From 'Perreo University' to the Arena: When Cultural Legitimization Mirrors Sports

Two million people registered for a 'university' that doesn't exist. That number, placed in a sports context, would be enough to shake any ranking table. But this is not a transfer contract or a record for stadium attendance. This is Wisin, a Puerto Rican reggaeton artist, releasing the album 'La Universidad del Perreo' — a work built on the metaphor of a school teaching a genre once considered 'low-class.' To me, someone who has spent nearly three decades following running tracks and tennis serves, this story is not unfamiliar. It resembles exactly the process that tennis — a sport once seen as a gentleman's game — underwent to become a global industry. There are data that don't need to be loud; they just need someone patient enough to read them. The context of this story begins with an announcement that seemed like a joke. Wisin declared the founding of a university for 'perreo' — a dance associated with reggaeton, often criticized as vulgar. But that announcement was not a joke. Two million people registered on the website of this 'school.' That number, in the sports world, is equivalent to a new tournament attracting a following that surpasses established events. Wisin is not just releasing an album; he is building a cultural ecosystem, with 'professors' being veteran artists like Ivy Queen — invited as the first lecturer. The album, slated for release on Thursday, is not just a musical product but a declaration of legitimization. What caught my attention is not the music, but the structure of legitimization. In tennis, we have witnessed the same. From being banned in many places for being considered too 'violent' compared to croquet, tennis rose to become a professional sport with prize money reaching tens of millions of dollars. That transition did not come from changing the rules of the game, but from changing the narrative. Wisin is doing the same with reggaeton: turning a criticized genre into a 'subject' with cultural value. He is not just saying reggaeton deserves respect; he is creating a structure — school, professors, students — to prove it. This is a strategy I call 'institutional construction' — and it works effectively in both music and sports. But there is a counterintuitive angle I want to dig into. Legitimization often comes with homogenization. When something considered 'marginal' becomes 'mainstream,' it risks losing the very material that created its initial appeal. In football, I have seen this through the disappearance of traditional wingers — those who hug the touchline and cross — replaced by 'inverted' wingers who cut inside and shoot with their stronger foot. Efficiency has homogenized playing styles. Wisin, by bringing reggaeton into a 'school,' may inadvertently strip away the wildness, the streetwise quality that is the soul of the genre. When you teach a dance in a classroom with a curriculum, you may produce better dancers, but do you still produce artists with soul? This is a question both music and sports must face: how to grow without losing identity? Wisin's story also raises a question about legacy. When he talks about 'giving young people the opportunity to join his record label,' he is doing what I call 'empowerment' — a concept I believe is the core of any sustainable development. In sports, we see this through youth academies that not only teach technique but also inspire. But there is a crucial difference: in music, empowerment can come from opening doors for young people to express themselves; in sports, empowerment is often constrained by the structure of the tournament system. A young player may have talent, but without a starting spot, that talent is wasted. Wisin, by creating a 'school' with no entry barriers, is challenging that very structure. What I learn from this story, as a sports writer, is the necessity of looking at what the rankings hide. Two million registrations is not a revenue figure; it is a figure of aspiration. It shows that a large number of people are seeking recognition — not from institutions, but from their own community. In sports, we are often obsessed with metrics: first-serve points won, unforced errors, rankings. But those numbers are just the surface. What truly matters is the story behind them — the story of perseverance, of overcoming skepticism, of building a legacy. Wisin, with 'Perreo University,' is reminding us that greatness does not come from following the rules, but from creating a space where new rules can be written. Ultimately, this story raises a bigger question: is legitimization the final destination? In tennis, we have seen legitimization bring money, recognition, but also homogenization. Today's players have better technique, better fitness, but do they still create moments that make us hold our breath like the legends of the 80s and 90s? I am not sure. And I wonder: when reggaeton becomes an orthodox subject, will it still create dances that make people marvel? Or will it become a 'clean' version of itself, just as modern tennis has become 'cleaner' compared to the golden era of strong-personality players? That is a question I do not have an answer to, but I believe asking it is necessary. Because, as I said, there are data that don't need to be loud — they just need someone patient enough to read them, and brave enough to question what we see.