Back, going back in the wayback machine across the pampas the plains and through the mysts of time we remember the epoch of Maradona, the last great king of the pitch, and the indellible stamp his tiny little boots left on earth planet.
If Argentina should be associated with anything, anything at all, it should be Maradona.
We all know Che.
Somehow they survive the ages, the cult of personality that strong but in a perfect world aspiring dictators and wives of dictators fade away and only the artists remain.
Remember that Maradona never killed anybody.
And so we celebrate the legend, but less the legend and more the truth preserved for all time on grainy television footage sourced from the last baktun.
A nod is given to Pele but little more as we celebrate the man as much as his pitch heroics. We appreciate the fact that Maradona was thrown out of the game for using cocaine, that he robbed England, that he robbed England and then referenced it comically in the press conference following the match, that he had gastric bypass surgery, that he is friends with Fidel Castro, and that he is 5’4″. We appreciate Maradona because he is the quintessential anti-hero, more person less PR robot, and that he was the best at what he did for all time, even if that was the only thing he did best.
Maradona be praised
Footballing’s true King
But less a King
More a God.
But less a God.
More a Man
…but a God nonetheless.
In Maradona we trust.
Hasta la victoria.
A full head taller, the lumbering Peter Shilton lazily attempts to punch the pelota but is outwitted by little Diego, a better player and, indeed, a better person.
…un poco con la cabeza de Maradona y otro poco con la mano de Dios.
Happy Birthday Dude