April 22, 1995. Route 2, on the way to Mar del Plata. Maradona’s Mercedes ran out of fuel in the middle of nowhere. Diego hitchhiked. A rusty Renault 12 stopped. Inside was a family of four who could barely afford the gas. They didn’t know who he was until two hours later. What Diego did three weeks later, that family has recounted with tears for 30 years.
It was April 22, 1995, a Saturday around 4 pm on the highway 2,187 km between Buenos Aires and Mar del Plata, Argentina, and Diego Armando Maradona was standing next to his black Mercedes-Benz S500, completely dead, with not a drop of fuel in the tank, in the middle of a lonely road, surrounded by empty fields, with no gas stations in sight. No houses, nothing but grass, sky, and silence.
Diego had left Buenos Aires at 2 p.m. to go to Mar del Plata, where he was having dinner with sponsors that night. He had planned to stop for gas in Chascomús, but he had been distracted talking on his giant Motorola cell phone with his lawyer about a lawsuit the press had filed against him for statements he had made about corrupt journalists. The conversation had been so intense that he had driven right past the gas station without noticing. And now, 40 kilometers later, the engine had warped, sputtered, and stalled.
Diego had managed to move the Mercedes to the side of the road. He had tried calling roadside assistance, but it was 1995. Cell phones didn’t work well outside of Buenos Aires. There was no signal. He had tried signaling to passing cars. Three cars had completely ignored him. One had slowed down. It had seen that it was an expensive Mercedes. It had assumed that Diego had the money to solve his own problems. It had accelerated again.
Diego was alone, out of fuel, with no way to call for help, 80 km from Mar del Plata, with an important dinner in 3 hours. He stood there for 15 minutes, deciding what to do. He could walk, but there was nothing for miles around. He could wait for someone to eventually stop, but it could take hours. Or he could do something he hadn’t done in 10 years. Hitchhike, ask strangers for a ride, like when he was a poor kid in Villa Fiorito trying to get to training without money for the bus.
Diego took his leather jacket out of the car, locked the doors, walked to the side of the road, and gave a thumbs-up. The first five cars drove by without stopping. The sixth car slowed down, but accelerated when it saw Diego standing next to the Mercedes. They probably thought it was a trap, that Diego was going to rob them. The seventh car, a Ford pickup truck, stopped. But when the driver saw the Mercedes, he yelled out the window:
—If you have a Mercedes, you have money for a tow truck.
And off he went. Diego started walking, hitchhiking. Maybe if he was farther from the Mercedes, someone would stop. He walked half a kilometer. He kept sticking out his thumb. Twenty minutes later, when Diego had almost given up all hope, when he was considering simply walking the 80 km or sleeping on the side of the road, an old car appeared on the horizon.
It was a white Renault 12, an early 1980s model, rusty, with an exhaust belching black smoke and making noises that suggested the engine was about to explode at any moment. The Renault slowed down and stopped. The driver’s window rolled down, making a terrible metal-on-metal sound. The driver was a thin man in his forties, wearing a grease-stained work shirt, with calloused hands. Next to him was a woman of the same age wearing a simple dress. In the back seat were two children, a boy of about eight and a girl of six, both staring at Diego with wide, curious eyes.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked politely, with an accent from the countryside.
“To Mar del Plata,” Diego said. “My car ran out of gas. Can you give me a ride?”
The driver looked at his wife. She nodded. The driver turned to Diego.
—Get in. We’re going to Mar del Plata. There’s room there too.
Diego opened the back door. The children squeezed in to make room. Diego slipped between them. The car lurched to a violent start.
“Thank you,” Diego said sincerely. “You saved my life. What are your names?”
—Juan. Juan Fernández. This is my wife María and these are our children Martín and Sofía.
—Nice to meet you. I’m Diego.
