Hand of God

Look, let's get this out of the way. I hated Diego Maradona. I thought he was a cheat, a drunkard and an addict. Every game I saw him play live was another in a string of missed opportunities, a bloated shadow of his supposed former self. I never in his entire career saw what everyone was so exited about. I heard the adulation, god it was impossible to grow up in Los Angeles in the late 1970's and early 1980's without hearing the name Maradona, but he was always to me a media manufactured idol. Much like David Beckham is today, I saw Diego much in the same manner.

I was 12 when Argentina won their first World Cup and the talk on Mexican television was how they had left a young superstar off their roster. I vaguely remember the 1982 Cup, one that my beloved Italy won and the first in which the diminutive #10 with a big heart and small stature captivated the world audience, but failed to secure a repeat title.

4 years later in Mexico, the first World Cup that I remember clearly, I was 19 years old I remember him fisting the ball over Peter Shilton into the England net but I never saw the other goal, the one where he beats 6 men in a 60 meter dash to slot it into an open net, the one that is called the greatest of all time. 1990 was a wasted opportunity and 1994 here in the United States was his downfall and still I heard the adulation.

I remember being in my cousin Alex's house for the Argentina game that year in 1994. He's married to a Connie, an Argentinian, and I saw their last match live at their house. I heard his inlaws talking about their wasted chances, the lack of creativity, and of course the plot to destroy their "idolo".

Well, I finally read a little about Diego, in Jimmy Burns excellent book Hand of God, and I must say that I have a greater appreciation about the flawed genius that is Diego Maradona. He seems to be a pawn of his family, his associates since we can't really call them friends, the politicians and football apparatchiks who exploited his talent, and his very human failings that the 40 year old in me can understand better than the 20 year old that first saw him play.

Look at his youtube videos, watch this little man with tree trunk legs and lightning pace turn much larger men into statues and you understand the depth of his footballing genius, but you can never see the man behind the ball, the eight ball that is, until you read the book.

I may still not like the player, I guess I'm still too much of a moralistic prude, but I'm much more sympathetic to the man. He and I share alot, even more than just a common name like Armando, and a mutual connection to Cuba.

Jimmy Burns captures him warts and all, in this unauthorized biography, and makes him a compelling figure in the history of Soccer. A great book.