slip through. Defenders think they are containing him. Then, in an instant, they are chasing shadows.
This is Joshua Zirkzee—the forward who rewrites the rules of movement, who slows down to speed up, who reminds us that in football, progress is often an illusion.
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To dribble is to tell a story. Some dribblers tell theirs with violent intensity—Vinícius Júnior, Kylian Mbappé, Rafael Leão. They explode into gaps, rip through defenses, turn the pitch into a battlefield. Zirkzee, however, dribbles as if whispering a secret. His movements are measured, his touch impossibly soft, each feint a delicate brushstroke on a canvas of green.
Most dribblers use speed to escape pressure. Zirkzee does the opposite—he invites pressure, welcomes it like an old friend, seduces defenders into believing they can take the ball, only to pull the rug from beneath their feet. His most devastating weapon is the hesitation dribble—a sudden pause, a momentary freeze-frame in time, a question asked to the defender with no obvious answer. Do you dive in? Do you hold your ground? Either choice is wrong, because Zirkzee has already calculated the next move.
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Then there’s the half-turn, a movement so fluid it feels like water slipping through fingers. With his back to goal, he receives the ball on the half-turn, luring his marker forward. And just when they think they’ve anticipated his movement, he pivots the opposite way—gone, vanished, leaving them reaching for shadows.
His dribbling is not about beating men, but about manipulating them. He dribbles in reverse because he knows defenders want him to move forward. He breaks their rhythm by refusing to obey football’s natural cadence. In doing so, he forces them into a dance where he alone controls the tempo.
Philosophy of the Reverse Forward
A striker is supposed to be the tip of the spear. The final act. The destination. Zirkzee, however, behaves like a wandering poet, uninterested in the rigidity of positioning. He is a striker in title but a shadow striker in spirit, operating in the margins, moving laterally rather than vertically, peeling away from defenders rather than engaging them directly.
He functions best when given license to roam, not as a fixed point in attack but as an instigator of movement.He reminds us of Roberto Baggio, not just in aesthetic grace but in spiritual essence. Like Baggio, he exists between categories: not quite a striker, not quite a playmaker. He is best understood as a roaming shadow, a ghost in the machinery of the game, appearing where defenders least expect, drifting rather than running, caressing rather than forcing.
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Interplay with Teammates: A System Built Around Zirkzee
Joshua Zirkzee’s movement is fundamentally cooperative. He does not impose himself on the game through sheer athleticism or brute force but instead orchestrates space through his positioning and interactions. His effectiveness is not just a function of his own technical and tactical qualities but also of how well his teammates understand and complement his style
A traditional number nine pins center-backs, creating space for wingers to drive inside. Zirkzee, by contrast, moves in the opposite direction—vacating the central channel and drawing defenders with him. This necessitates wingers who are comfortable inverting into the box, making runs that capitalize on the gaps he opens.
In a 4-3-3, the ideal wingers are not traditional wide-men but goal-oriented forwards, players who instinctively drift into the half-spaces when their striker withdraws. In a 3-5-2, the presence of a second striker ensures the vacated central space is occupied, but the wing-backs then become essential in stretching the pitch horizontally.
Without wingers who read these dynamics well, a team risks losing its attacking depth when Zirkzee drops, making the attack easier to defend.
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Midfield Runners: Ensuring Vertical Penetration
Because Zirkzee resists the natural gravity of a striker—pulling away from goal rather than toward it—the responsibility for depth falls on midfield runners. The best example of this type of movement comes from late-arriving midfielders who time their runs based on when and where space emerges.
In a 4-2-3-1, the attacking midfielder becomes critical, acting almost as a secondary forward who exploits the space Zirkzee manipulates. In a 4-3-3, the interiors (or advanced eights) must be dynamic, constantly assessing when to push beyond him rather than merely circulating possession in deeper areas.
These movements must be well-timed; if runners advance too early, they enter occupied spaces, making pressing easier for the opposition. If they arrive too late, the advantage of Zirkzee’s space-creation is lost.
Fullbacks: Providing Width to Prevent Narrow Play
One of the risks of a striker who vacates central areas is that the team can become too compact, especially if wingers also move inside. To prevent congestion, fullbacks must aggressively push forward, ensuring width is maintained. In positional play systems, this often means inverted fullbacks who initially tuck inside before overlapping late, much like João Cancelo under Pep Guardiola.
In relationist systems, fullback movements are dictated by the interactions of those around them—if the winger stays wide, they remain deep; if the winger cuts inside, they overlap instinctively. Without attacking fullbacks, Zirkzee’s deep movement can unintentionally suffocate his team’s offensive shape, turning dominance in possession into sterile circulation.
Positional Play vs. Relationism: Where Does Zirkzee Fit?
Zirkzee’s movements do not conform to rigid positional structures. He thrives in ambiguity, where spacing is determined not by predetermined zones but by the fluid, evolving relationships between players. This makes his ideal tactical environment a matter of philosophy.
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The Positional Play Dilemma
In a strict positional play framework, Zirkzee’s freedom could create issues. Coaches like Guardiola or Arteta rely on highly structured occupation of zones—players are expected to maintain specific positioning to ensure numerical superiority and optimal spacing. A striker who vacates his area too frequently disrupts this symmetry.
If he drops deep too often, it risks isolating wingers by eliminating a central reference point. If he moves unpredictably, teammates conditioned to fixed patterns may hesitate, unsure of who should take up which spaces. The result could be a breakdown in attacking cohesion, as structured movements are meant to function like clockwork rather than spontaneous interpretation.
