Maradona and me

Maradona in his prime - probably on the day he beat England

FEW characters – let alone few footballers – have quite troubled the collective English psyche in recent times as much as Diego Armando Maradona.

The crux of this paradox – which England’s detractors (that it, pretty much everyone outside of its borders) delight in – is focused on just three minutes of football one hot Mexico afternoon some 24 years ago. At the Estadio Azteca, El Pibe de Oro became Barrilete Cosmico, hero and villain, the greatest player on Earth, a demon from the pit of footballing Hell.

In truth, Maradona has a lot to thank England for. They made him. Before the match, which (you hardly need reminding) Argentina won 2-1, he was merely the greatest footballer on Earth. That may sound like something, but this title – often unofficially bestowed by a caucus of unrepresentative journalists – can shift several times in a season. After the game, however, Diego found himself breathing the same rarefied air as Pele, his great rival and widely considered the only player with whom he can be compared.

The issue for England fans was complex. Yes, he had scored arguably the most controversial goal in World Cup history, but then he more than made amends for it by going on to score what is the greatest goal in World Cup history. Ironically, it had frequently vied with Carlos Alberto’s screamer against Italy in the 1970 final, in which Pele was involved. But in 2002, Fifa officially named Diego’s second effort, in which he danced past six dumbstruck England players before netting, as the Goal of the Century.

There was no denying his brilliance, just rather it had happened against another of Argentina’s rivals, like Brazil. It is worth remembering that Argentina are good at picking up rivals. It is probably because they play in a way deliberately designed to provoke the opposition into something card-able, and because they forgive nothing. The rivalry with England began in 1966, when Antonio Rattin, the national captain, refused to leave the pitch after being sent off. Convinced that the German referee had colluded in some kind of Saxon plot to send Argentina home early, the glories of 1986 (and, let’s face it, you would love it – just love it – if your star player got away with something as audacious as the Hand of God against a bitter rival) have not served to dim that 44-year-old sense of injustice.

It is, of course, pathetic to remember a match that long ago (!) But there’s also no doubt that conflict, real warfare, plays into this rivalry. A war over a group of bleak and wind-blasted rocks in the South Atlantic. You may not like it, but there it is. So how much must the Argentinian fans have enjoyed Maradona ramming the England chants of “Argentina! Argentina! What’s it like to lose a war?” (to the tune of Bread of Heaven) back down their throats in 1986? Having failed to qualify in 1982, much to Fifa’s relief, the Three Lions had lost no time in getting down to one of their most annoying traits – linking the pitch with the battlefield.

Islas Malvinas remain a flashpoint, and a sense of anger at the UK’s continued administration/occupation of the Falklands continues to rankle Argentinians. It manifested itself in the country’s economic crisis between 1999-2002, when people took to the streets and burned Union Jacks. You utter morons, I remember thinking at the time. A lot of the world’s historic ills may be laid at Britain’s doorstep, but this one was all of Argentina’s own making, and certainly would not have been averted by taking possession of the Falklands.

From that day on, I silently vowed never to buy anything from Argentina again. My hands would waver over a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and move on when the “Product of” confirmed its place on my banned list. Petty and vindictive, but if the UK was to be blamed for Argentina’s economic crisis, then I was going to do my best to extend that misery for those flag burners.

However, as with all these things, the shades of grey were too many to ignore. Every time I met someone from Argentina, I found myself getting along famously with them – apart from one guy, but we were both drunk and I made the mistake of mentioned football inside of minute of being introduced to him.

And my feelings towards Maradona vacillated between actually hating him and pretending to hate him. I was over the moon when he ballooned to the size of the house. But Maradona is a hard man to hate. Part of it is because I always root for a wrong ‘un, and partly because he never does anything by halves. Whether it is all that cocaine abuse, taking pot shots at reporters, calling Pele a “son of a bitch” (on numerous occasions) or, as has been reported, preparing for this World Cup by having a fight – with his dog, every story about his exploits is interesting, and often funny with it.

But as with all clowns, there is a sadness to Maradona, too. Although he has rarely talked about the matter, friends have claimed that Diego developed a love for Colombian sniff during his frequent injury layoffs. Bored and battered (Italian defences, unable to best him, resorted to taking chunks out of the player – his knees are reputed to be shot to pieces and the coke numbed the pain), he allegedly fell in with the Camorra, Naples’ all-pervasive organised crime gangs, and so began a journey to the dark side that nearly cost him his life in 2004, when he suffered a massive heart attack as a consequence of a cocaine overdose.

Thousands of fans gathered outside the Buenos Aires hospital as his life hung by a thread. And they weren’t the only ones holding their breath and offering up prayers. In Napoli, Maradona is still revered, almost as a saint. Another perhaps less well known story involving Diego from the 1986 game came during Argentina’s group match with Italy. Faced between cheering for their country and cheering for their idol, Neapolitans eagerly chose the latter, and earned from the rest of the country an enmity that remains undiminished to this day.

However, for Napoli, it ran far deeper. Often looked down upon as the epicentre of the dusty, poor, corrupted and exploited south by haughty north Italians, Neapolitans felt they owed more to the man who was to guide their team to Serie A glory on two occasions, who restored some pride to the city, and who seemed to share a special empathy for its downtrodden citizens.

There are great footballers and then there are those that transcend the sport. Maradona is one of the latter. He may not have had the same impact in these isles (and we all know why) but, like Bob Marley – perhaps even Che Guevara – he is a symbol of hope to the poor, to the Third World, that they too can have someone rise up from the shanty towns and hit the stars while remaining firmly on their side. Perhaps there is something in it when Diego accuses Pele of being Fifa’s lapdog, or perhaps it is that we all know that Maradona will always remain his own man. Perhaps that is his most laudable quality.

As for me, my battle is over, if I ever really had a beef with Maradona. I’m glad that all the historical rubbish regarding Argentina has been swept aside and that I can admire him as a flawed genius. The flaws have never really bothered me, and I didn’t pay enough attention to his footballing to really appreciate it. But I do like the man, and I wish him and Argentina all the very best in this World Cup. He – they – deserve it.