FIVE AND A HALF YEARS AGO, I was standing a few steps away from Pelé in the bowels of the Stade de France, an hour or so before the World Cup final between France and Brazil.
The man that they call O’Rey — the King — flanked by two corporate PR people, was doing what he usually does at big international events. Surrounded by a gaggle of sweaty journalists, he went into retired legend mode, rattling on in a tranquil voice about the “Beautiful Game”, the “joy it brings to millions” and the fact that “one can never compare players from different eras” . Suddenly, there was a commotion at the other end of the hall. The 20-strong multinational herd of reporters turned their backs on Pelé in mid-sentence and thundered down the hall, sending a Fifa minion and his stack of lovingly stapled match notes tumbling to the ground.
As the dust slowly cleared, I was left alone with Pelé, his minder and the two PR people. “What is happening?” a puzzled Pelé asked, his dark eyes narrowing. “Maradona is here,” one of the PR people said, with a shake of the head.
That day I learnt a lesson about the media, footballers and their careers once they hang up their boots. The more media-friendly you are, the more anodyne your comments, the more you pop up all over the place, the less people care.
Pelé may have been arguably the greatest footballer in history. And he is probably the most famous athlete, along with Muhammad Ali and perhaps Michael Jordan. But no footballer generates the kind of visceral, passionate response that Diego Maradona does. And because Maradona does not divide his time between glad-handing sponsors, attending awards ceremonies and peddling Viagra, when he does surface and speak out, people tend to take note.
This season, La7, a small commercial television channel in Italy, signed him up to be a regular pundit on Biscardivenerdi, its Friday football discussion programme. Interest was massive: the show’s producers managed to sell the rights across Latin America, despite most of the discussion focusing on Italian football.
The programme’s freak show appeal soon became evident. Maradona was supposed to appear every week, alternating between the studio and a satellite link-up from Havana, where he now lives. In fact, he has only made it to the studio once since September and often (as happened last Friday) simply doesn’t bother to show up. No matter. People tune in anyway in the hope that he will materialise, much like the pilgrims who go to Lourdes expecting to see the Virgin Mary.
When he does make it, things quickly get surreal. Maradona’s bloated figure, usually encased in a T-shirt (on an early appearance he wore a sleeveless vest, known in slang terms as a “wifebeater”, that showed off his Ché Guevara tattoo nicely), hovers on a monitor in the background as the studio guests argue among themselves. They all magically fall silent when the host asks him a question, usually a generic cream puff on a well-worn footballing talking point.
David Beckham? “He’s a good player, but he’s not a superstar. Still, I like him, though it’s a pity he’s English. But I can’t take him too seriously. He looks like a woman. But, of course, that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him!” Cue hysterical guffawing from the studio audience.
Drugs in sport? “Most chairmen take drugs themselves, they all ought to be tested!” Cue earnest nods of approval.
Violent supporters? “The violence is in society, not in football. And nobody is more violent than George W. Bush, who drops bombs on innocent people, murdering babies.” Cue uncomfortable fidgeting from the Right, chin-stroking from the Left.
The problem with having Maradona on any panel is that he draws all the attention and the discussion becomes secondary. It is like having Jordan as a presenter for a cookery show: pretty soon most normal people have forgotten all about the food and are thinking about only two things — her left breast and her right breast.
This is compounded by a level of sycophancy that makes Garth Crooks look like Torquemada directing the Spanish Inquisition. Maradona is not there to be argued with or questioned. He is there to be listened to, because he’s important, even though the things that he says may make little sense. It’s a bit like an atheist who pays attention to what the Pope says: it can’t be ignored, it may be fundamentally flawed, but it certainly isn’t appropriate to engage him in discussion.
That is the sphere that the man has come to inhabit. While he may be reviled as a cheat in England, he remains a cult figure to much of the rest of the world, particularly in the developing countries. Theories abound. Some contend that Maradona’s popularity peaked after the England game in the quarter-finals of the 1986 World Cup, not for his second goal, which many have described as the greatest ever, but for the first and the “Hand of God”.
The thinking is that he conformed to one of the oldest archetypes, that of the slave who outfoxes and defeats his master. Maradona, representing the poor and deprived masses, brings down the Western Establishment, not with his God-given physical gifts, but with his brainpower, the very attribute that the First World maintains that the underdeveloped savages elsewhere lack. According to this line of thinking, this would also explain why some Marxist FARC guerillas in Colombia wear Osama bin Laden T-shirts: anybody who fights the dominant West is a hero.
Others argue that sections of his fanbase — whether consciously or unconsciously — secretly entertain the notion that he harbours some form of divinity. How else can one explain his immense nature-defying gifts? He is a Christ figure, crucified by football’s Herods, Sepp Blatter and João Havelange. And, like Christ, his message is not always easy to understand, though one day all will be revealed. Of course, this school of thought ignores the fact that Maradona does not walk on water or heal the sick and, at least for now, he’s come up short in the business of delivering salvation.
That people take the time to think about these issues is a testament to his immense popularity, something that cannot be explained away just by his success on the pitch. Perhaps the explanation is simpler. Maradona is the slutty Jezebel to Pelé’s girl next door, absinthe to wine coolers.
He is the element of danger, of rebellion, of iconoclasm that, in an increasingly sanitised and commercialised footballing world, many of us crave. Maradona plays by his own rules, with his own unconventional charisma that allows his fans to look past his weaknesses (drug use, illegitimate children) and contradictions (lecturing the world about the evils of capitalism while refusing to pay the £17 million in unpaid taxes that he owes the Italian Government, and declaring his never-ending love for his daughters while failing to pay child support).
Just how aware he is of all this remains to be seen. Virtually all of his former team-mates — with the notable exception of Daniel Passarella, the man he replaced as Argentina captain — adore him. But more than one has told me that Maradona is sliding towards mental illness, even as he revels in his image as a footballing Ché Guevara. No matter: as long as he has a soapbox, people will flock to listen.
