Should we go downtown? Yes, son, let that everybody is safe. Why did you throw that glass of water, mama? Do not throw it, son. I lost when we lost a goal. It's June 29, 1986. In a town of less than 1,000 inhabitants, about 600 kilometers from Buenos Aires, nobody is missing walking on the side of San Martin Avenue or riding in a car. Luis Reyes in a white falcon. Lelo Beli trots waving a flag of Argentina ... wearing his jersey Boca. The right mix. Argentina 3, Germany 2. Horns, screams, hugs and a permanent Maradona's hand, all around are going to give. And we turned. Sing. The 1,000 of the town of 1,000, for that avenue suddenly made Estadio Azteca. From the hand of Maradona. That, I think now is the first memory of Diego that comes to my head. I was a boy of 8 who lived in a town where you could only see a TV channel and listen to a radio. Channel 9 and LU2, both of Bahia Blanca. And beware that there was no storm, because it directly but could not tune anything. Maradona, as in many other towns in the interior of Argentina, back then it was a religion. As it is today. Diego smiles, and everyone smiles with Diego. Falls into a coma, and boarding are all about.
has been the talent that we have thousands and thousands wanted. The boldness, character, weakness, and heart failure. Diego, Diego what would you be without your heart? What many of us would be without your heart? The innate sense of justice. The natural detector weaknesses, flicker-free, goes back automatically when the worst happens. So this week has not wavered in accompanying the president Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner during the wake of her husband. And you were with Carlos Menem when his son died. Your duty to those who suffer no political banners. Or faces. Or nationality.
why you were magical and happy playing with Napoli and not in Barcelona. Napoli is the city of the unreached, the stain of an empire that no longer exists Italy's most backward erased from your map if they could. You were and you hit the rich kicked where it hurts: in pride. So you played in Boca. So you were commanding a world champion ultra Argentina team questioned clumsy and full of players Flintstones. But you were there. We could never lose, Diego. Your magic poets transformed into the herd of donkeys that Bilardo put on the court all around you.
The World Cup Italia 90. The ankle destroyed the damn nail, the permanent limp. Played on one leg. And that leg came out and played great pass to Caniggia who left out of Brazil. How they wept, remember? Yet still do it. Insults Italians to our anthem. Your response to the obscenities, the entire stadium. Again in your hand, let out to Italy at home. Those who already hate you, now lined up to add contempt. Then came your tears, the final with Germany again. I wanted to hug everyone, but you were away. Quiet hug and tell you, Diego, can not be everything, you know what you want? You know you'll be the best forever, and there is nothing left to prove?
Today, as I write these lines as well, messy, still half asleep, half a century of life are fulfilling. Fifty Years, 10. I laughed and cried with you how many times? Ten? A hundred? I talked about you and I felt a lump in the throat, sometimes happy, other times of grief, how many times? A thousand? A few days ago I was telling a friend in Mexico: At my family, if he criticized Maradona, ask you go. I cast. And so if you do it with Batistuta and Caniggia. Why with them too, asked him. Because they played with 10, and are friends with him. That I answered.
This week I told some new friends while you shook hands. As at the time, I had to make an effort to conceal the emotion. Hopefully life will allow me to repeat the greeting suddenly Diego.
Until then, today, from here, from my home, first repeat the same thing I told you at the moment I shook your hand: Thanks. Thank you very much. And to this we added another thing: Happy birthday.
Rather be very happy, Diego.
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