THE MAGIC SEASON OF 1987-88
                   Money can’t buy everything! Especially not the patriotic
                   feelings of a world class footballer. 
                   But a house with a garden...now that’s a different story…

                   Shall I tell you what the Paradise Centre of Soccavo, Napoli’s training ground,
                   was like? Closer to something belonging to a second division Argentinian club
                   than a European first division side. The dressing room walls were crumbling
                   around our ears. It looked like my house in Villa Fiorito. There was a
                   corrugated iron awning with enough space for four cars and the playing surface
                   mashed up your tendons. That’s why I say that Salvatore Carmando, the
                   masseur, physio and the whole package wrapped up in one, deserves 50% of
                   the recognition for any titles we managed to win.

                   Just around that time the International Management Group had done a survey
                   on who the most famous person in the world was and my name came up... So
                   the group wanted to buy the rights to my pictures: they offered
                   $100,000,000... one hundred million big ones! But there was a catch. One of
                   the demands was that I held dual nationality: Argentinian and... wait for it...
                   American! And nationality, being Argentinian I mean, like feelings, you just
                   can’t put a price on.

                   The journey from my house to Soccavo and back was a real adventure! This
                   was how it went: I had to leave from one side or the other so I’d wait behind
                   the gate with the engine running revving up... When I gave the green flag
                   they’d open it and I’d put my foot down, right down to the floor! The crowd
                   would part and I’d go through the middle. Sheer insanity! And those who knew
                   my tactics would follow me on motorbikes... until I lost them. The motorini in
                   Naples were crazy! They’d chase me all over the shop... But in the Mercedes
                   or the Ferrari I’d lose them.

                   Those times, back in the ’87-’88 season, my fourth in Italy, were sheer
                   M-A-G-I-C. Apart from me and Giordano Careca, Antonio Careca, had joined
                   the team. Thank you God.

                   In October ’87, I went into Dr. Henri Chenot’s clinic in Merano, Switzerland,
                   for the first time. I hadn’t stopped since I’d arrived in Italy. On top of that I
                   had almost two hundred games on the trot, what with the league championship,
                   the cups, the friendlies and the national team and so on. 

                   My abductors hurt so much that even Dr. Oliva, who’d always had the magic
                   touch, couldn’t think of anything other than rest. They were giving me these
                   jabs that brought tears to my eyes... And I was playing and playing and
                   playing and having all these injections. That’s why I get annoyed when people
                   talk about footballers earning too much, about us being layabouts. Have they
                   got any idea what a ten centimetre needle looks like when it’s being stuck into
                   your groin, your ankle, your knee... your waist?

                   1988 was my best season but it was also to do with watching my daughter
                   grow day by day and having my whole family around me.

                   And that (1988) was when the idea of the big change came to me, the idea of
                   leaving. Bernard Tapie, the Chairman of Olympique de Marseilles, came on the
                   scene and offered me everything I wanted and much more.

                   Your man said, “Let’s not talk figures. I’ll put up twice what Napoli give you... I
                   want you in France, however much it costs! It wasn’t only the money, mind!
                   Or at least it wasn’t only the money where I was concerned ’cause at the same
                   time Napoli were raking in $25,000,000! But there were one or two other little
                   more interesting details like a villa, not quite Villa Fiorito. This was a serious
                   house with a 6,000 square metre garden for my daughter to run around in. I
                   was tired of hearing my daughter say, “Daddy, shall we go and play on the
                   balcony?”

                   Meanwhile we were still making progress in the championship, still pressing on
                   in the UEFA Cup...

                   The last game, the decider, was the one where I head the ball to Ferrara for
                   him to finish, a weird move ’cause I’ve knocked it on to him with my head from
                   outside the area after the ball’s bounced... For me it all came at once: first
                   international title with a club, the name of Napoli in Europe and... the transfer!

~Chapter 11

Chapters Index~

Chapters 13~