THIS IS A VERY MARADONA CHRISTMAS...
Mail Sport’s Hugh MacDonald reports back from a pilgrimage to Buenos Aires and finds that, even three years after his death, the divine Diego’s legend is undimmed
THIS is a festive tale. It contains the elements of humble birth, ascent to a divinity among the masses, a fame that survives death, and a life that contained persecution, devotion and redemption. This story starts not in a manger but in a shack on the outskirts of Buenos Aires with no running water and with no hint in those cramped, rudimentary confines of the greatness to come.
This is a very Maradona Christmas.
It may seem sacrilegious to talk of the player in terms that evoke elements of the Christian faith. But it is unavoidable, particularly if one takes even a moment to reflect on the Church of Maradona that has a quarter of a million followers.
This sect may be somewhat ironic but the devotion commanded by the Argentine footballer is not. It endures all over the world but surely is at its most poignant in La Paternal, a neighbourhood in Buenos Aires, where images of Diego glisten in the sun that is a routine accompaniment to an Argentine Christmas.
This is not where the remarkable hero was made flesh. It is where he was made divine. The stadium of Argentinos Junior, inevitably now named after Maradona, is a centre of pilgrimage. The area is festooned with Maradona murals but the stadium is the cathedral.
One approaches it with some reverence. Murals of Maradona cover most of its walls. A sanctuary to Maradona, an opening the size of a small chapel, is lit by candles with pews facing what resembles an altar. The faithful come to pay homage, reflect and perhaps even to pray.
The ascent up a set of stairs brings one into the stadium and its museum. A guide tells the story of Maradona, his first club, his last visit and his significance to his first professional team. It is a gospel that preaches that myths have a basis in truth, that legends are immortal and that Maradona, dead for three years, still exists.
It starts with the story of Francis Cornejo, a coach, who took on the task in 1969 of forming an under-9 team for Argentinos Juniors. At Parque Saavedra, not far from the Argentinos stadium, he witnessed something miraculous. A small, squat boy was doing things with a ball that belonged to the most practised of circus artists. More importantly, this lad was also seeing passes, making runs that were far beyond his years.
‘There is no way he is eight, he must be a dwarf,’ said Cornejo to a fellow coach. A trip to Villa Fiorito, home of the Maradonas, was made and a birth certificate was scrutinised. Diego, the man child, was born as a footballer. When Los Cebollitas (Little Onions), the name ultimately given to the junior side, were formed in 1973, Maradona was the light that everyone followed. By 10, he was the focus of newspaper articles, by 15 he was entertaining the crowd at half-time with his tricks, by 16 he was a first-team player.
With Los Cebollitas, Maradona embarked on a unbeaten run that stretched to 136 games. Or even more if one chats to barmen or drinkers in the cafes surrounding the stadium. The tour guide draws the line at 136 but gently insists that we are in the presence of mystical greatness. Tourists from Holland, Germany, USA and Scotland do not protest.
Maradona’s later life became a stations of the cross, a route that led almost inevitably to premature death at the age of 60. But in La Paternal, as the sun warms the congregation on an October morning, it is better and easier to remember the days of glory, the moment when one witnessed something phenomenal, something from another world.
On June 2, 1979, the St Ninians boys gathered at the Scots Wha
Hae, a pub in Stirling. The saintly aspect pertained only to their place of habitation in the schemes of St Ninians. This was a fitba’ crew: loud, full of spirit (much of it of the alcoholic variety) and heading to a place of worship on the South Side of Glasgow. Argentina, World Cup winners, were playing Scotland.
The minibus was first packed with the carry-out. There was no room for some of the lads. They had to be jettisoned to travel by car. There was no way any of the carry-out was going to be left behind. We convened, with more that 60,000 others, on a sunny day that hinted at the brightness, even joy to come. This prophecy was fulfilled. Diego Armando Maradona gave a performance in a 3-1 victory for his team that remains extraordinarily vivid for this pensioner.
One has to remember that this was a time when football greatness was largely passed on by word of mouth. There may have been a hint
The faithful come to pay homage, reflect and perhaps even to pray
When Diego was 15 he was constantly asked to be a godfather to children here
I cannot remember Big Jock singling him out... He laid on the first goal though I always claim he never scored against me
ALAN ROUGH
that this lad was decent. This would be conveyed by the briefest mention in newspapers. There were no television highlights, no YouTube, no bloggers with stats or film. Diego descended on us in the manner of a lightning bolt.
