In the world of professional football, few players can lay claim to having stayed long in school. Those who make it end up earning astonishing amounts of money for doing something they love. Were they not paid, they would still play for fun anyway. The road to becoming a football star begins from early age and does not permit the youngsters to get more than the most functional of education. Resources are not spent on producing learned young men but invested in the conveyor belt of academies that supply the game’s multi billion dollar value chain with players of varying ability. Of those good enough to climb up the development pyramid to earn a living from football, a handful become global superstars, ensuring the money that went into developing them is recouped in in the form of huge transfer fees or winning lucrative titles for their clubs.
The political economy of football therefore makes it rare to find a footballer cerebral and erudite enough to be considered a man of letters. This is because when they hit the big time they have no further need for self improvement, let alone read classics about dead personalities from ancient times. One of the rarities was a certain Roberto Perfumo who passed away four years ago. A man of knowledge, he captained the Argentina national team at the 1974 world cup hosted by West Germany. On retirement, he became an analyst of the highest pedigree, his thoughts cherished in the game’s small intellectual circles One day, he undertook the task of dissecting the complex character of Diego Armando Maradona, who died this week from a heart attack while recovering from brain surgery. For the dissection, Perfumo invoked the analogy of the Roman emperor Julius Caesar. Apparently Caesar was so powerful he would fall prey to a godly complex, losing himself in heavenly hubris. The wise men of Rome concerned that a Caesar not kept in check did not auger well for the empire, assigned a slave to him. The job of the slave was to constantly whisper in the emperor’s ear; remember you are not a god, but a mere mortal. So, whenever it seemed the adulation of the masses would go to Caesar’s head, the slave would whisper. That kept Caesar grounded. Perfumo surmised that Maradona, so much loved and hero worshipped, yet so wild spirited and impulsive needed someone to constantly whisper in his ear; remember you are not a god, but a mere mortal. The demise of Maradona is a death foretold. Had he had a slave, or in contemporary times, a conscientious minder constantly whispering in his ear, fans of the most beautiful of sporting pursuits would not be in the throes of deep sorrow we are now experiencing. I had my first encounter with Maradona through the pages of a British football publication called Shoot. Before Shoot my football horizons were limited to Phikwe and Soweto. I was in thrall of Jomo Sono, who had ballads played on Radio Botswana sang in his praise by John Moriri.
I knew about Jomo long before I saw him on television. In fact every local team had a Jomo in its lineup and this tended to be the star player often christened so by the fans, or immodestly, even by himself. In my football lifetime, the name Jomo has been given to more players than any other. Even in our kickabouts as kids where the final whistle was not decided by regulation time, but rather by a pre determined number of goals, we had mini versions of Jomo. When he was at his peak in the late 70s we didn’t have domestic television. Fans followed his prowess through live radio commentary from Soweto or mere word of mouth. For us, including adult fans, Jomo was more a figure of the popular imagination than lived experience. Then came television in the early 80s, initially in black and white, meaning every football fan got to support a local club and a South African team, respectively. Because of Jomo I rooted for Orlando Pirates. However, my local team was Nico United which I watched every weekend when it played home fixtures. I also attended practice sessions, getting up close and personal with my idols, my favourite being Ryder Jobe who I still view was one of the world’s finest players. The content in Shoot was mainly British football, and long before capitalism and the free market brought satellite television, it was the bible which gave us a glimpse of the overseas game. In much the same way that we followed Jomo without having seen him, we also followed English football mainly from the pages of that magazine. We chose team allegiance on the basis of the pictures and stories in Shoot. When fans in Phikwe started watching overseas matches through closed circuit television put up by the white expatriate community, Liverpool was the most popular team. The likes of Manchester United, now boasting the most support in the world were on the fringes. Bucking the trend I chose Nottingham Forest, then a big team because of my liking for a black rightback called Viv Anderson who wrote a column in the same magazine. It was while poring over one of the Shoot editions, which our mentor Papi Senatle bought regularly and which as primary school boys we could only read at his house in Pimville, that I encountered Maradona. There was a whole spread on him, a stocky teenager proclaimed as the next big thing in the game after Pele.
I knew of Pele, having seen his pictures at the town library. If Jomo existed in our imagination, Pele could as well been a figure of myth from a far -off planet. Certainly no one in my orbit could have ever seen Pele in action. Still, his name travelled far to the extent some amateurs went by the moniker African Pele. By the time I was introduced to international football he was long retired. In terms of my evolution as a serious football fan, my awareness coincided with the emergence of Maradona in that Shoot edition ahead of the 1982 World Cup held in Spain. During the tournament, dubbed Espana ’82 came along, apartheid South Africa’s television reluctantly shifted from rugby and cricket to showed some matches. I didn’t get to watch any games featuring Argentina, but I was captivated by the legend surrounding the 22 year old. The videos I watched later on were of a magician who played with a twinkle in the eye, tango in his left foot and pure joy in his heart. Enjoying top billing in his debut world cup, his reputation preceded him, inviting some of the most brutal man marking from trembling defenders, the most notorious being Gaetano Sciera of Italy. Without much protection from referees, his tournament ended in ignominy, sent off for a retaliatory challenge on Batisa of Brazil during a crunch last 16 tie. For me the poise and deft touch distinguished Maradona as a player to adore. From then onwards I closely monitored his on pitch exploits. It was on his account that I decided to nail my mast to Argentina. Not only did the country’s name have a nice ring to it, but the fact that their legendary kit bore resemblance to the flag of my country was cherry on top. By the time Mexico ’86 came round, capitalism and the free market had seen to it that more households had television, in colour. Compared to Espana’82 which was watched by very few in our neck of the woods, Mexico was the first tournament which enjoyed mass viewing across the developing world. It was the first world cup which attracted a truly global viewership and provided Maradona with the stage from which to explode and become the most famous name in the history of the world.