Diego noticed that Juan hadn’t recognized him. Neither had Maria. The children looked at him curiously, but without recognition. Diego was wearing a cap, sunglasses, and casual clothes. And this family clearly didn’t watch much television. They didn’t follow soccer, they didn’t know who he was, and Diego felt an enormous sense of relief. For the first time in years, he could simply be Diego, not Maradona, just an ordinary guy who needed a ride.
Juan was driving slowly. The Renault couldn’t go faster than 80 km/h without shaking as if it were about to disintegrate. Maria turned around from the front seat.
—Sorry about the car. I know it’s not comfortable, but it’s what we have.
Diego smiled.
“It’s perfect. It reminds me of my dad’s car when I was a kid. We had a Fiat 600 that made worse noises than this one.”
“Where are you from?” Juan asked.
—Buenos Aires, southern zone, Villa Fiorito.
Juan looked in surprise in the rearview mirror.
—I’m from Quilmes, a humble neighborhood too. I worked in shipyards until they closed last year. Now I work in a mechanic’s shop in Mar del Plata. We don’t earn much, but it’s enough.
Diego felt an immediate connection. They were from the same world, a world where work was uncertain, where money was scarce, where every penny counted.
—And you, Diego —he asked—, where are you going?
“We’re going to visit my sister,” María explained. “She lives in Mar del Plata. No, we haven’t seen her in two years because we don’t have the money to travel. But this month Juan got paid extra for working Sundays, and we decided to spend the money on gas to get there. The children have never seen the ocean.”
Diego looked at the children. They had never seen the sea. Martín, the 8-year-old boy, shook his head.
—We live in the provinces, there’s no money to travel. Mom says the sea is as big as the sky, but with water.
“Is it true?” asked Sofia, the little girl, in a soft voice. “You have seen the sea.”
Diego smiled.
—Yes, many times. I’ve seen oceans all over the world, in Italy, in Spain, in the United States…
The children stared at him in amazement.
—So you’re rich.
Diego hesitated.
“I have some money now, but when I was your age I was poor like you. I couldn’t see the sea, I had nothing.”
For the next hour, as the Renault slowly made its way along Route 2, Diego spoke with this family, not as the famous Maradona, just as Diego. He told them about Villa Fiorito, about how his family of eight siblings lived in a two-room house, about how his father worked in a factory earning next to nothing. About how his mother cleaned houses. About how they went hungry some days. Juan also told his story, about how he had worked in shipyards since he was 18, about how when they closed he thought his life was over, about how he had found work in a mechanic’s shop, but earned a third of what he used to. About how María worked cleaning houses to help out. About how the children wore secondhand clothes, about how they never went to the movies, never ate in restaurants, never had luxuries, but they had love, they had family, they had dignity.
Maria turned around again.
—Diego, sorry to ask, but why were you hitchhiking? You said your car ran out of gas. What kind of car do you have?
Diego hesitated. He didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to break this bubble of normality.
“It’s a Mercedes,” he said simply.
Juan whistled.
—Mercedes, those are expensive. You must have a good job.
—I was lucky in my career.
“What are you doing?” asked Martin.
Diego thought about how to respond.
—I play football.
Martin got emotional.
—I also play soccer on a vacant lot near my house. I’m good. Dad says I might be able to play professionally someday.
Juan laughed softly.
“I’m telling you this to give you hope, but we know it’s difficult. Professional soccer is for kids from wealthy families who can afford coaches and have time to train instead of working. Kids like Martín, from families like ours, don’t get very far.”
“That’s not true,” Diego said firmly. “I came from a poorer family than yours. If Martín has talent, he can make it. It doesn’t matter where he comes from.”
Juan looked at him in the rearview mirror with a skeptical but hopeful expression.
—Did you really make it? Do you play professionally?
—I play or used to play. I’m semi-retired now, but I did play professionally.
—Which team? —Martin asked.
Diego knew that if he mentioned a big team, they would recognize him.
—I played for several teams, in Argentina and abroad.
Sofia asked:
—Are you famous?
Diego Rio.
—Some people know me.