As we stood in the barrio of our carry-out — one so big it had its own weather system and traffic regulations — we gazed below at the prowess of this magnificent teenager. The Scotland team had David Narey, Alan Hansen, John Wark and Kenny Dalglish in the side. Maradona was obviously on another level, a heresy for those of us who worshipped King Kenny but a reality, nevertheless.
‘You have to remember that in those days there was not the sort of information going about that we have now,’ says Alan Rough, who played in goal the first half of that friendly .‘ I cannot remember Big Jock (Stein) particularly singling Maradona out. Remember, this was a very good Argentina team, holders of the World Cup, and we had seen most of them in that tournament.’
Rough points out that Scotland, despite the turmoil of the debacle in the World Cup the year before, were a good team, full of fine players. ‘I can’t remember any sense of nerves in facing Argentina,’ he says.
He played for the first half with Stein putting in George Wood, then of Everton, for the second half as it was a friendly and he wanted to have a look at several players. ‘Maradona was brilliant from the start,’ says Rough. ‘He laid on the first goal though I always claim he never scored against me.’ Maradona’s goal came when Wood was between the sticks. His greatest moment, though, was captured on film and flickers still on the internet. Watch it. The boy wonder swivels, flicks, and sprints through a forest of Scottish players. The Hampden crowd rose to him. I still do.
The memory of Hampden 1979 comes back to me suddenly and regularly. It was a day when the St Ninians boys went to a match together. This was unusual. It was a congregation largely split on Rangers and Celtic lines. This never caused much fuss beyond argument and banter but it did mean that the match-going experience was rarely shared. It was that day.
I hold it dear, not just for being in the presence of greatness but for being in the presence of friends. Some of them are gone. I have given eulogies to a couple of them in echoing churches. These episodes cannot be forgotten but I prefer the memory of Hampden in the sun, carry-out at our feet and greatness and unlimited possibility in our sights.
Just up the road from the stadium that bears his name in La Paternal, sits the first proper home for Diego Maradona and his parents and six siblings. The Juniors bought him the house that seems charmingly modest now but must have been a palace to a family who existed previously in a shack.
A chap on the door is answered by a gracious young man who politely points out that it is the equivalent of a tenner for my son and I to enter. It is money well spent. The home holds the ghosts of the Maradonas. Much of it has been preserved. We walk through it in the manner of monks heading to compline. The tiled floor echoes to our footsteps but there is no irreverent chat. We smile complicitly at the idea of paying to see Maradona’s fridge and settee.
It does, however, gently fascinate. The boy genius’s bedroom is covered in posters and lies a skip and jump from a bathroom that, again, is hardly luxurious but a considerable step above the communal cesspit in Villa Fiorito. The rooftop patio is the most significant spot. This is where his father would conduct the asado, the Argentine barbecue, this is where the family could gather in comfort and prosperity and look over the barrio.
This secular spot lies just a short walk from the santuario, the chapel that celebrates El D10S, the slick joining of the Spanish name for God and the number of Maradona’s shirt.
The guide leads us into the santuario from the stadium. On the altar, and there is no other word that suits, sits a variety of items. The museum holds the cigar stub that Maradona discarded on his last visit to the stadium. It was picked up by a fan and lies encased in a glass box. On the altar, there is money in a variety of currencies.
‘People feel a need to leave something, to say that Diego is loved throughout the world,’ says the guide. ‘One guy left his credit card.’ It sits among the notes.
There is a photograph of Maradona with a child in his arms in a traditional church. ‘When Diego was only 15 he was constantly asked to be a godfather to children here,’ says the guide. ‘He always accepted. There are many Diegos around this area because of that.’
He picks up the framed photograph and says: ‘The baby in this photograph stands over there.’ The custodian of the santuario waves over and rattles out something in Spanish.
The guide smiles and tells us: ‘He is saying that as his godfather Diego promised to look after him in life. Now he looks after Diego in death.’
Beset by human flaws and ultimately consumed by them, it is a reminder that Diego Armando Maradona may only have been a man but his spirit is immortal.