Tiredness?! Tiredness doesn’t exist! You’re representing your country and it’s
                   the proudest feeling you can get! That’s what people used to say at those
                   meetings. That’s what was constantly being repeated, “Pulled a muscle? Come
                   on over anyway,” We’d all ring whoever it was and get them to come along
                   anyway, even if he wasn’t playing.

                   I took on the likes of Grondona, Blatter, Havelange, Macri… Using a
                   footballer’s vocabulary not a politician’s maybe, which I paid for in lots of ways
                   but the result’s been worth it. It’s the result that counts… Nowadays I feeI like
                   I can stand on top of the Eiffel Tower and shout and I’ll have all the players in
                   the world around me. Cantona’s said to me, and Weah and Stoitchkov, “We’re
                   members of the World Footballers Association and you’re the president.”
                   That’s the thing I’m most proud of.

                   Rivaldo plays for El Barça on Sundays, flies to Thailand and scores a goal for
                   Brazil, then shows up against Real Madrid and plays in the Copa América. He
                   runs his arse off for his shirt… Long live Rivaldo is what I say! That’s what we
                   Argentinians used to do. That’s what I used to do!
                   Part of that feeling’s gone now. Something’s missing… And I don’t blame
                   football representatives. Let’s not blame the representatives any more! The
                   only ones to blame in all this business are us, the players…

                   “You don’t need a 20-year-old Maradona to take decisions … All you have to
                   do is not give in. Don’t compromise! Pull together!”

                   What they haven’t managed to do is change my life. I might have done good
                   things. I might have done bad things. But at least I did my things. I’m not a
                   puppet in one of Menotti’s diagrams, or Bilardo’s, or Havelange’s,
                   or Blatter’s, or Menem’s. And I’m not going to be in De La Rúa’s… 
                   Nobody just gave me my money. I earned it. Chasing a ball around a pitch.
                   I’ve earned a lot. Too much? There must have been some reason I was
                   given it. The powers-that-be earned a lot more thanks to me.
                   And that’s why they depend on us. If us footballers united, we’d be deadly!

                   World Cups are rolling in money and us, the ones that put on the show,
                   get the scraps. 1%! It’s like a factory that’s doing better and better
                   where the workers take anything that’s offered them.

                   I’d like everything I’m saying to be put into practice by the kids in football
                   nowadays. I’d love to get my hands on the youth team and tell them, “You
                   come from Rosario, do you, lad? I don’t care how you get yourself over here.
                   Take a train, take a bus, hitch… but get yourself over and we’ll see. Set your
                   sights on playing for your country, ’cause that way you’re playing for your own
                   people.”

                   These days lots of games are won on the drawing board. And that goes against
                   the players’ interests. I’ve paid a high price for standing up for them, for
                   insisting that you couldn’t play in Mexico at midday and speaking out against
                   corruption like in 1990 when the final just had to be Germany–Italy. I’m not
                   worried about still having to pay the price for it. If we were united, we could
                   fight the bad side of football, like match-fixing by referees. They bust our balls
                   in Italy ’90 over Fair Play this and Fair Play that and in the first game
                   Cameroon hacked us to pieces. Then in the final there was the Codesal
                   business, the business about the referee… A penalty that just never is a
                   penalty has nothing to do with fair play.

                   There are loads of referees who have influenced the result, tilted the pitch in
                   favour of FIFA’s two favourite teams. 

                   The last World Cup, France ’98, was a half-baked championship and it was
                   rigged. I can hardly remember anybody on the French team and not because I
                   wasn’t interested. But everybody knows it was a foregone conclusion that the
                   final was always going to be France v Brazil.

                   And in Argentina, what did the refs in was being so high-handed. Sheer
                   arrogance! I was sent off by Javier Castrilli when I was playing for Boca
                   against Vélez in 95. He was just a ref and the only thing I said to him was
                   “Show people some respect, would you!” And that was the kind of treatment
                   they dished out. They wouldn’t let you say a word. They hide behind all that
                   stuff about not earning what they should be earning… So? Turn professional!
                   Don’t let yourselves be influenced, not even by the big-name players. But
                   don’t betray the people or the spectacle either… ’Cause it’s the people who go
                   and see the Maradonas and Francescolis and Gallardos of this world and if
                   they send them off, then the referees are betraying the crowds. Still, they get
                   famous and go and work in television. And who do they have to thank for it?
                   The players, of course…

                   I am sorry about one thing. I’m sorry about not playing more in Argentina. I’m
                   sorry my country couldn’t hold on to me to break records on my own doorstep,
                   play more games for national squad and not have to listen to them over the
                   phone in Italy… ’Cause that’s what I used to do. When Boca or Argentina were
                   playing, I was hanging on the phone listening to them. I don’t think I was to
                   blame. I was forced to go and earn hard cash abroad.

                   From Italy I could see this really strange phenomenon happening in
                   Argentina: the mentors in the lower divisions were all the big names from the
                   past… Lads like Pedernera, Grillo, Grifa, Pando, Sacchi. And great teachers in
                   my humble opinion produce great pupils… Anyway, that kind of thing didn’t
                   happen in Italy. Ex-champions went on to become members of parliament,
                   Onorevoles, directors, radio and television presenters or presidential
                   advisors. But pulling on your sweatshirt and getting covered in mud like Don
                   Adolfo Pedernera did till he was nearly eighty… no fear. Not a chance. My fear
                   is that nowadays we’ve lost the magic. And that explains why I’m obsessed
                   with working with the players at grassroots level.

                   I’m proud I’ve always been true to my convictions, good and bad. I’m pushing
                   forty now and I can look the world in the face. I didn’t shit on anyone except
                   myself and apart from my family I don’t owe anybody anything. I’m fighting for
                   my life day in day out. I’ve got my folks around me. I’ve got my friends around
                   me. I’ve got my wife’s unconditional support. I’ve got two daughters who are as
                   lovely as I always dreamed they would be. And on top of that I’ve got the
                   respect of the country I love… Yes, in spite of everything, I’ve got Argentina’s
                   respect and I really revel in it.

                   I know it’s not up to me to change the world. But I’m not going to let anybody
                   come into my world and fix it. I’m not going to let anybody run my game or fix
                   my life. Nobody will ever convince me my mistakes with drugs or my business
                   blunders have changed me. No chance. I’m the same as I ever was. It’s me,
                   Maradona. I’m Our Diego. I’m El Diego

~Chapter 17

Chapters Index~

Chapter 19~