Maradona discovered that his own teammates were sabotaging his plays in training. What he did when he finally confronted them revealed why he would never fit in with anyone who didn’t understand where he came from.
Welcome to Maradona Stories.
It was August 23, 1984, a Thursday morning, around 9:00 a.m. at Napoli’s training center in Soccavo, on the outskirts of Naples, Italy. Diego Armando Maradona stood alone in the empty locker room, looking at his new blue jersey hanging on his locker. Number 10.
It had only been two weeks since his arrival from Barcelona. Two weeks since Napoli had paid a world-record 13 million lire to bring him in. Two weeks since 75,000 Neapolitans had filled the San Paolo stadium just for his presentation.
Two weeks in, and Diego could already sense that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t the club; president Corrado Ferlaino treated him like a king. It wasn’t the city; the Neapolitans adored him with a passion that made Barcelona seem cold by comparison. It wasn’t the coach; Rino Marchesi had given him complete freedom on the pitch.
The problem was his teammates, the Italians, the players who were supposed to be his brothers on the field. Diego could feel their resentment like an invisible poison hanging in the air of the locker room every morning. He started noticing it during his third training session.
Diego had made a beautiful play, a perfect dribble past three defenders in training, followed by a precise pass to Careca, which should have resulted in an easy goal. But when the ball reached Careca, the Brazilian striker was out of position, as if he hadn’t expected the pass.
Diego thought it was a coincidence, but then it happened again, and again. His perfect passes found space where no one was. His brilliant runs ended with him alone, with no passing options, as if his teammates weren’t watching. Or worse, as if they were watching perfectly well, but choosing not to react.
At first, Diego blamed himself. Perhaps he still didn’t understand the Italian system of play. Perhaps he needed more time to adapt. But after two weeks, after 14 training sessions, Diego knew the truth. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the system; it was that his teammates were deliberately not playing him.
That morning, Diego had arrived early at training, hoping to have time to speak with some of the players before the session. But when he entered the locker room, he encountered something that stopped him in his tracks.
Four of the Italian players were sitting together in the corner: Giuseppe Bruscolotti, the team captain; Salvatore Bagni, the star midfielder before Diego’s arrival; Ciro Ferrara, the young defender; and Antonio Carannante, a forward.
They were speaking in low voices in Italian, low enough that Diego couldn’t fully understand them from the doorway, but he caught a few words: “Arrogant Argentinian,” “Thinks he’s God,” “He’s no better than us,” “13 million wasted.”
Diego silently backed away toward the hallway, his heart pounding. He took a deep breath, waited a minute, and then burst into the locker room, as if he’d just arrived. The conversation stopped immediately. The four players stared at him, their faces contorting into forced smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.
“Good morning, Diego,” Bruscolotti said in his Italian with a strong Neapolitan accent. “Ready for another day of training?”
—Always ready—Diego replied in his still clumsy Italian.
He tried to smile, tried to act as if he hadn’t heard anything, but something inside him had broken. The confirmation of what he had suspected—that his own comrades resented him, that they saw him not as an ally, but as a threat—hurt more than he had expected.
That day’s training session was particularly brutal. Marchesi had organized an eleven-a-side practice match, the starting eleven against the reserves. Diego was playing with the starting eleven, which meant playing alongside Bruscolotti, Bagni, Ferrara—all the men he’d heard so much about that morning.
Diego received the ball in midfield. He saw Bagni making a perfect run down the right flank. Diego launched a perfect pass, exactly where Bagni should have been, but Bagni stopped just short, letting the ball go out of bounds. Diego looked at him, confused. Bagni shrugged.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you go by,” she said, but her eyes said otherwise.
Five minutes later, Diego dribbled past two defenders and found himself in a perfect shooting position. But at the last second, Carannante got in his way, blocking the shot. It was a play any experienced striker would know how to avoid. It was intentional, completely intentional.
And then came the moment that confirmed everything. Diego received a pass on the edge of the area, turned beautifully, leaving a defender on the ground, and shot towards the corner. The goalkeeper didn’t even move; it was a sure goal. But in the last microsecond, Bruscolotti, who was standing near the post, stretched out his foot and deflected the ball wide.
