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Zero to scum. To those who have tried, failing miserably, to pollute the memory with poisoned languages. Transport. The emotion. That he felt compelled to remind the world of the Maradona Man. A man they don’t know. A myth that they do not deserve. Exceptional, extraordinary, legendary lives those of those who live with a talent that becomes a burden, the ordinary that tightens the throat, the routine of an inexorable executioner. Maradona is Maradona. It is an entity that does not deserve judgment, but veneration. With football it becomes a trivial pretext. The path already marked to inspire millions of people. Write a message in the sky, to make it visible. To nourish with strength and hope those who no longer bite that strength and that hope in their daily bread. Diego transversal, Diego transcendent, Diego the prophet. Of the last, of the discarded, of the abandoned on the outskirts. Maradona the outcast, the chosen one who becomes a legend. The miracle that transmits heat, to those who almost never find heat.
One more. Gattuso disguises himself as Max Pezzali and sings them to Fabio Caressa, biting him to evoke the times in the median. “We have 18 points,” he emphatically assures on live TV, “We are waiting for justice to be done,” he insists. Why do we have to play Juve-Napoli again. Gattuso knows it. And he also remembers it at Fabio’s club, because if you have to be without a jacket and tie, Rino is like Nino D’Angelo: he’s perfectly at ease.
Two to zero fears chased away. His, those of Napoli. There is the perfect summary of the night of Fabian in the left-hander who insinuates himself between the weaknesses of Roma, the lightning that obscures a stuttering match so far. The opportunity that turns you into a thief, the turning point you’ve been waiting for a long time. With greater coverage, he finds courage, looks over his shoulder and does not see that void that runs the risk of confusing thoughts and blocking his legs. He is not the best version of himself, but it is not bad to have him on your side.
Three in the middle. Gattuso tells it in his own way, because he has to do this, but yesterday there were three involved. Because Zielinski does not have the characteristics of Mertens, because by nature Piotr ends up composing the other vertex of a triangle with Demme at the top and Fabiàn in line with the Pole. Because then you have to deal with men, not numbers. And yesterday’s men were perfect to play a 4-3-3, which is not a prison and it is normal for Piotr and Fabián to take turns looking into the rival area. It will be a discussion that we will continue for a long time, but one thing is not even beginning to be discussed: if you want to keep Zielinski and Fabiàn together on the field you can only play 4-3-3. It is Kepler’s fourth law of the motion of the planets. It is science applied to the globe.
Four days, four goals and a twisted world. It was a Wednesday, you left me in a corner like Pino Daniele’s Mondays. Diego did the honors in his new home. He was there, present like never before. Those who did not see it had their eyes closed. A house that does not belong to the municipality or to anyone else. Maradona belongs to everyone. It belongs to the people. No one can label it. No one. That is simply Diego Armando Maradona. No stadium, arena or whatever you want. Diego does not need details. Just the word. The eternal artist hates classifications.
Five goals and two assists in twelve appearances (seven as a starter). Politano seems to say that I am there too, while confirming that it can cut the skin of each party like a scalpel. From the beginning or to run in the race. Matteo is a hot machine, much less when he has an exceptional prompter. ‘What shot?’ “No, Matteo.” I would also jump to the goalkeeper ‘ It will have been suggested by a very top management. Perhaps from up there he will have smiled, remembering Paradise with pride: “I am a NaPOLITAN”. And you think that destiny does not exist …
You are in downtown Mertens. That does not shine, but stamp. That does not shine, but scratches when the blow that destroys the hopes of Rome is about to be struck. In the first half it is frantic, like the fruit / vegetable scales in the supermarket that if you don’t rush to fill in the code they will take out the receipt for celery that you don’t even know what shape it has. Then he calms down, put aside the emotion you read in those deep eyes. A piece of heart and head was elsewhere. And with a heart elsewhere, someone like Ciro fights to be Ciro. He who is all heart. Perhaps he was still standing silently in the Neapolitan night that Diego’s mural commemorates. How to blame him.
Seven for Diego. Here too: another blow to the heart. Him, just him. Raised in the cult, raised in bread and Maradona. He is reborn, as a footballer, on the night of his last farewell. An eternal return of the myth, testimony of the immortal inheritance. Demme finds his place and dusts off old admirations, put aside with the voracity of our time, those of fast food. Of the hit and the flight. Buy and throw. But Diego is useful, very useful. It does things simple, but it does them perfectly well. And he helps his colleagues, he adds and does not take away. For the team. By his name. For an evening that would not have dreamed of living otherwise. With that shirt on, with a curly one looking down at you. A Knight fulfilling his destiny on his King’s lawn.: “If I could ask God for just one thing, I would ask Him to stop the moon, stop the moon and make this night and your beauty last forever.”
Otto to Zielinski and his motorcycle, which is like him. The young man finds the right horses, the engine starts up and ends up loading the entire Napoli on the saddle. True ruler, divide the waters and distribute loaves and fishes on the afternoon of miracles. “There are things closed behind the walls, that if they suddenly came out screaming at the top of their lungs, they would fill the world.” Among these things is undoubtedly he, Peter, with the Keys in the hand of the temple. The one who could be the absolute master, who sometimes makes fun of himself, who when he starts with the right gears, it is immediately understood that it is one of those evenings out there. Untouchable, to keep in a case. To be valued, put at the center of the Church. Piotr is in Naples like Henry IV in Paris: “For Zielinski a change of form is worthwhile.” Or something similar.
Nine to Insigne with the ear pointed towards the brightest star. Whispers, that phrase there. It has become an icon of pop, the turning point between planet earth and the hyperarunium that welcomes you. “You can write it down anyway” Maradona hisses, Lorenzo executes. Kick and you are already pending the final. From Naples to Buenos Aires, municipalities of the same province. At the edge of the world and beyond to get a last glimpse of Diego’s Empire. When Insigne counts steps, takes aim, his vision is clear, like never before in life. It is a mission with too high a purpose, a journey that had begun a long time ago. It tastes like the street, dust, baggy shoes and shorts that fall on you. Insigne was born on June 4, 1991, with Diego in the city only the indelible trace. The mark that is printed on all new generations. He dreamed of that punishment there all his life. He has tried, tried again many times. I did not know that everything was already decided. He did not think that, at the right moment, Maradona would come to be right next to him. Whisper to him with icy confidence: “You’ll score a goal anyway.” So it was. On behalf of the father, that’s D10S.
Ten not in Maradona, but in Maradona. Pick up that shirt, throw it into space and time. A symbol, like Batman’s bat that shines in the sky. Take care of us, The Ten. Protects us from abuse. From the fear of a world that becomes Gotham, with the clowns taking the stage. They say that you’re gone, that you’re gone That you stopped breathing. So how do you explain all this? So voluminous: Diego in your hands. In the head. In the heart, Diego everywhere. Diego forever. Diego breathing. With our lungs. That sees. With our eyes. Diego who rejoices, once again. Diego smiling, taking a corner of his brain. Diego you see, he’s still in your living room. Diego who meets him, a writing on a wall. Diego that you feel it, in memory of a friend. Diego who smells it, in the still hot tears. Heat that does not evaporate, which becomes a trail of smoke. Like a light in the sky. Like a number ten that keeps you company. That shines in the night Our superhero, who doesn’t have to lie or dress up. They say that since Baggio stopped playing it is no longer Sunday. Here we would have to cancel every day of the week …
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