“Maradona has the ball, two mark him, Maradona touches the ball, the genius of world soccer dashes to the right and leaves the third and is going to pass to Burruchaga. It’s still Maradona! Genius! Genius! Genius! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Goooooaaaal! Gooooooaaaaal! I want to cry! Dear God! Long live soccer! Gooooooaaaaalllllll! Diegoal! Maradona! It’s enough to make you cry, forgive me. Maradona, in an unforgettable run, in the play of all time. Cosmic kite! What planet are you from, to leave in your wake so many Englishmen? So that the whole country is a clenched fist shouting for Argentina? Argentina 2 England 0. Diegoal! Diegoal! Diego Armando Maradona. Thank you God, for soccer, for Maradona, for these tears, for this Argentina 2 England 0.”
- Translation of the live commentary by Victor Hugo Morales for Argentinian radio during their game against England in the 1986 FIFA World Cup.
Diego Armando Maradona was the most diminutive of giants of the most beautiful game on earth.
In telling the whole story of his 60 years [and who could possibly do that?] what's more interesting than what is said is of course the things left unsaid or hinted at, particularly in some of the more esteemed sections of the English press.
Everything invariably begins with the Hand of God, that great affront to the Establishment, the one incident that has seemingly cemented his legacy as a Cheat. It's almost as if Maradona himself knew they were going to use that against him for as long as he lived [and he couldn't care less], but nevertheless decided, four minutes later in that same game, to say- you think you've figured me out? Well, figure this one out, lads.
It's always curious, the line that divides the Loveable Rogue from The Cheat. It's also important to note that acts of cheating are not so noteworthy in themselves, it's always more about who was the cheated.
So if the Hand of God was against lowly opposition from Africa or South America, it would have been laughed off as some exotic trickery; perhaps even celebrated. But when a street kid of mixed race humiliates the mighty English on the biggest stage of all and then has the audacity to claim there was divinity involved- that, my friends, is not just poor form, it's an unforgivable act of treachery.
Ironically, the ones most bitter about it are the same Englishmen who believed they had a divine right to win every time they played a game they apparently invented [little realizing that the game played in the schoolyards of Cambridge and Oxford has almost no resemblance to the one played in the slums of Buenos Aires and Rio.]
The sense of entitlement [and outrage when things don't follow the script] is all the more pronounced when pitted against the Great Unwashed whom the right to lord over was granted by God himself, who everyone knows is English and sits at the right hand of the Queen.
Think of Thierry Henry, whose handball against Ireland will be no more than a footnote in his obituary. Even Zinadene Zidane, romanticized as some sort of footballing Van Gogh, will be [if not already] forgiven for his 'moment of madness' which to many was fair retribution in the face of extreme provocation.
But El Diego of course is afforded no such graces; he was too crass, too unpredictable, too incandescent to warrant admiration and so we must focus instead on the shortcomings that should rightly define the man.
Never mind that he was arguably the most roughed-up and violated player in the history of the game.
Never mind that after each bone-crunching tackle he would rise from the muddied turf and soldier on.
Never mind that the cocaine was used initially as a painkiller, offering more protection than any referee ever did.
Never mind the glorious, poetic genius that held the world in thrall; what really matters is that he once handled the ball, that he violated the spirit of the game and broke the holy unwritten rules of fair play and decency that his opponents in that one game in 1986 were the unblemished embodiment of.
What's that you say? Bodyline? Never heard of it.
But of course, there's a reason the famous spot-fixing scandal involving the Pakistani players (one of whom a prodigiously talented kid who was never the same since) was such a big story in the cricketing world. It wasn't the fixing itself- which was rife at that point. No; it was the fact that these men from the former colonies had the temerity to come to the Home of Cricket and besmirch their hallowed halls with such unspeakable acts.
Off with their heads! More tea, sire? Jolly good; carry on.
The point to all this is that Diego Armando Maradona was just a normal human being, no more damaged than most of us, but with a gift never seen before or since. We can argue about his demons and we can deconstruct his flaws. We can reflect over how the beautiful game he gave his life to ultimately let him down. We can talk about his choices, his vices, and his pain.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, detracts from the fact that for a brief while he shone brighter than the Mexican sun.
And the world was all the better for it.