Diego stared at him in shock. Bruscolotti, the captain, had just deliberately sabotaged his goal in a training match.
“What was that?” Diego asked, his voice rising.
Bruscolotti shrugged.
“Reflection,” he said casually. “I thought I was going outside.”
It was a lie. Diego knew it was a lie. The whole team knew it was a lie, but no one said anything. The Italian players stared at the ground or elsewhere. Only Careca, the Brazilian, looked at Diego with sympathy in his eyes. He had noticed it too. He too had felt the coldness.
When training ended, Diego didn’t shower with the others. He went straight to Coach Marchesi’s office, knocked, and walked in without waiting for a reply. Marchesi looked up from his notes, surprised.
—Diego, what’s wrong?
“We have a problem,” Diego said, closing the door behind him. “The players aren’t playing with me. They’re deliberately sabotaging the plays in practice.”
Marchesi sighed deeply, as if he had been waiting for this conversation.
—Sit down, Diego. Let’s talk.
Diego sat down, his anger barely contained.
—You know what’s going on, right? You’ve seen what they’re doing.
“Yes,” Marchesi admitted, “I’ve seen it and I’ve been hoping it would resolve itself. That with time the players would accept your presence, but clearly that’s not happening.”
“Why do they hate me?” Diego asked, and he heard the vulnerability in his own voice, something he rarely allowed others to see. “What did I do to them? I only got here two weeks ago.”
Marchesi leaned back in his chair, studying Diego carefully.
“It’s not personal, Diego. Well, not in the way you think. It’s… it’s complicated. You see, before you arrived, Salvatore Bagni was our star. He was the highest-paid player, the number 10, the playmaker. The fans loved him. The press talked about him.”
He paused before continuing.
—And then you arrive and suddenly Bagni is nobody. They pay him double what he earns. They took away his number 10. The fans only chant your name now. How do you think that feels?
“Then it’s jealousy,” Diego said bitterly.
“It’s more than that,” Marchesi continued. “Bruscolotti has been captain of this team for eight years. He’s given his all for this club, and now there are rumors that the president wants to make you captain. Ferrara is Neapolitan, from Naples itself. He’s dreamed of being the star of his hometown team, and now that’s you. Carannante has been fighting for playing time for two seasons, and now with your arrival, he knows he’ll play even less.”
Diego listened, feeling his anger slowly transform into something more complicated, something closer to understanding.
“But still…” he said softly, “we’re on the same team. We’re supposed to work together. How can we win anything if they’re more focused on making me look bad than on winning games?”
“You’re absolutely right,” Marchesi admitted. “And that’s why we’re having a team meeting today. Right now. I’m going to bring all the players here and we’re going to talk about this openly.”
“I don’t know if that will help,” Diego said doubtfully. “They could just deny it, say I’m imagining things.”
“Then I’ll confront them myself,” Marchesi said firmly. “I’m the coach of this team, and I’m not going to let personal egos ruin our season before it even begins.”
Thirty minutes later, all the first-team players were seated in the training center’s meeting room. Diego sat at the front with Marchesi. The tension in the room was palpable. The Italian players looked uncomfortable, some resentful of being called to this meeting. Careca sat alone, glancing between Diego and the Italians with a worried expression.
Marchesi se puso de pie.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we have a serious problem in this team, and we’re going to solve it now, today, before it destroys our season. We paid a world record for Diego Maradona. We brought him here to take this club to heights it has never reached. But I’ve noticed, and I know Diego has noticed too, that some of you aren’t playing with him.”
Marchesi looked around the room.
“They’re deliberately sabotaging plays, letting perfect passes go nowhere, blocking shots in practice. This has to stop.”
There was an awkward silence. Then Bruscolotti spoke, his voice harsh.
—With all due respect, Mister, perhaps the problem isn’t us. Perhaps the problem is that Maradona doesn’t understand Italian football. He plays too individualistically; he doesn’t understand our system.