Relationism: A Natural Fit
By contrast, relationist football—the philosophy championed by coaches like Fernando Diniz or Carlo Ancelotti —thrives on constant adjustments based on player interactions rather than pre-determined structures. Here, Zirkzee’s role would be more intuitive, as teammates respond dynamically to his movements.
If he drops, wingers naturally recognize the need to invade central areas. If midfielders recognize defensive disarray, they push forward without needing explicit instruction. The team’s spacing is not imposed externally but emerges naturally from the fluidity of movement. Zirkzee’s style does not break the system in this approach—it is the system. His movement becomes a catalyst rather than a disruption, allowing his team to play with an organic, interconnected rhythm.
The Evolution of Zirkzee in Amorim’s 3-4-3: From Tactical Misfit to Spatial Orchestrator
At first, it seemed like a contradiction—Joshua Zirkzee, a forward who thrives on fluidity, thrust into Ruben Amorim’s 3-4-3, a system that, while flexible, still relies on well-defined structures. Amorim’s Sporting CP. In the early weeks, it was not so much that Zirkzee struggled, but rather that the system struggled to understand him.
Amorim’s 3-4-3 at Sporting CP had been defined by structural clarity—wingbacks stretching the pitch, a striker occupying the center-backs, and a disciplined midfield knitting transitions together. Zirkzee, given the role of one of the two advanced midfielders behind a central forward, was suddenly cast as a playmaker rather than a manipulator of space. He received the ball too early, too often, in spaces too crowded to breathe. The pitch felt smaller. His rhythm was lost
The problems began on the left. Diogo Dalot, a right-footed full-back playing as a left wing-back, struggled to provide natural width. His tendency to cut inside narrowed the pitch, reducing United’s ability to manipulate defensive structures. In Sporting’s version of the 3-4-3, Amorim had relied on the verticality of Nuno Mendes and Matheus Reis—wing-backs who could stretch the opposition, creating the conditions for inside forwards to receive in space.
Without this, Zirkzee’s movement into deeper zones lacked consequence. He would drop between the lines, but instead of opening gaps for teammates, he found himself playing into congestion. Bruno Fernandes, operating as the second advanced midfielder, naturally drifted towards the same areas, and instead of layered movement, United’s left-sided attack became a logjam of players seeking the ball to feet.
There was a moment in those early games where it became clear Zirkzee was playing against the system rather than within it. He would withdraw into midfield, scanning for options, only to find no one making the aggressive runs that could stretch the game vertically.
Casemiro and United’s second pivot, typically Ugarte or Kobbie Mainoo, operated in deeper roles, circulating possession but not threatening the final third. It was sterile domination—United with the ball but without incision. Zirkzee’s intelligence was evident, but it felt like an artist working in the wrong medium, his touches and feints beautiful yet ultimately leading nowhere.
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Amorim, however, is not a coach who forces players into ill-fitting molds. He understands that systems are living things, evolving with the players who inhabit them. The turning point came with the introduction of Patrick Dorgu at left wing-back. Unlike Dalot, Dorgu offered what had been missing—width with intent, an ability to stretch the opposition and deliver from wide areas.
His inclusion did not just give United a more functional left side; it redefined the dynamics of the entire attack. Now, when Zirkzee drifted deep, he did not do so into traffic but into space, because Dorgu’s presence pinned the full-back, creating separation between the defensive lines.
The second adjustment was Fernandes’ role. Amorim reimagined him—not as a traditional 10, but as a deep-lying orchestrator in the Toni Kroos mold. Instead of seeking the ball in the same pockets as Zirkzee, Fernandes now operated from deeper zones, dictating play rather than occupying advanced spaces. This simple shift unlocked the synergy that had been missing.
Now, when Zirkzee vacated the striker’s position, Fernandes had the license to break forward, attacking the gaps left in his wake. Suddenly, what had once been a static attack became layered—Zirkzee drawing defenders, Fernandes running beyond, Dorgu providing width, and Casemiro facilitating transitions with direct vertical passing.
It was in this context that Zirkzee began to resemble a modernized Raumdeuter, a player whose true impact is not in where he is, but in what he makes possible. He was no longer fighting the system but redefining it. Where once his deep positioning had slowed the game down, now it acted as a trigger—his backward movements pulling center-backs out of shape, his hesitation dribbles creating micro-moments of indecision, his subtle shifts in body position manipulating defensive lines.
Manchester United had found their structure, but crucially, it was one that did not constrain him. Amorim’s tactical adjustments did not just allow Zirkzee to succeed; they redefined what it means to lead the line in a 3-4-3. And in doing so, they gave Manchester United an attacking shape that is not just functional, but dynamic, unpredictable, and alive.
Conclusion
He is not a false nine. Nor a target man. Nor a classic number ten. These are categories for players who obey the natural laws of the game. But Zirkzee is something else entirely—an artist of negative space, a sculptor of uncertainty, a forward who makes his mark by erasing what defenders think they know.
And this is his great illusion: to seem idle, even indifferent, while the world around him spirals into chaos. He walks, yet the defenders run. He waits, yet they panic. He does not force his way into football’s history; he invites it, as if it were always meant to come to him.
Joshua Zirkzee plays in reverse—but the game always moves forward in his wake.
By Tobi Peter / @keepIT_tactical
Featured Image: @GabFoligno / Alessandro Sabattini / Getty Images