When I was watching the TV once, that guy Shaquille came on strolling down
                   one of those passageways in some stadium and someone chucked him a
                   football. The big guy passed it from one foot to the other, you know, with those
                   canoes he wears instead of trainers, tried to juggle the ball, looked at the
                   camera and went, “Die-go-ma-ra-do-na.” I nearly had a bloody heart attack.”

                   In motor-racing the driver I always liked most was Ayrton Senna. If I ever
                   have a boy he’ll be called Ayrton in homage to him. I swore on his grave.

                   The best boxer I’ve ever laid eyes on was Sugar Ray Leonard.

                   I love boxing. I adore boxing. The only time I’ve ever been to Las Vegas was
                   to see Sugar Ray beating Tommy Hearns and it was a helluva fight. It left its
                   mark on me for the rest of my life. Still, nothing, nobody compares to Carlos
                   Monzón. If I hadn’t been around, if they hadn’t given me the prize for
                   sportsman of the century it would have had to go to him. Carlos Monzón.

                   I’ve been lucky enough to meet a lot of celebrities, the VIPs outside the
                   sporting world. The one who made the biggest impression, and I don’t think
                   anybody’ll ever hold a candle to him, was Fidel Castro, definitely. You can
                   keep the rest. I’ve been to Cuba three times including this one, and I’m still on
                   edge, you know, sort of wide-eyed whenever I see him.

                   I remember our first meeting very well. It was Tuesday 28 July 1987, nearly
                   midnight.
                   “Tell me. Doesn’t it hurt you when you shoot or head the ball?” he asked me.
                   “No.”
                   “So why’d it hurt like hell when I used to play as a lad?”

                   We carried on chatting about football and he told me something that made me
                   raise an eyebrow. He told me that he used to play on the far right! So,
                   teasingly, I said to him, “Whaaat!? Right wing? You? Left wing more like it.”

                   I got the feeling I’d been talking to an encyclopedia. Seeing him had been like
                   touching heaven with my hands. He’s wild. He knows everything and he’s got a
                   conviction when you see him that leaves you in no doubt about how he did
                   what he did with like ten soldiers and three rifles... I’ve been saying it ever
                   since I met him. You might be opposed to him about some things but, for
                   God’s sake, let him get on with his work in peace! I’d like to see the blockade
                   of Cuba lifted and then see what happens.

                   Anyway, what he’s done for me recently over 2000 has been priceless. All this
                   stuff about being alive now I reckon I’ve got to thank the Beards... God and
                   Fidel.

                   Alberto from Monaco was the pits. The bastard made me foot the bill for a
                   meal he’d invited us to in Monte Carlo... He left early ’cause he said he had to
                   make an early start. When me and Guillermo asked for the bill it was five
                   bloody grand! I’d gone to Monaco to see Stephanie or Carolina and I ran into
                   Alberto, the stupid jerk, who gets me to fork out a fortune into the bargain.

                  Dr. Carlos Menem helped me a lot and for nothing, absolutely nothing... When
                   the Peronist Party lost the elections to De la Rua in ’99, I went to visit him
                   because I felt I should stick with him through the bad times too.

                   The person I’d have liked to have met, no surprise to anybody this one, is Che
                   Guevara, dear old Ernesto Che Guevara de la Serna, ’cause that’s his full
                   name. I’ve got him tattooed on my arm, a real work of art, but you could say
                   that I’ve really got him tattooed on my heart.

                   In a nutshell, I thank football for everything it’s given me, and the Beard too,
                   God that is, ’cause He made everything happen: the opportunity to help my
                   family, to share my life with outstanding teammates and meet people I never
                   dreamed of meeting... How could I have imagined it sitting in my little bedroom
                   in Fiorito with a leaking roof?

~Chapter 16

Chapters Index~

Chapter 18~