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This virus is treacherous. He is preventing the Neapolitans – not all, of course, some recalcitrant people ran into the street under the Jorit mural dedicated to him, or in front of the San Paolo to honor him – from crying in the streets, en masse, as in a whisper of pain, for Diego Armando Maradona. A close relative, who says goodbye bringing sugar and coffee, as is the custom in our grief. Dieguito was the mirror of Naples, a city like him wild and at the same time generous, proud and humble at the same time, anarchic and choral, Mariola and very honest, conservative and revolutionary. Philosophical and unreasonable, fascinating because it is imperfect. Dieguito was much more than a team man: he was a city man.
It was because he represented the oppressed, from the south of Italy and from the south of the world. One of us. A carrier of pride. The challenger of the excessive power of money and injustice. Only Naples was able to instinctively collect all the poetic sense of a champion that made her aware of her great beauty.. Anyone who considers the city’s passion for that plump and magical man from afar, capable of using his feet as his hands and his head as a flag a cliché, understands nothing.
Maradona did not even respect the Pope’s earthly riches, golden roofs against so much hunger. He urged him: “Sell something for the benefit of the poor.” For this reason, in this magical relationship, it is not by chance that the mural that was dedicated to him in via Taverna del Ferro was painted on a figure of the Pope. El Pibe de Oro said: “I feel like a Neapolitan child because I was also born in a very poor area of Buenos Aires.” He said: “No one can ever achieve what I have achieved in Naples, among people who are finally happy.”
When Italy played Argentina in the World Cup, Napoli cheered Maradona. Who knew how to interpret their instincts, arguing more or less that they flatter you when necessary, from time to time, but every day the country is a stepmother. In Naples, Maradona embodied the hope for a better future. After all, he was a street urchin, a noose who could lift his head after endless falls.
A Danish radio-television journalist, on the eve of the match between Naples and Midtjylland, asked around him: “What is Maradona for a Neapolitan?” Someone replied, “A divinity” and was surprised. He did not know, with due respect for the vermilion case of San Gennaro, that “‘na feint e Maradona melts or sanghe dint’ e vene”.
The Argentine has not left me from here. His footprints are in every alley, on the walls, in the bars. If they faded, they revived them. Under one of these lay altars the fans gathered to ask for the grace of a victory. A tear is represented that represents the intense pain for his departure, in 1991. He even keeps one of his “miraculous” hair in a display case.
Pure folklore? And no, sincere affection for a man in tune with Naples, even against an extraordinary ace. Perhaps an episode from 1985 can explain the reasons for this, when substitute forward Pietro Puzone, Acerrano, was contacted by a father desperate for his son, who needed an operation to save his life. He asked Dieguito to play a friendly match to raise funds. He did come, but President Ferlaino invoked a clause in the contract and rejected the request. Maradona paid 12 million out of his own pocket to his insurance and played on a field that was a swamp, between puddles and parked cars. Fuck the Lloyds of London. This game must be played for that child. It was not the only proof of solidarity that moved him.
There are hundreds of Neapolitans who Maradona has helped, with money or by giving his image. The dolce vita of the resellers began with their arrival. They were excellent offers from the presentation to the fifty thousand of the San Paolo, a price that was paid only for seeing two dribbles and hearing two words of the genius. At its peak, of the 40,000 tickets for the stadium, at least 1,000 resellers were in action. The deal was tolerated like cigarette smuggling, it was a social safety net.
“Il Mattino” sold 184,000 copies, director Pasquale Nonno. And here, in a story of feelings, the social is inserted. A success in football at least shows that, with a good organization and the right men, even in Naples you can win.
Even the old reporter owes him joys and satisfactions. The night of the first Scudetto is unforgettable, carried by the flow of thousands of steps in celebration. A night of delight, enjoyed in a choir, as compensation. Luigi Compagnone, master of discontent, was outraged at those who found epochal turning points in that spree. He wrote simply: don’t call this Naples “civil”, call it “royal.” It was the revenge of Naples for the descriptions they make of him, not much more. Antonio Ghirelli spoke of the Dionysian emotion of a joy without tomorrow. “The elderly and babies are caught in the hellish noise where people are stunned to forget all their problems.” A catharsis.
Naples was all blue, the color of melancholy. The balconies and windows in the narrow alleys are also blue. At the stalls they displayed a bottle of gasoline for the lighters filled with water labeled “Berlusconi’s Tears”. The idol of the party was Diego Armando Maradona, the undisputed king of the city. San Gennaro’s relatives had become his relatives. A small but royal shrine had even been erected for him, with candles, the scent of incense, a kneeler and a baroque altar. Dieguito had recovered the image of the city, Fabrizia Ramondino wrote, he deserved it. That was the largest party in the secular history of Naples. There was no better place in the world than Naples to feel, once and for all, happy and content as in lying fairy tales.
As chief reporter, the writer found himself facing a nightmare on Sunday. Buses, trams and public transport were on strike. The prefect telephoned: “Help us to get people to walk to the stadium, if they come by car, it will take two days to clear the traffic jam.” So I wrote in a piece in which I threatened the fans: if you don’t come on foot, you will miss Maradona. Then they arrived at the meeting as pedestrians, in orderly lines.
Naples is sad now, the San Paolo stadium is dark. We will invent something, perhaps defying quarantine, to greet him as he deserves, to thank him. Love ends, but long roots of it remain.
Last update: 10:33 © REPRODUCTION RESERVED
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