I was in boarding school then. In those days they didn’t televise qualifying matches and we only got to see the teams when they kicked off at the finals. Without much background on how my team had qualified, I took each game as it came. With matches beamed live on television, and editions of Shoot coming out more frequently, one could track the World Cup from both print and screen. Pundits were unanimous that Mexico ’86 offered Maradona a shot at redemption to realize his full potential by winning the ultimate trophy in football. In between his anti- climatic appearance at Espana ’82 and Mexico, he had in 1982 signed for Barcelona in a world record fee from Boca Juniors, only to leave after an unhappy two years for the unheralded Italian team called Napoli. Although Maradona would become synonymous with Boca, his career actually began at Argentinos Juniors where he made his debut in top flight at age 15. It was during his stint at Barcelona where he became the best paid player in the world, and raking in additional millions from sponsorships, began his dance with the devil by dabbling in substance abuse. One is left to wonder, could things could have turned out differently had the superstar been assigned that dutiful slave whispering in his ear; remember, you are not a god, but a mere mortal. As it were, as a boy from the slums of Lanus, he was a willing captive of extended family and hangers-on to whom he dispensed cash and gifts to their hearts content. When he signed for Napoli some months before Mexico ‘86, he was broke, having snorted, given away and fleeced off his millions. He needed a fresh start. I was one of the millions of devotees consuming every tidbit of news on our maestro. It was at the unfashionable Napoli where he played his best club football and turned an average team into Serie A and UEFA champions. In Mexico, Maradona was rejuvenated and brimming with self confidence. I have watched every tournament since 1982, but for me 1986 and much later Brazil 2014 remain the best of the lot. Those who saw Maradona in his heyday will carry with them fond memories for the rest of their lives. It was at the Azteca stadium where he scored what was to be voted goal of the century, slaloming past six defenders to slide home the second goal in a 2-1 quarter final win over England. His moment had come as he led Argentina to a 3-2 victory over Germany in the final. Then began a narrative driven by the English football fraternity that Maradona was a cheat for scoring with his hand the first goal in the quarter final tie. The boo brigade never questioned how their tall goalkeeper Peter Shilton could be out jumped by a dwarf, as the player sometimes self mockingly referred to himself. Mischievously described by Maradona as The Hand of God goal, it continues to rankle a section of English fans. Their attitude betrays a bitter aftertaste, and failure to come to terms with the fact that they were up against the best player to ever grace the game. I then got worried for my idol when his off field escapades and run- ins with the law started to overshadow his brilliance. Instead of giving us, his millions of fans pleasure on the pitch, he was more liable to be caught up in drug scandals which contrived to cut short his flourishing stay at Napoli. By the time of Italia ’90 World Cup, I was lukewarm towards Argentina. In the irony of ironies, our divorce came during my national service in back of beyond Ncojane village when I switched on my short wave radio to catch the BBC commentary of the opening match between Argentina and Les Lions Indomitables of Cameroon.
There was no television in the outback, but through my mind’s eye, I witnessed the mother of all upsets as the underdogs defeated the defending champions by a solitary goal. Argentina would plod its way to the final, which this time they lost to Germany. But both the team and Maradona, our talisman from four years ago were uninspiring. Italia ’90 would signal my new found affection with Les Lions which over the years would bring more agony than joy. By the time USA ’94 came by I was firmly detached from Argentina, feeling Maradona had declined, his best having come in Mexico. He was out of shape, beset by scandal and ought not have been selected. But in Argentina, Maradona held god like status and the faithful still prayed he could turn on the magic one more time. Albeit, it was a step too far and he would be ejected from the tournament in disgrace after a failed drugs test. In a display of the raw passions he still aroused, thousands of fans in Bangladesh, not reputed for its football, reportedly threatened acts of mass suicide if he was not reinstated. Nonetheless, for me and millions others, Maradona despite the demons haunting him, remained our greatest number 10 of all time. At the turn of the new millennium FIFA ran an internet poll for best player of the 20th century. Having seen Maradona in real time, and Pele in old videos, for me there was no comparison between the two. Maradona of course came out the runaway winner as the peoples choice. Whether it was the exciting cocktail of his skills, rebelliousness and controversial lifestyle, he retained the affection of millions. So much so that the most corrupt entity known to mankind, called FIFA decided to run a survey comprising handpicked officials and assorted charlatans, who then voted Pele as best player. This led to both icons jointly awarded the title. By developed world standards, dying at 60 years is considered untimely and a mite premature. With that in mind, in the final analysis our hero became a victim of his excesses and misadventures. This manifested in numerous health problems including severe obesity for a man who in his prime was a perfect specimen of fitness. Would Maradona live his life differently were he given a second chance? Methinks not. I believe he would have done it all over again, and some more. As we celebrate the life of joy and happiness he gave us, at the back of our minds, we still ponder the question; were somebody there to whisper in his ear; remember you are not a god, but a mere mortal, would his tragic ending have been averted? Truth is I personally prefer my Maradona just the way he was. Julius Caesar eventually ignored the whisperings of the slave, resulting in his reign ending in tragic circumstances. Both Maradona and Caesar in the manner of their lives and endings are tragic heroes. The last word is left to the philosopher of modern football. A leftist organic intellectual, Jorge Valdano netted Argentina’s second goal in the Mexico ’86 final.
Some years ago he said of his teammate, ‘ poor old Diego, we have told him repeatedly, you ‘re a god, you’re a star, you’re our salvation. We forgot to tell him the most important thing, you’re a man’. In an interview this week, contemplating his dear departed comrade, Valdano tearfully told us that the world and all of Argentina is crying… even the ball cries for Maradona!
