“The Hand of God”
                   What “Hand of God”? It was the Hand of Diego.
                   Not even I know how I got up so high. I put up my right fist with my head back.
                   Shilton, Peter Shilton the goalie, didn’t even see it. The first to start calling for
                   hands was Fenwick who was running back to cover.

                   When I saw the linesman running towards the centre of the pitch, I turned to
                   face where my dad and my father-in-law were sitting in the stands, to
                   celebrate the goal for them...

                    By that stage the whole English team were protesting and Valdano was going
                   “Ssshhh!” to me with his finger over his mouth like a photo of a nurse in a
                   hospital.

                   He’d passed to me. We’d done a one-two, they closed him down, he sent this
                   wild random ball back, ’cause he had no option, and I jumped up for it. Brilliant
                   goal. Brilliant goal. Go and cry in church... As I said to a journalist: “It’s not up
                   to me to doubt the ref’s honesty.”

                   When I went back to Italy something incredible happened. Silvio Piola came to
                   see me, the great Italian goalscorer in the World Cups of the ’30s, and said,
                   “To all the people who tell you you’re dishonest because you scored a goal
                   with your hand, tell them they’ve got one honest person less in Italy... ’Cause
                   I scored one with my hand against England too and everybody really
                   cheered!”

                   The Nurse
                   I’ll never forget that afternoon, 25 June 1994. I felt I’d played a blinder. I was
                   dead happy. Then this nurse comes looking for me over on one side of the
                   pitch and I didn’t suspect a thing. Why should I have been suspicious? I was
                   clean, clean as a whistle!

                   I was feeling great. Happy as Larry... Happier than anyone who knows they’re
                   lying can be.

                   Three days later I was enjoying one of the breaks El Coco used to give us
                   every now and again. It was hot like every day was but it didn’t bother us. We
                   were as happy as kids. Me and Claudia and Goycochea and his wife, Ana
                   Laura, were sitting chatting about any old thing and my old man was there too.
                   Then Marcos shows up with this grim, sort of dislocated face. “Who’s died?” I
                   thought.

                   “Diego I’ve got to have a word with you for a minute. Your drugs test for the
                   Nigeria game’s come out positive. But don’t worry the directors are dealing
                   with it...” I almost couldn’t hear the last bit ’cause I’d spun round to look for
                   Claudia... I could hardly see her. My eyes were already full of tears. My voice
                   was shaking when I said to her “Ma. We’re out of the World Cup.”
                   The people who were with me were speechless. Claudia, Marcos, dear old
                   Carmando, the poor guy, nobody dared say a word.
                   So I said it all for them in a phrase I can still remember. “Today they’ve
                   hacked my legs off.”
 

~Index

Chapter 2~