“That’s rubbish and you know it,” Marchesi said sharply. “Diego has played for Barcelona, he’s played for Argentina, he’s played against the best defenses in the world. He can adapt to any system. The problem is you’re not giving him the chance.”
Bagni also spoke, his voice bitter.
“Do you know how much he’s paid? 13 billion lire. That’s more than the entire annual budget of some Serie A clubs. That’s four times what I earn. And I’ve been here for five years. I’ve given everything for this club, and now I’m supposed to be happy to pass the ball, to be its servant on the field.”
Diego felt anger burning again, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“I didn’t ask you to be my servant,” he said quietly. “I asked you to be my teammate, my brother on the field. And I didn’t decide my salary. I didn’t tell the president how much to pay me. He decided I was worth 13 million lira. If you have a problem with that, talk to him, not me.”
“Easy to say when you’re the one receiving the money,” Carannante muttered.
Diego stood up abruptly.
“You want to know why I get paid so much? I’ll tell you why. It’s not because I’m a better person than you. It’s not because I work harder, although I think I do. It’s because I was born with a gift. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t choose it. I was simply born with the ability to do things with a soccer ball that others can’t.”
Diego took a deep breath.
—It’s unfair. All of life is unfair. Do you think I don’t know how unfair it is?
Diego walked to the center of the room, looking each player in the eye.
—I grew up in Villa Fiorito, the worst slum in Buenos Aires. We were so poor that some days we didn’t have any food. My father worked in a factory 14 hours a day and barely earned enough to keep our family alive. My siblings and I shared a room so small we could hardly move. We didn’t have running water half the time. We didn’t have reliable electricity. That was my life.
The players were listening now, some of them looking uncomfortable.
—And do you know what saved me from that life? Football. This stupid, unfair gift, given to me by my genes or God or whoever, gave me a way out. It allowed me to lift my family out of poverty, to give my parents a decent house, my siblings an education. And yes, now I get paid millions. And yes, it’s unfair that I get paid so much when people who work harder earn pennies.
Diego stopped, his voice cracking slightly.
—But here’s the thing: I don’t owe them an apology for being good at football. I don’t owe them an apology for being well paid. What I owe them is respect. I owe them effort, I owe them loyalty. And that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to give them since I arrived.
He continued with even more force:
—I’ve come to every training session early. I’ve stayed late practicing. I’ve tried to learn Italian so I could communicate with you. I’ve studied videos of our matches to understand how you play. And how have you repaid me? With resentment. With sabotage. With contempt.
Bruscolotti was looking at the ground now, his face red. Ferrara looked embarrassed, but Bagni still looked defiant.
“You expect us to simply accept that you’re better than us,” Bagni said, “that we’ll worship you like the fans do.”
“I don’t want to be worshipped!” Diego shouted now, his anger finally escaping. “I want to be respected. There’s a difference. Respect doesn’t mean thinking I’m perfect. Respect means recognizing that we all have value, that we all bring something to the team. You think I see you as inferior. You’re completely wrong.”
Diego pointed to Bruscolotti.
—Giuseppe, you’re the best center back I’ve seen in years. Your reading of the game is incredible. Your leadership on the field is invaluable. I need that.
Then he pointed to Ferrara.
—Ciro, you’re 20 years old and you already play like you’re 30. Your speed, your tactical intelligence… You are the future of this team.
And finally he turned towards Bagni.
—And you, Salvatore. You’re one of the most technically gifted midfielders I’ve ever played with. Your passing vision is excellent. We could be incredible together if you gave me the chance.
“So why do you need to tell us all this?” Bagni asked, but his voice had softened slightly. “Why does what we think matter?”
“Because I can’t win alone,” Diego said simply. “That’s the truth all great players eventually learn. No matter how talented you are, you can’t win championships by yourself. I’ve played on teams where I was the lone star surrounded by mediocre players. You know what we won? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Diego looked at his companions.
—Great teams, the teams that win Scudettos, Champions Leagues, World Cups, are teams where everyone works together. Where the star makes the others shine, and the others make the star shine.
