Diego Maradona: A Tribute From Someone Who Doesn’t Remember Him

I’m too young to remember Diego Maradona. My interest in football ignited around 2006, ten years after the fabled Argentine retired from playing.

Yet somehow, when I close my eyes, I can see that goal against England, scored seven years before I was born. I can also see the picture of the Hand of God moment I had stuck to my bedroom wall.

It was a postcard, or a cut out from a football book, I can’t remember which. A budding fanatic aged nine or ten, the only thing I knew about football was that I supported Arsenal.

My bedroom walls were adorned with pictures of Arsenal players and rock bands I pretended to be into. Why would I, who knew nothing about Diego Maradona, put a picture of him on my wall? How did I know, just from looking at the picture, that the Hand of God was such an iconic moment?

 

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And why should it be such an iconic moment? It was a moment of deceit, a robbery. A handball to score a goal which nowadays would be disallowed. If it happened in the age of social media, Maradona would be cancelled. Thank God it didn’t. 

Why could Diego Maradona blatantly cheat and not only get away with it, but be venerated for it?

It’s because he was an antihero the likes of which we will never see again. It’s because he was a tiny kid from the slums who became the greatest football player ever. Because he was deeply flawed. It’s because he got beaten up by bigger, stronger men every time he played, and still embarrassed them with his talent. 

 

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Because he inspired Napoli to their first ever league title, bringing joy and a sense of pride to the downtrodden people of Naples. It’s because he competed at the top level while he was addicted to cocaine. Because he united the diverse Argentinian people, who regarded him as a God. It’s because he was human.

The magnetism of the man, the magnitude of his achievements, his godlike talent and human failings – all of this was clear to me, although I didn’t know it, the first time I ever saw his picture.