Part One
I recently read about the death of the former Argentina footballer Diego Maradona. This news made me feel quite sad. And this is my great English betrayal.
In the minds of many Englanders, especially those of a certain age, Maradona is mainly remembered for his infamous 'Hand of God' goal. It was the 1986 football World Cup, the quarter finals. England versus Argentina, with the Falklands War still fresh in the memories of many. Diego Maradona scored Argentina's first goal with the assistance of his hand. Everyone on the planet saw that he used his hand. Apart from the referee. The goal stood, and England fell down.
Far more remarkable, however, was Maradona's second goal in the match. It was here that God really did lend a hand. It is simply the most miraculous, breath-taking piece of football I have ever witnessed (I have never been a great fan, but have accumulated enough hours over the years to have some standard to compare with).
Starting in the Argentina half of the pitch, Diego dribbled, switched, swerved, around literally half the England team before depositing the ball emphatically in the England net. It is sublime, surreal, not of this world. Humans are not intended to do such things; but it shows what they are indeed capable of.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF_2arqQLwo
I watch films but rarely. I have, however, seen the film 'Diego Maradona'. Twice.
The first time was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, summer 2019. The film had been released only recently, and my wife spied that it was showing at one of the independent film venues. Being Latin American herself, she decided that it would be a great idea to go.
Newcastle. We could have gone to Durham, York maybe for the day. We could have visited the cliffs and the sands of the nearby coast. A trip to the hills of the Moors or Yorkshire Dales would have been fine. Even a stroll along the river in the early summer sun. But no. We went to the cinema.
The film is directed by Asif Kapadia, and was made with the full permission and participation of Diego Maradona himself. It is a vivid and intelligent insight into the footballer's life.
Put aside the stereotyped English view of Maradona, and you get a fascinating guy. The film is far more than football. It portrays a person, a larger-than-life person. A soul in all its triumphs and tragedies.
There exist a myriad of parallels between the life of Diego and that of an enduring fascination of mine, Jim Morrison. Both were possessed of a gift, a talent, that was rare and pure. Both were seduced and overtaken by the temptations of fame and glory, while their soul looked on, untouched yet seemingly bewildered. They both appeared to revel in it all, for a while, yet could often be glimpsed looking detached, lost, as if soul was watching like a helpless child, unable to make sense of it all.
Both were exploited mercilessly by the cesspit denizens of humanity, those vampires and parasites who sniff out success and charisma from a mile off, circling at the smell of blood like a shoal of piranhas. These are the dregs of humanity: in media, celebrity, the music industry, politics, advertising, and the good old Neapolitan mafia, the Camorra.
Both were great-looking guys who enjoyed to the full what great-looking guys may enjoy. And both indulged in a variety of intoxicating substances - alcohol especially - to excess. To real excess. And both, behind the hype, the drama, the paparazzi nonsense, were men of heart.
Part Two
I have attended one professional football match in my life - a tally unlikely to increase by very much. It was a cold spring Saturday afternoon. My guess was that it was in 1992, but research suggests 1994. Whatever. Brentford. A flat-mate of mine at the time supported Brentford. It was a family tradition, he told me. So off we went.
Brentford, for those unacquainted with such matters, lies slap-bang in the middle of the vast swathe of suburbia extending from inner London to Heathrow airport. Its football team is traditionally a resident of the lower professional leagues (it is apparently doing rather better at the moment).
Brentford football team seemed to me to be a bit of a joke. However, I soon learned that it was no laughing matter. Brentford was to be taken seriously, very seriously. Humour expressed in their direction would not be appreciated.
It was with great seriousness, therefore, that we issued onto the station platform and walked the short distance through no-man's-land to the stadium of forgotten dreams. A keen wind cut through the springtime afternoon, lending further gravitas to the expedition.
Brentford was playing against Huddersfield, a town in industrial Yorkshire. Their supporters were caged off in a small enclave behind one of the goals, wisely segregated from the family-friendly devotees of the home team.
The quality of the football was atrocious. Brentford was especially awful. Both sides managed to get the ball into the net once, until the last minute, when Huddersfield scored a winner, sending those hundred Yorkshire diehards into a delirium, The final whistle went, and the local fans trudged silently in the direction of the train station and home.
Part Three
Seven (or five) years before Brentford's ignominious defeat to Huddersfield, Napoli was winning Serie A in Italy for the first time, thus changing the face of Italian football. The prime reason for this footballing revolution was the arrival of Diego Maradona.
The scenes in the Maradona film inside the Napoli stadium are surreal. The vastness against the blue sky; the collective frenzy, its power, its ecstasy, its fury. The collective consciousness manifest, awesome and terrifying simultaneously.
Almost single-handedly, Maradona transformed the global image of the city - and by consequence that of the Neapolitans themselves. Before Maradona's arrival, Naples was the scum and sewer of Italy - southern, poor, disease-ridden, filthy; despised by the chic cosmopolitans of Milan, Turin, Florence.
But with the genius from Argentina in residence, Napoli began winning, and winning big. Victory over the mighty teams from further north: Inter, AC Milan, Juventus, Roma. And then the most coveted prize of all: champions of Serie A. Naples, the whole city it seems, was transformed. Neapolitans could look at themselves in the mirror with pride and self-respect. Thank you, Maradona. Thank you.
Then came the 1990 World Cup, played in Italy. Semi-finals time: Argentina versus Italy in..... Naples. Was it all a plot organised by the footballing powers-that-were? The match went to penalties, the point at which I lose all interest. Anyhow, Argentina won, with Maradona one of the spot-kick heroes. The locals were none too pleased.
The Argentine's fall from favour was already well under way, but this was the final straw, as Naples turned against him. The particular final straw was the Camorra (Naples's mafia) withdrawing their support and protection from Diego. Maradona was now at the mercy of Italy's 'legal system', and the rest makes for unsavoury history.
That a city could turn against the person who had elevated their status to undreamed-of levels in such a brutal way I find difficult to believe, and frankly abhorrent. Fame, fortune, all that stuff, is fickle indeed. I know that. But to feel betrayed by your saviour - which is how Maradona was regarded - when you are doing the betraying, takes some beating.
There is a Buddhist teaching about the 'Eight Worldly Winds', things that blow you about, and which the wise would do well to shun. Four pairs of opposites: pleasure and pain, loss and gain, fame and infamy, praise and blame.
It's a good list: I find it relevant frequently. At the same time, there is another angle on matters. It's all very well to see all this yo-yo dualities stuff, and shy away from getting involved as a result. But it is sometimes necessary to actually plunge in, really live the experience, before the lesson can be properly integrated. This is the shadow work, rather than sitting on the fence out of fear of getting burnt. Better to love and to lose, than never love at all: that sort of thing.
I shall always have a place in my heart for the Jims, the Diegos, the waywardly passionate ones; those who have dared to live and to die.
Images: Naples, land of dreams
Brentford F.C., land of dreams