Diego sat down again, suddenly exhausted.
“I came to Naples because I wanted to win. I didn’t come for the money; Barcelona paid me well. I didn’t come for the fame; I was already famous. I came because President Ferlaino painted a vision for me. He told me we could make history here, that we could take Naples, this club that has never won anything important, to the top of Italian football. But now I see he was wrong. Not because the talent isn’t here—it is—but because we can’t function as a team if half the dressing room hates me.”
There was a long silence. Then, unexpectedly, Careca spoke. The Brazilian striker stood up.
“I came here at the same time as Diego,” he said in Italian with a strong accent, “and I’ve noticed the same things he has. But do you know what else I’ve noticed? How much they love their city. How much they love this club. I’ve seen Giuseppe cry after losing important matches. I’ve seen Salvatore turn down offers from bigger clubs because he wants to stay in Naples. I’ve seen Ciro, a local lad, choose Naples over Juventus because this is his home.”
Careca looked around the room.
“That love, that passion, that’s what this team needs. But they also need the talent to win, and Diego has that talent. So here’s the question: what’s more important? Their pride, their ego, or finally winning something for this city they love so much?”
The question hung in the air. No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Bruscolotti stood up. He was the captain, and when he spoke, everyone listened.
“They’re right,” he said softly. “Diego, Careca, Mister… they’re all right. I’ve been, we’ve been stupid, selfish. We let zeal blind us.”
Bruscolotti turned to look directly at Diego.
—I grew up in Naples. I’ve spent my whole life watching our city be treated like garbage by the rest of Italy. They call us dirty, criminal, inferior. Teams from the north win Scudettos every year while we fight to avoid relegation. And I’ve dreamed since I was a little kid of being part of the team that changes that, that finally gives Naples something to be proud of.
Bruscolotti’s voice grew louder.
—And then you come along, the best player in the world. And instead of being happy, instead of thinking, “Finally, we have a chance,” I thought, “This means I’m not important anymore.” And you’re right, that’s pathetic. That’s putting my ego above the team, above the city I love.
Bruscolotti walked towards Diego and extended his hand.
—I’m sorry, Diego. I really have been an idiot. And if you give me another chance, I promise I’ll be the best teammate I can be.
Diego took Bruscolotti’s hand and shook it firmly.
“We all make mistakes,” Diego said. “Me too. I’ve been impatient. I’ve judged too quickly. Let’s start again.”
One by one, the other players stood up. Ferrara was next, then Carannante. Finally, Bagni stood up. He looked as if it physically hurt him to do this, but he walked over to Diego anyway.
“I’m not going to lie and say everything’s fine now,” Bagni said. “It still hurts that they took the number 10 from me. It still hurts that I get paid four times less than you. But you’re right, that’s not your fault. And if I really want to help this team win, I need to let it go and work with you, not against you.”
Diego nodded.
“I appreciate your honesty, Salvatore. And just so you know, I don’t want your position. I don’t want to replace you. I want to play alongside you. I want us both to shine. There’s enough glory for everyone if we win together.”
Marchesi, who had been observing in silence, finally spoke.
“Okay, this is good. But words are easy, actions are hard. Starting tomorrow, I want you to really work as a team. Diego, be more patient with your teammates while they’re still adapting to your style of play. And you guys”—he gestured to the Italians—”really try to connect with Diego. Not just on the field, but off it too. Get to know who he is, understand where he comes from. You can’t be brothers on the field if you’re strangers off it.”
The following days and weeks brought a gradual but noticeable change. Bruscolotti invited Diego to dinner at his home, where Diego met the captain’s family, ate traditional Neapolitan food, and listened to stories about the club’s history. Ferrara began staying after training to practice with Diego, working on their timing. Even Bagni, still clearly struggling with his feelings, made the effort to pass the ball to Diego in scoring positions during training.
But the real breaking point came three weeks later, during the first official game of the season against Verona.
It was Diego’s Serie A debut with Napoli. The San Paolo stadium was packed to the rafters: 85,000 Neapolitans chanting his name. The match was tough. Verona came to defend, putting ten men behind the ball. Diego tried everything: dribbling, passing, long-range shots, but nothing worked.
