Diego Maradona
The footballing maverick, genius and contradiction, Diego Maradona, celebrated his 60th birthday on Friday, a day many of us doubted this most complex of men would ever see.
His has been a life that has hit the very highest of peaks before descending into the deepest, darkest troughs of despair, unable to cope with the adulation that came with stardom and the god-like status bestowed upon him, yet seemingly incapable of surviving without it.
To understand Diego properly you have to know the enigma that is Argentina; a country that needs the Diegos of this world to be the Messiahs that can carry it to the level of greatness of which it considers itself worthy.
Which one is the real Maradona?
Diego, the boy from the Buenos Aires shanty town of Villa Fiorito, a prodigiously talented street urchin and man of the people?
Or maybe Maradona the god, the myth, the great avenger and the embodiment of the people’s dreams, aspirations and ultimate confirmation that Argentina is the best country in the world?
Maybe both are.
In 1968 Francis Cornejo, the coach of a youth side affiliated to Argentinos Juniors that he called Cebollitas (little onions) had to travel to Villa Fiorito to check the kid’s age on his ID. “He’s tiny, there’s no way he’s eight,” was his stunned reaction as he watched him play in a trial.
His mother, Dalma Salvadora Franco, confirmed his age by showing them Diego’s birth certificate from Evita Hospital. Francis had just performed the footballing equivalent of striking oil. He had found a gem that could slot into his side. From March 1969 onwards, the team did not tire of winning, recording a 136-game unbeaten run.
In his youth, Maradona’s dad, or as his friends called him, Chitoro, piloted a ferry that moved cattle from village to village and later on he went on to work in a chemical factory, where he barely earned enough to make ends meet for his large family in the shanty town where they lived.