I understood my old man, of course I did. How couldn’t I when he used to
                   break his back so that we could eat and go to school? That’s what he really
                   wanted. For us to study. Course, he’d come to Fiorito from Corrientes in
                   around 55.

                   Occasionally my old man would get paid and buy me a pair of shoes which I’d
                   ruin straight away playing footie all day. It was enough to make you weep!
                   Which we actually did, ’cause after I ruined them, the governor’d give me a
                   good hiding... I’m not telling you this so you’ll blame him, mind... Times were
                   different then and so were people’s ways... My old man didn’t have any time to
                   talk to me! Just to clobber me. He had to get his sleep even if it was just a
                   nap so he could get up for work at four in the morning and go to the factory
                   ‘cause if he didn’t everything went to the dogs at home and we wouldn’t have
                   anything to eat.

                   It’s only now I can see Don Diego for what he is: the best person I’ve ever
                   met. And I’ll say it again, for them, for him and La Tota, both of them, “I’d
                   move heaven and earth for them.”

                   What I mean is that idols live right there in people’s homes. They can reach
                   out and touch them. It’s not as if they watch them on TV or read about them in
                   magazines. They’re right there...

                   Thanks to my old man I never actually went short of food. That’s why I had
                   strong legs though the rest of me was pretty scrawny.

                   We always played round the corner from our house at a place known locally as
                   the Seven Little Pitches, the Siete Canchitas. They were these massive
                   stretches of waste ground. Some of the pitches had goals and others didn’t.
                   The Siete Canchitas! It sounds like one of those sports complexes nowadays
                   with astroturf and that sort of thing! This place didn’t have any astroturf. It
                   didn’t even have any grass. It was just dirt. Solid dirt. But it was heaven to us.
                   When we’d start running so much dust flew up it looked like we were playing in
                   the fog at Wembley.

                   One of the pitches belonged to Estrella Roja (Red Star), my old man’s team,
                   who I used to play for come what may. Another belonged to Tres Banderas
                   (Three Flags), Goyo Carrizo’s dad’s side. Estrella Roja v Tres Banderas! It
                   was like Boca v River!

                   Goyo was cool about it. So cool that one day at school round about the middle
                   of 69, he said to me,
                   “Hey Diego, I went to train with Argentinos Juniors on Saturday and they told
                   me to bring kids along for a trial. Want to come?”
                   “I dunno. I’ll have to ask my old man...”
                   The truth was I knew if I asked my Dad to take me it would mean spending
                   money on fares and depriving him of his rest. The thought put a damper on
                   things.

                   At Los Cebollitas we were wiping the floor with anybody they came up against.
                   We won 136 games on the trot. I’ve got them all written down in an notebook
                   Francis and Don Yayo gave me. Claudia’s got it hidden away somewhere like
                   buried treasure...

                   I remember the match that broke our unbeaten run at Navarro, ‘cause we used
                   to go and play all over the shop. It was a brilliant team! That was where I
                   started being a football player, a real football player, ‘cause in Fiorito all I did
                   was just run after the ball.

                   We were just about to have dinner with Goyo over at my house and La Tota
                   asked me to go and fetch a soda siphon ‘cause there was no soda water in the
                   house. Goyo and me ran off and on our way back, I turn the corner and fall flat
                   on my face. I really went flying! The soda siphon smashed and I got this huge
                   gash in my hand. Just my luck!

                   The next day I went off with the lads in Don Yayo’s old truck. I was worried
                   Francis wouldn’t play me and I was dreading the lecture he’d give me, ‘cause
                   actually our respect for Francis was something bordering on fear. The thing
                   was, in the dressing room Francis called me over and asked...

                   “What happened to your hand Maradona?”
                   “I fell over and cut myself, Don Francis. But I’ll be able to play...”
                   “What? No chance! You can’t go on like that.”
                   I turned round with and went back to the bench where I was getting changed. I
                   was biting my lip to stop myself crying. El Goyo saw me and went up to
                   Francis...
                   “Go on Francis, let him play, just for a bit. Don Diego’s said he could.”
                   Francis scowled and growled something like “All right. But just for a bit.” My
                   soul returned to my body... I didn’t end up playing just for a bit. I played the
                   whole game. We won 7-1 and I scored five goals.

                   On Tuesday 28 September Clarín said that a kid “with poise and superstar
                   potential” had emerged. According to them he was called... Caradona. Brilliant.
                   The first time my name had appeared in print and they spelt it wrong

~Chapter 2

Chapters Index~

Chapter 4~