But after a tough game against arch rivals Brazil, nothing could shake the
                   Argentine’s confidence, not even the semi-final against Italy, to be held in
                   Naples!

                   A game against Brazil is always going to be the real final and if it came in the
                   quarter finals it was our fault and nobody else’s. ’Cause we made some terrible
                   mistakes against Cameroon ’cause we weren’t capable of applying the
                   pressure to beat Romania, ’cause we couldn’t hold onto the advantage we had.

                   I found out there were 26 places booked on a plane for the day after the game
                   but they swore blind it wasn’t a vote of no confidence.

                   More than half the game we played on Saturday 23 June... wasn’t actually a
                   game of football. For 55 grim minutes they blitzed the shit out of us. Shots
                   that hit the post, incredible near misses from Muller, saves from Goyco... It
                   took us that long to make things secure at the back, a lesson I’d learnt from
                   the Italians: hang on for dear life and take no prisoners on the break. And that
                   move was a model goal on the break. I decoyed Ricardo Rocha and Alemáo by
                   running diagonally to right field while Caniggia came in on the left. I passed to
                   him with my right with Rocha hanging round my neck just before Mauro Galváo
                   and Branco closed in on me. Cani took on Taffarel and gave him a lesson in
                   finishing by dribbling round him and slotting it in with his left... Brilliant goal!
                   Sheer delight!

                   I really revelled in Brazil’s elimination in ’90. It’s such a good feeling beating
                   Brazil! I like the way Brazilians are as people, mind you. I do... But when it
                   comes to football I want to beat them. I’m dying to beat them! They are my
                   R-I-V-A-L. That’s right, Rival with a capital R.

                   It wasn’t just any old semi-final. We’d drawn Italy. In Naples! When I got to
                   the press conference feeling good, I said something they never forgave me for.
                   But it was true. “I don’t like all these people asking the Neapolitans to be
                   Italian and support Italy... Naples has been pushed into sidelines by the rest
                   of Italy. They’ve been condemned by the most unfair kind of racism.”

                   When I went out onto the pitch on the day of the game, July 3, the first thing I
                   got was a round of applause and I could read all the banners saying things
                   like, “Diego in our hearts, Italy in our songs” or “Maradona, Naples loves you
                   but Italy’s our home”. For the first time in this World Cup the crowd
                   applauded the Argentine national anthem from start to finish. It was already a
                   kind of victory for me... I smiled. I waved at them. I felt moved ’cause they
                   were my people, the people who used to call me Diecó, the people who called
                   me El Diego. Our Diego. My people.

                   To be honest, we hadn’t gone out onto the pitch feeling so calm in the whole of
                   the tournament. Which is why I didn’t get worried when Totó Schillaci scored
                   the first goal. I wasn’t in the least bothered. Seriously.

                   We carried on anyway but equalised when they were playing their best football.
                   Nothing you can do about that; it’s how we were playing... The cross came in
                   from Olarticoechea and was snapped up in spectacular style by Caniggia.
                   Another cheque in the bank, Dad! I reckon that by that stage nothing made
                   our opponents so terrified more than going to penalties. And as we didn’t have
                   much left in the way of pressure (to cap it all Gringo Giusti had been sent off)
                   we slogged away for the rest of the game and extra time to reach the shoot
                   out, a shoot out with the ace of spades up our sleeves, El Vasco Goycochea.

                   This time I didn’t miss my penalty. I struck it gently as usual and it was in the
                   net. How about that? Cheers and not just from my old man or Claudia. I could
                   hear cheering with an accent... a Neapolitan accent but maybe it’s better to
                   leave it there.

                   That “disaster of a team” had managed what few could by coming from behind
                   as usual. Typical of us. And no less a team than Italy were out of the race.
                   After that Trigoria stopped looking like Paradise and turned into Hell.
                   I’d promised my daughter, Dalma, that I’d come back with the World Cup.
                   But now I had something much harder, much nastier and more painful to
                   explain to her. I had to explain that in football, in our football, there was a
                   mafia... Not the kind that kills people but the kind that’s capable of giving a
                   penalty that isn’t a penalty and not giving one that is.

~Chapter 14

Chapters Index~

Chapter 16~