The true star of World Cup 2010 was unveiled yesterday. Gifted and precocious as ever; prowling his territory like a supreme predator in his pomp. At ease in his natural environment. Steely. Romantic. Iconic. And his name is not Rooney. Or Messi. And definitely not Green. Yesterday belonged as if there was ever any doubt, to the magnetic charms of the incomparable Diego Armando Maradona. And he lived up to his billing with gusto.
While England were left rueing lost chances, cursing comical blunders and descending into their familiar insular footballing style of static movement and up and unders (something we had all been lead to believe had been banished in this brave new era of austerity and pragmatism under Capello), the indelible image of the day was of a five foot four inch, slightly paunchy and extravagantly bearded, 49 year-old standing at the edge of his technical area, chest puffed out, arms folded and supremely aware that he was the centre of the footballing universe at that moment in time.
Maradona unveiled all the histrionic tricks of old. The gesticulations and protestations at perceived injustices were fit for any prima donna of the stage and screen. The suit was expertly tailored. The beard, flecked with slivers of grey made him look authoritative and dare I say it, presidential (and perhaps a little scarily like Saddam Hussein in that strange period after the late dictator’s capture and eventual execution). If you let your imagination take you one step further, it wasn’t so far removed to imagine Maradona striding across the delineated area with a huge Havana cigar puffing billowing clouds of smoke from his mouth, shades deflecting the flashes of the world’s ravenous cameras, adorned in khaki uniform and beret. He is every bit the Latin American icon and is it such a revelation to know that he has Che’s visage burned deep into his arm; another hero of that part of the world’s poor and disenfranchised.
What is it about this man that so inspires and transfixes us all? Even Englishmen, despite their eternal grumblings, have begrudgingly developed an affection for him over the years. His travails and transgressions have been well-documented but he has retained the capacity to bedazzle and beguile people of a certain generation with his skill and hopefully the next few weeks, his genius will be introduced to a new generation who have grown up admiring players as the ‘New’ him. But there’s something else that separates him from the pantheon of self-destructing greats. More so than Gascoigne, Best and more relevantly Zidane, Maradona’s mere existence embodies that of his own country; inextricably linked to its politics, its artforms, its consciousness, its people. And as Mandela represents a vision for an entire continent, Maradona is as revered as his revolutionary idol and compatriot. Maradona is a symbol of the ‘Third World’s’ struggle.
The metaphor: That second goal. With his back turned to the English defence, he danced a one-man crusade against what many in the world would view as the forces of imperialism, willed on by the millions huddled around juddering television screens in the barrios; having suffered so long under the junta of the generals. Take another look at his face as he wheels away again. It’s the face of sheer, unadulterated disbelief at his own unique talent. The first goal? The ultimate act of guerilla sabotage, sending his adversaries into a stunned apoplexy which would be so devastatingly capitalised upon within minutes. And people say football is just a game.
People will of course disagree with my contentions. And those people will also most probably be of the opinion that his managerial style is at best naive, at worst calamitous. But there were flashes in Argentina’s play yesterday afternoon that suggested that his team will be the team to beat this year; the intricate dribbles, the interchangeable passes, the complete and utter ease with the ball at their feet. And make no mistake, those players really want to play for him. The French hate their manager, the English fear theirs. The Argentines love Maradona. For them, he IS Argentina. For us, well, he’s just so eminently watchable and long may he grace our screens. Whether you love him or loathe him, Diego has so inextricably woven himself into the fabric of so many World Cups that even as a manager, he will provide us with some more of those memorable moments we so savour and by doing so, he is simply impossible to ignore.
With England’s stutter last night, there is a faint but no less real possibility that they may be reunited with their nemesis in another quarter-final. What price, Diego steals the game yet again?
Saturday 12 June:
Group B: South Korea 2 – Greece 0
Nigeria 0 – Argentina 1
Group C: England 1 – USA 1
Dispatches From A Football Sofa 
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