An open letter to a stricken soul
I only ever saw Zacarías cry three times: when they told him his newborn baby Nacho was a boy, when you scored the second goal against the English, and when you were thrown out of the 1994 World Cup. So you should know Diego that thanks to you, I discovered my husband has emotions after all. That's why when he prays for you, I pray too. I don't mind if I have to pray for you. In this house, when my husband says we have to light a couple of candles for you, then we light a couple of candles - end of story.
But you're no saint, I told you that many times before. There's no devotion from me. I never liked you because you're vulgar and you're big-headed. Zacarías always tells me that if I understood football I wouldn't feel that way. He said that there were no words to describe you and how you were out of this world, that in your heyday you could do things that defied the laws of physics blah blah blah. But I'm not interested in that side of things. I am a woman. I don't understand, nor do I want to, this fascination with men in shorts chasing footballs.
On the other hand, there are things that I do understand, and it's because of these that I'm praying these nights. But don't think it's because of you. Do you really want to know why I'm praying? Well, because there were times when we had nothing, and I mean not even food on the table, and in those moments you brought some cheer and some joy into our house.
Alfonsín was driving us mad at the time, and then like manna from heaven, along comes that World Cup where you won all the games for us. For me that was the worst winter I can remember. All we had for breakfast were chard fritters and all we had for dinner were chard fritters. But when I ask Nacho or Zacarías what they remember about that winter, they don't mention the hunger, all they talk about is you. They have no idea we almost starved.
Outside the clinic, where they have you breathing on that machine, there are hordes of foreign journalist sending pictures around the world. They show people lighting candles and saying the rosary as they hold vigil through the night. Sometimes I feel ashamed that the rest of the world sees us like that, and I worry that they'll take us all for a bunch of simpletons. Then I feel like telling the world that we're not praying for the loud mouth or the foul-mouth either. I feel like telling the world what this country is really like, how little we've had to cheer about over the last twenty years, and how of the little joy we've had, you've been at the heart of it.
I'd like to tell them how hard it is for us to agree on anything, to laugh or cry or shout for a common cause. How hard it is for us to sing "Argentina, Argentina" and let our chests swell with pride. How hard it for us to get anything done, to better ourselves or even express our anger. On the day you tested positive for ephedrine, I went out in the street and I swear on the life of my kids, that it was the first time I saw grown men cry. All around there was a deathly silence but for the sound of sniffling and the dragging of feet. The whole country was just speechless and deflated. What strange creatures we are, I thought, but at the same time I felt proud of our emotion, of my emotion, as I too cried that day. From where it came I don't even know.
Even Caio, who never saw you lift the World Cup, has a poster of you on his wall and talks about you like he knew you. What about Nonno, even she saw fit to forgive you when you told all of Italy "to go to hell" on live television. Even Nacho, who knows nothing about football, defends you. He knows that you are much more than that. So I ask you, how could I not pray that you get better?
Many years from now, Sofi's children's children will live in a country that's much better than it is today. Of that I'm sure. And nobody will remember then that you had a foul mouth and a big head. The history books will only say what was important: a poor boy was born here, a boy who went on to become the greatest player of all time. They will say that you were able to take a country racked with pain and hardship and make it almost insanely happy, even in its darkest hour. In the hope that this gift you have will never die, I pray.
I also pray that you may be cured, that you find respite from the strain of being 'el Diego' and that you have time to enjoy being just an ordinary person. I pray that you live to see your grandchildren, to hold them and tell them who you were. How beautiful it would be to grow old and look into the eyes of one's grandchild and say: "Do you know who I am? I am Diego Maradona". And I lived to tell the tale.
