Diego always enjoyed talking to rivals, referees and fans… But that Monday, March 17, 2008, in La Paz, before heading to the Hernando Siles Stadium, the scene was different. There was a barely perceptible murmur, a serious, intimate voice, as if a ritual was being performed in that locker room. Maradona had put aside his leather sandals – slight wear on the straps, a sign of daily use – and leaned forward in the dressing room to polish the new boots himself. Was NikeShiny, fresh out of the box: the sports company had given it to him at an event a few days earlier, although he was unfortunate enough to wear it puma of all life. As she rubbed them with a small cloth she carried in her own pocket, she spoke to them in a low voice, as if trying to convince them of something. And from time to time he placed a hand on his left instep and murmured short sentences addressed to his foot, “the left-hander,” the one who had so often taken him from hell and brought him back to paradise.
—“You and I know what it’s like,” he murmured, not looking at anyone. Don’t disappoint me now.
It was quiet in the locker room. Nobody dared to interrupt him. There were former players, actors, musicians and a handful of staff members. It was as if he were spying on a private ceremony, as if Diego, without meaning to, with this simple gesture of polishing a pair of cleats, brought together all the layers of his history: his childhood in Fiorito, the first muddy fields, the rag ball, the pasture, the fame, the falls, the comebacks. All of this was condensed in this moment, in this shine that he desperately wanted to get out of his new shoes, while the mountain air could be felt even inside.
They asked him to come closer to the tunnel, but he asked for a few more minutes. He wanted to complete the preparations. It wasn’t vanity, it was concentration. There were no cameras or strikes. It was Diego alone with his essential elements. And with something else: that inner strength that always made him stand up in the face of injustice, whether his own or that of others.
The trip to Bolivia had not started like any other flight. The airline had delayed departure because Diego hadn’t arrived: he was late, as was always the case when he felt he had to get his world in order before going on stage. Finally he went to Santa Cruz de la Sierra with his personal secretary Gabriel Buono on board. From there he flew to La Paz and had almost no time to acclimatize. He went straight to the government palace, where Evo Morales was waiting to officially receive him..
What was supposed to be a simple charity contribution – to help the 95,000 families affected by the floods caused by the La Niña phenomenon in the department of Beni, which killed 73 people – had turned into something as soon as it was announced that Diego would be traveling a national event. Bolivian broadcasters broadcast the plane’s arrival live. On the streets, at the food stalls, everyone was talking about him. In restaurants, in hotels, in taxis, on street corners, at trade fairs: there was not a conversation in which it was not proudly or incredulously mentioned that Maradona was on Bolivian soil. But what awaited him in the palace exceeded all expectations.
—When they told me “Maradona is coming” I thought it was a joke – was the first thing Evo said when he saw him enter. And now I see you here and I can’t believe it.
Diego smiled, as he always did when confronted with such direct expressions of devotion.
“Use your advantage now, Presi,” he replied with that mix of mischief and tenderness. Because tomorrow, on the square, The only thing you’ll see is the 10 on my t-shirt.
Evo and Diego retreated alone for a few minutes. In this room, with the image of Che Guevara in the background, the two talked about what connected them – their humble origins, their passion for Boca, their admiration for Che – and also about the political climate that Bolivia was experiencing. But above all, people talked about football. Evo confessed that he had trained to cover him and that Milton Melgar, Diablo Etcheverry, Platini Sánchez and Marco Sandy had given him some instructions to try to follow him on the field. Maradona listened to him with amusement.
– Don’t even think about tagging me, Evo. I am flawless. Tomorrow I will be untreatable.
FIFA had banned international matches from being held at more than 2,750 meters, and that had fallen in Bolivia a direct blow to his football identity. As soon as he got off the plane, Maradona had positioned himself with the same clarity with which he had so often positioned himself on the green in front of the powerful.
“What they want to do is ridiculous,” he said. Certainly those who made this decision never chased a ball. God has given each of us a place and that must be respected.
For Bolivia, Diego’s visit was not just an act of solidarity: it was an international defense, a symbolic rallying against what they saw as injustice. Therefore, the news became a state matter immediately after it appeared.
The night before the game, La Paz vibrated as if a historic event was about to take place. The atmosphere was full of anticipation. There were vendors on every corner selling flags, T-shirts and makeshift posters with Maradona’s face. In the restaurants, the television kept repeating his arrival. And when he spoke at a conference, thousands of people crowded around the palace to see him for even a second.
But the real story – which almost no one saw – took place in the locker room the next day, when he decided to become coach, captain, athletic trainer and moral reference point for the team. He left no detail to chance. He arrived at the stadium two hours early. He asked for a massage. He made sure everyone was well equipped. And at halftime – with the game tied 2-2 – he entered the dressing room, stood in the middle and spoke as if it were a world final.
—We’re going to go out and win. The protocol applies to dinner.
He was no longer the diplomatic Diego of yesterday. He was the absolute competitor. And everyone knew it. The exit to the field was with Evo Morales waiting for him on his side in the tunnel. More than 30,000 people donated nonperishable food at the door to gain entry. That image – Bolivians crossing the turnstile with a bag of rice, a pack of pasta, a can of milk – was perhaps the essence of the journey: a collective act of help, a chain that multiplied. And at the center of this system was Diego, the man who knew exactly what he was there for.
The game was a mixture of spectacle, emotion and pure will. Diego scored three of Argentina’s seven goals. There were celebrations, there were endless ovations, even plays that seemed like a nod to their glorious past. The other goals were scored by Diego Latorre – twice -, Silvio “Tweety” Carrario and Joe Fernández, who made a memorable 60-meter run. Evo scored one of the four Bolivian goals. Diego’s team also included Benjamín Rojas, El Turu Flores, Esteban Pogany, Daniel Tognetti, Juan José Borrelli, Nazareno Casero, Juan Ponce de León, and the journalist Cecilio Flematti accompanied the delegation and was responsible for the organization.
When he finished, Milton Melgar – Bolivia’s sports minister – presented Diego with the Simón Bolívar Liberator Order of Civil Merit. The stadium was still full. People didn’t want to leave. It was as if everyone understood that they had witnessed a unique moment.
But the night had a further stretch. The official dinner was at the Radisson Hotel and then, almost without anyone planning it, a party broke out. Jaime Torres, who could not play because he was injured during warm-ups, took over the charango and accompanied Joe Fernández, who adapted his song I’m no longer interested. It was there that one of the most unforgettable scenes of the trip took place: Diego spun around with napkin in hand, setting the rhythm, making speeches and dancing with the joy of someone who had regained some of his vitality. He seemed thinner, more agile, lighter. He followed Dr. Máximo Ravenna for a month and a half and had already lost six kilos. When he traveled, he ate measured meals: breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner. Diego was neat, clear and confident.
That evening, amidst the dancing and music, he looked happy. No exaggerated, theatrical or mediated happiness: the real one. The one who appears when someone feels like they’ve done the right thing. This man who, even surrounded by presidents, flashes, crowds and awards, found refuge in the simplest gesture: speaking with his left foot as if it were a faithful companion, polishing his tools himself, indulging in the small ceremony that linked him to his origins: his hand once more on his left boot before he left, as if sealing a silent pact. He wasn’t there for him, but for those who needed a concrete gesture to move forward.
Diego has always been that: a man who was ready to intervene when he sensed injustice. In La Paz he did it again that afternoon. It was immortalized by the camera of Maximiliano Vernazza, the only present witness of this absolute intimacy in a football locker room, one could say, the second home of El Diez.
About The Author
