MEETING MARADONA
Diego Armando Maradona’s Argentina visit the Lokomotiv Stadium this evening for a friendly game with hosts Russia. The trip to Moscow is the latest step on what has been a rocky road for the former No 10 as international manager, having already overseen a humiliating 6-1 defeat to Bolivia and a damaging loss to Ecuador, as the South American giants stumble clumsily towards South Africa next summer. It all started however, like a Billy Connolly joke, in Glasgow.
Another banner in the Mezzogiorno explains that Naples – an industrial town which offers the world a grubby face scarred by organised crime and poverty – has but three beautiful features: the bay, the Vesuvius and Maradona. Glasgow doesn’t have any volcanoes or a beautiful harbour. But for one night, it had Diego.
It was in Hampden Park that the then Boca Juniors prodigy made his debut in 1979 and here also where he’d take his first bow as boss. And when the former tri-quartista — a hero to millions of my generation – was sensationally installed in the job, I realised this would be my chance to touch the hem of the cloak of a childhood hero.
I set out on a quest, sans press credentials, to meet an icon amid a perfect storm of global interest. I wanted to shake the Hand of God.
Having been refused media accreditation for the week’s events and the match itself due to an unprecedented interest in the game, I approach Celtic Park on the Monday night before the midweek match. This will be Maradona’s first training session.
Uninvited, I arrive convinced I’ll spend the night with my nose pressed against the window, watching my colleagues party with Diego inside. I haven’t even brought a bottle of wine.
A defence of high-vis wearing security guards hold the line outside a teeming Parkhead and I think my night will be like that of Terry Butcher in a muggy Mexico City stadium; trailing in El Diez’s wake. But one flash of a Croke Park press pass – that of the deputy sport editor’s – and I’m reluctantly ushered though the velvet rope, for a night on the dance floor with Diego. A crumpled, laminated GAA document would not have worked so well in Ibrox, I imagine.
The battalion of journalists who make it inside – many more are left outside in the trenches of the west Scotland night – scream like genuine fans when the little big man waddles out. He oversees a low-key hour-long workout, which culminates in a 10-a-side match.
A galaxy of stars drawn from Europe’s top clubs enjoy a crisp, impressive session, but it is their boss who illuminates the evening with flashes of his old magic; sometimes juggling a ball with all the grace of a rhyming couplet.
The press pack descends – unusually – into a scrum of autograph hunters and fanatics. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m amongst them. He looks bemused and rather disappointed in us as a local reporter tries to present him with a crystal football. He accepts it however and I curse not having thought of stopping into Gerald McCarthy’s shop for a commemorative cup.
MY pilgrimage leads me to a city centre hotel the following day where our hero is to host his first press conference. On the street outside is a congregation from a group known as the Church of Maradona. These people, who look quite normal wait in a state of excitement that is so high only wild dogs in the Shetlands can hear it, it is said.
Their 10 commandments – for they do have 10 commandments – include having to name your first son Diego. Not boasting a press pass I expect I’ll be outside with the headcases while the grown ups go in for tea and a chat with the world’s greatest ever footballer. However, like Seinfeld’s George Costanza brazenly returning to his workplace after he regrets rashly quitting the Friday before, I stride confidently through the doors, take my seat and hope no one asks if I’m supposed to be here. It works.
If Maradona is a box-office name, this short Q&A is pure blockbuster stuff. Yet again however I’m left with my arm outstretched waiting for a handshake like Mick McCarthy after that defeat of Holland in 2001 as he lunges for Roy Keane’s congratulations.
After I watch from the stands as Argentina notch a 2-0 win in Hampden the following night I stake out the huge tunnel gates in the bowels of the stadium. Noticing the security is as lax as the Scottish back four’s, I wander in, whistling innocently and zoning in on the away team’s dressing room. I hustle past the team buses. Dodge more officials. Skip past the BBC man. Hug the tunnel wall like I’m on a skyscraper ledge. Suddenly, he’s mere feet away from me. Like a gaucho leaning against his mule, sucking contentedly on a cigarette and listening to a member of his staff; yes, there he is.
And then he’s gone. I’m caught by the collar by a burly bouncer who’s straight from central casting and ushered roughly into the Glasgow night again. Foiled. As I stand, dejected outside, I talk to various Diego loyalists. One group of Italians are Napoli ultras they explain, proudly rolling up their sleeves and displaying fading tattoos. One in their number boasts a well-worn t-shirt depicting a banner which once hung from the Sud Curva.
Argentina met their hosts in Italia 90 in the World Cup semi-final in Naples – Maradona’s adopted hometown.
The visiting captain urged his adoring fans to turn their back on their own country and support his Argentina. The Azzuri eventually lost – Diego scoring in a shoot-out, but during the game the banner was unfurled in an apology: “Maradona, We love you, but Italy is our country”.
I feel similarly, as thoughts turn to my journey home. I’m so unhappy at failing the Irish Examiner readers in my quest that Ryanair charged me extra for my emotional baggage.
But wait. As the coach pulls out past the few stubborn stragglers who have hung on, Maradona, riding shotgun, offers a little wave. It’s a wave, however, from a man who was proud to recall his famous ‘headed’ goal in Mexico in 1986 all this week and one who insisted Geoff Hurst’s crucial shot in ‘66 never crossed the line. If we’ve learned nothing else, we’ve learned that cheating works. In our quest for a handshake, I’m counting it.
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Contact: adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell
