When you grow up a football fan they tell you about a man.
He could pierce the heart of England itself. He could manipulate reality with his feet. His actions spurred outbursts of unbridled joy in the most stoic. He could dribble his way through a thunderstorm.
You like Thierry Henry? Well, you never saw Maradona. Yes, Messi is brilliant, but you should have seen Maradona. You think Wayne Rooney has an interesting personal life? You never saw Maradona.
I heard the stories and saw the footage of a man who never seemed real. His presence looming over Argentinian World Cup matches was that of an ancestor whose spirit was guiding his great-great-grandson, Leo. Watching him make a fool of the most celebrated men in footballing history felt unreal.
This is the stuff we dream about seeing. These are the things even FIFA wouldn’t let you do. Everything Diego Maradona did was mythical.
As I grew older, I looked to uncover the truth behind the myth, and what I found was even more mythological. A long-suffering Argentinian addict who was friends with Fidel Castro has his face painted over Naples as if he were their saviour. I was conditioned to think that an athlete had to be disciplined, that they had to work like a machine in order to exist on the highest planes of sport. I didn’t understand that sport was art.
Living the way he lived, Diego Maradona was able to elevate the art of football singlehandedly. His understanding of this art was alien. His ability was supernatural. Yet, his defining trait in my eyes was the belief in his identity.
He created the Maradona persona so the world could see Diego. The man celebrating existed so the man scoring could too. Diego was a socialist and an anti-imperialist. A supporter of all oppressed people and a dedicated believer in improving the quality of life for the working class. The strengths of his beliefs could only exist alongside his explosive personality.
Imagine growing up and being told that this man exists.
I was never around to genuinely comprehend Diego Maradona. That name has always been less associated with a man and more with the idea of greatness, the idea of surpassing humanity and taking your place amongst the stars. He was already otherworldly, but now he is no longer of this Earth.
The man lived. Not only existed. He lived. At full pelt. For sixty years. I don’t know how to process the death of a man who never felt real. The pure idea that a man could be so great, talented, morally conscious and absolutely insane feels mythical. Can a myth end? Or is the myth the stories that are told, the impact that is left and the wonder that he inspired? I guess for someone my age, Diego will remain what he always has been.
Diego Maradona was an alien who visited us for a day. He showed us things we didn’t know were possible. He fought alongside us. He experienced our flaws. Then he left. Marking the soul of this Earth with his artistry and his personality the way that no soul ever could.
At last may you rest, Diego.