Dear Lio,
Everybody thought I would cry after our loss to Germany in the World Cup quarter-final, like I did after the Germans rode an unfair penalty to beat us in the 1990 World Cup final. But I held back my tears. Not because I wanted to show the world that I am not the same Diego Maradona, to whom win was a matter of life and death. I didn’t want to prove that now I am a real 50-year old. The truth is, loss is still painful for me, I am still as passionate about football as I was in 1990. I did cry, but not in the stadium. Do you know why?
I know there are people who feel the pain whenever I lose or my team loses. There are people who have never seen me in person but treat me like a family member. They have cried for me after that loss in Cape Town. More would have cried had I cried. But I wasn’t thinking about them when I decided not to show my emotions. Neither did I think about what Dalma and Giannina would do if I cry. It didn’t matter, because they cried, they do every time they feel their dad has lost a battle -- be it against drugs, against critics or on the field against the opponents.
It was you, Lio, whom I didn’t want to see crying. I knew you would break down if I break down. No Lio, not so early. I cried after the 1990 final because I knew I may never get another chance to win the World Cup. But believe me, that’s not the case with you. And that is why I didn’t want you to cry before the TV cameras. No, I don’t want the world to know that Lionel Messi is vulnerable. I want Argentina’s enemies to know that Messi’s team can lose, he cannot.
The first time I saw you grab the ball with your left foot, and dodge past one, two, three players, I knew God has sent my successor. During this World Cup, every time your shot hit the post, went just wide or a defender fouled you, my heart lost a beat. I always knew my country’s walls are not strong enough to keep European aggressors at bay. I knew Burdisso and Demichelis are not good enough stones to build an unbreakable wall. I even knew the limitations of my midfield marshals – Mascherano, Di Maria et al. They are mere mortals, as good or as bad as the Oezils and the Schweinsteigers. My faith in Tevez and Higuain were not misplaced but my inner eye had told me long time ago that they are no better than Burruchaga, they need you to provide the balls. You, Lio, it was you who could make my Argentina a team from the heavens. But you could not.
I was ready to hand over the crown of the Crown Prince of football. You fell short. When your time came, your left foot failed you, your teammates failed you. They just did not know how to assist the son of God. But Lio, isn’t it human not to understand somebody superhuman? Your failure at Green Point only showed you are still the little son of football’s Almighty, you are still not the God.
The more I see of you, the more I am reminded of myself. On that July 3 evening, Lio, my Lio, you were looking just like me -- lost, sorry, worried, as I was in 1982 when I lost my cool, was sent off and had to see Argentina knocked out of the World Cup, from the sidelines. I was not yet the God.
In the next four years, I learnt to rise above the dirty tackles, to provide passes from which mortal strikers cannot but score and to attack, attack so much that my fragile defence can have a sound sleep. Now is your time. Stars will come and go, Lio, but you have to be the North star. The God of football wants so. He has given you his brush to paint grounds in your own way and his dearest daughter, the Golden fairy, has chosen Spain as her home for the next four years. She wanted to stay close to you, God granted her wish. On your way back to Barcelona, go to Madrid, have a look at her. You’ll know she’s dying to give in to your charms, to dance with you, to kiss you.
But you have to earn her embrace. I know her well. She was my muse in the 1980s. Now she is a sweet little darling, just like my Dalma, and Giannina. That is the only thing that has changed in my life. Now, like every other dad, I want my cutie to walk down the aisle with my favourite star, the North star. Let others say whatever they think, I know you are the One, Lio. So don’t cry, store your tears. I’ll prepare the groom’s suit, you come with the shoes, and become worthy of the bride. You have four years. After you get married in Rio de Janeiro, we’ll shed our tears together.
Yours,
Diego.