And then, in the 73rd minute, it happened. Diego received the ball on the left wing. Three defenders immediately surrounded him. The obvious move was to dribble, to try and get past all three. But instead, Diego saw something: Bagni making a run down the right, completely unmarked.
Diego could have attempted the dribble and possibly scored a spectacular goal that fans would remember forever. But instead, he launched a perfect 40-meter pass directly to Bagni’s feet. Bagni controlled it, advanced, and fired a low shot into the corner.
1-0 Napoli!
The stadium erupted. But what happened next was more important than the goal. Bagni ran not toward the fans, but directly toward Diego. He hugged him tightly, tears streaming down his face.
“Thank you,” he whispered in Diego’s ear. “Thank you for the pass. You could have taken the shot yourself.”
“We’re a team, Diego,” he said, hugging him back. “Your goal is my goal.”
The rest of the team surrounded them, jumping and celebrating. And in that moment, something changed; the final barrier was broken. They were no longer a group of resentful individuals; they were a team.
That season Napoli finished eighth in the league. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was a start. The following season, 1985-86, they finished third. And in 1986-87 they won their first ever Scudetto, with Diego and Bagni playing the best football of their lives, with Bruscolotti leading the defense like a general, and with Ferrara emerging as one of Italy’s best young defenders.
Years later, when journalists asked Bruscolotti about the Maradona era, he always told the story of that team meeting in August 1984.
“We almost ruined it before it even started,” he said. “Our egos, our stupidity, almost cost us the chance to make history. But Diego, instead of giving up on us, instead of asking the club to sell us, gave us a chance. He confronted us, made us face our own flaws, and that saved us.”
Bagni, in interviews in his later years, was even more emotional.
“I hated Diego for the first few weeks,” he admitted. “I hated him for being better than me, for taking my place, for being everything I wanted to be. But he taught me something crucial. He taught me that true greatness isn’t about being the star; it’s about making your team win. That pass he gave me against Verona when he could have taken the shot himself… that was the moment I understood who he really was. He wasn’t the arrogant Argentinian I had imagined. He was a winner who understood that winning requires sacrifice, it requires making others shine, it requires being a team.”
And Ferrara, who became one of Diego’s best friends during his years in Naples, always said:
—Diego could have gone to any club in the world. Juventus, Milan, Real Madrid… they all wanted him. But he chose Naples. He chose the poorest city, the weakest club, because he wanted a challenge. And when he arrived and encountered resistance from us, his own teammates, he could have said, “Forget it, this was a mistake.” But he didn’t. He fought for us. He fought to make us believe in ourselves. And that… that is true leadership.
The story of how Diego won over the Napoli dressing room became legendary in Italian football. It’s taught in coaching courses as an example of how to manage difficult team dynamics. It’s discussed on sports programs as a leadership case study.
And in Napoli’s dressing room today, now renamed in Diego’s honor, there’s a framed photo from that team meeting in August 1984. It’s not a real photo; no one took any pictures that day. It’s an artistic recreation, but underneath is the quote Bruscolotti said that day, which became the team’s motto: “We can be divided enemies or we can be united champions. The choice is yours.”
The lesson from those first difficult months in Naples still resonates: that individual talent, no matter how great, cannot prevail without teamwork. That ego, resentment, and jealousy are more dangerous enemies than any opponent on the field. And that true leadership isn’t about demanding respect; it’s about earning it, about being vulnerable, about confronting problems directly, and about being willing to make others shine even when you could shine yourself.
Diego Armando Maradona faced many challenges in his career: brutal defenders, corrupt referees, impossible pressure. But perhaps his most difficult challenge was that first month in Naples, when he had to win the hearts of men who resented him. And he did so not with arrogance, not by demanding obedience, but with honesty, vulnerability, and a willingness to share the glory.
If this story about overcoming differences and building true teamwork motivated you, tell us in the comments: Have you ever overcome conflicts with colleagues to achieve something great?
