dDiego Maradona arrived in Mexico like a well-tuned violin. He had controlled to stabilize his weight at 76kg lengthy earlier than the World Cup. His bodily situation used to be optimum from the toes to the neck, and bit by bit he controlled to acclimatize to the Aztec top habitat. The position selected as the educational camp used to be ideally suited for footballers – even if they baptized it as Alcatraz, the well-known American detention center positioned on a small island within the San Francisco Bay. They may carry out the essential workout routines to conform to the altitude, experience many hours of leisure and sleep, a excellent nutrition and a comfortable, calm environment.
The trainer Carlos Bilardo, who had rehearsed acclimatisation to the altitude with a gaggle of avid gamers – even if with out Diego – in Tilcara, a the city within the province of Jujuy positioned about 3,000m above sea stage, additionally arranged a number of coaching classes on the time set for video games, so the men would additionally get used to the torrid warmth of the Mexican summer time. Diego skilled with the staff at the box, the place Bilardo ordered his techniques and techniques.
I used to be there as Diego’s private instructor and, as in Naples, I fearful about opting for what paintings to take action as to not overload Diego’s muscle tissue. The Italian season have been very hard and I may now not permit him to overtrain and achieve the World Cup with rainy gunpowder, as had came about in Spain 4 years earlier than. I additionally got down to encourage him, to lend a hand him unfastened his thoughts from comprehensible hesitations, from the fears that level fright can generate. One night time, I determined it used to be time to regulate the ultimate nut on that improbable 1.68m-tall soccer system.
I were given to Diego’s room and located him on his mattress, studying {a magazine}, mendacity on his again and together with his legs bent. I mentioned hi and best Pedro Pasculli, Diego’s roommate and previous Argentinos Juniors teammate, replied. “The 10” persevered, engrossed in studying. He did not solution me. I took good thing about his focus to offer Pedro a figuring out wink, making him needless to say I wished his cooperation.
“How are you, Professor?”
“How are you, Pedrito?”
“Well, and you?”
“The truth? I am perfect. Today was a great day, Pedro!”
Why? What came about?
“Today I realized that all these guys who came to be World Cup stars are in fact a bunch of cowards!”
“Nooooo! Really?
“Believe me! In one of the newspapers, I read that Zico declared that he prefers a great performance from Brazil rather than his personal brilliance. Platini said more or less the same; Rummenigge, the identical music …”
I made a deep, temporary, planned silence. And I added: “And one I know …”
I may now not end the sentence. Directly alluded to and beside himself, Diego, it sounds as if targeting studying, flipped the mag over and shouted at me: “But what do you think, fucking blind [Signorini’s nickname]Is this as easy as you think?
With a very calm voice and looking into his eyes, I replied: “Easy? Very easy I would say! God gives bread to those who have no teeth. If I had your conditions, you’d see!”
He wanted to interrupt but I, pretending to be angry, raised my tone and concluded: “Convince yourself once and for all, pig head! If not, what the hell did we do everything we did for? If you decide, you win the World Cup alone. Understand it!”
I didn’t say “pig head” in a derogatory sense: that is what tremendously noble guys with well-defined principles are called in Argentina. Diego knew that I always spoke to him out of affection and protection. I took two steps back, opened the door, and went to my room. As I walked down the corridor, I heard the loud insults that Diego dedicated to me resounding, combined with Pedrito’s laughter.
The next day the press was authorized to enter the Club América campus and a cloud of journalists from all over the world invaded to talk with the boys. As always, Diego was the favorite prey of the reporters, among whom stood out Bobby Charlton, the unforgettable England midfielder and world champion in 1966. The Albiceleste The captain stood before the cameras and microphones with excellent humour. He answered all the questions with wit and determination.
That night I stopped by his room and saw him excitedly playing cards with other guys, so I said hello and left. The next morning I got up for an early breakfast. At the bar, Jorge Valdano and the delegation’s cook, Julio Onieva, chatted animatedly. Scattered on a round table, the just-arrived newspapers were waiting. I started flipping through them until one headline made a huge impact on me. The title that headed a photograph of Diego with a huge smile announced: “Maradona opens the fireplace: ‘I will be able to be the big name of the World Cup.'”
I experienced infinite pleasure. “Now we’re in a position,” I decreed. Today, when the outcome of the tournament is known and recognized, I must say that what followed was, for me, a fantastic experience that should be titled Chronicle of an Announced Victory. But, logically, no one could predict anything before the opening whistle against South Korea, at the Olympics in Mexico City; nor when that game ended, because the Koreans gave Diego so many kicks that I thought he was out of the World Cup in the first match.
The most egregious blow came from Huh Jung-moo: within four minutes of the first half, Diego eluded two rivals, and Jung-Moo landed a terrifying kick in the knee. The Korean launched himself directly to destroy his opponent, without any intention of reaching the ball – if you don’t believe me, you can relive it thanks to YouTube. He would have deserved to go straight to jail, but Spanish referee Victoriano Sánchez Arminio didn’t even show him a yellow card. This is how Fifa cared for the skilled: with matches played at high altitude, during the midday of a hellish summer, without repressing criminal violence?
Meanwhile, João Havelange, the guy who presided over Fifa at the time, filled his mouth with words like “display”, “game” or “honest play”. Pure blah-blah. I don’t know how Diego recovered from that and another dozen blows, but in that match he provided three assists for Argentina to win 3–0: two to Valdano and one to Óscar Ruggeri. “The 10” seemed a beast as hungry as he was insatiable. The physical preparation and internal fire had made him an unstoppable bulldozer, who also threw rays of genius, like the goal that he scored against Italy.
Frankly, I can’t find how to describe what he invented in Puebla. Valdano played a ball that seemed complicated and he turned it into a poem: flying into the rivals’ area, closely marked by the experienced defender Gaetano Scirea, Diego jumped over the corner of the small area and, in the air, as if suspended, he managed to get his left boot to caress the ball so that it passed away from goalkeeper Giovanni Galli. It seemed that the ball was going out, but no: it stung and twisted its course towards the net. How did he do it? No one could explain it. Not even he found a coherent justification.
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