The Renault continued on. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and pink. They reached an area where they could see Mar del Plata in the distance. Juan pointed:
—Look, children, at the sea.
Martín and Sofía pressed their faces against the windows. Martín shouted:
—It’s enormous, it’s bigger than everything!
Sofia was speechless, just staring with her mouth agape. Diego watched them and felt tears welling up in his eyes. He remembered the first time he had seen the ocean. He was 12 years old. Argentinos Juniors had taken him to Mar del Plata for a youth tournament. He had run to the beach, touched the water, and cried with joy because he had finally seen something bigger than Villa Fiorito, something that showed him the world was vast and full of possibilities.
They arrived in Mar del Plata around 6:30. Juan asked:
—Where should I drop you off, Diego?
Diego had been thinking about this. His dinner was at an exclusive hotel in an expensive part of town. If Juan dropped him off there, they’d know he was rich. They’d know he was someone important, and Diego didn’t want that to change how they saw him.
—Can you drop me off at the bus terminal? I can take a taxi from there.
-You’re sure?
—Yes, thank you very much. You saved me.
Juan dropped him off at the terminal. Diego got off and looked out the window.
—Juan, Maria, thank you again. This trip meant more than you know.
—You’re welcome, Diego— said Maria. —Have a good trip.
Diego looked at the children.
—Martín, keep playing football. Practice every day. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t because of where you come from.
Martin nodded solemnly.
-I promise.
The Renault drove away. Diego watched them until they disappeared into the traffic. Then he took out his phone. He had a signal now. He called his assistant.
—I need you to do something for me. It’s urgent.
Three weeks later, on May 15, 1995, Juan Fernández was working in a mechanic’s shop when he received a call from a Ford dealership in downtown Mar del Plata.
—Mr. Fernandez, we’re calling from the Ford dealership. You need to come pick up your car.
Juan frowned.
—I didn’t buy a car. It must be a mistake.
“It’s not a mistake. Someone bought… a brand new 1995 Ford Escort, registered in their name. It’s already paid for. They just need to come and sign and take it.”
Juan thought it was a scam, but after work he went to the dealership anyway. When he arrived, the salesman led him to the lot. There was a brand new Ford Escort, red, shiny, beautiful.
—This is your car, Mr. Fernandez.
Juan was confused.
—Who bought it?
—I can’t reveal that. But they left a letter for you.
The vendor gave him an envelope. Juan opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a handwritten letter. It read:
“Juan, María, Martín and Sofía:
On April 22nd, they gave me a ride when no one else would. Not because they knew who I was, but because they saw someone who needed help. They treated me with dignity, they made me feel human again. They reminded me of where I come from. For two hours, I was just Diego again. Not Maradona, just a guy from Villa Fiorito talking to a family from Quilmes about life, about struggle, about hope.
This car is thanks to you all, not for the trip, but for reminding me that the best people in Argentina are those who have the least. But they give the most. Take care of this car. And Martín, keep playing soccer. Maybe we’ll see each other on the field someday.
His friend, Diego Armando Maradona.
PS: Martin, I put something else for you in the trunk.”
Juan read the letter three times, then ran home. Maria was making dinner. The children were doing their homework.
—Juan, what happened? —Maria asked, looking at his face.
—We have a new car.
Maria blinked.
-That?
—And do you know who that guy was that we picked up three weeks ago? The Diego who asked us to give him a ride was Maradona. Diego Maradona.
The children shouted:
—Maradona! We’re traveling with Maradona!
They went to the dealership together, signed papers, and drove their new Ford Escort home. Then they opened the trunk. Inside was a box; they opened it. Inside was a pair of Nike professional boots, a small child’s size. And another letter:
“Martín. These are the boots I wore in training with the Argentine national team. They’re signed by the whole team. Wear them when you play and remember, it doesn’t matter where you come from, it matters how far you want to go. Diego.”
Martin cried. John cried. Mary cried. Sofia asked:
—Why are they crying if they’re happy?
For the next 20 years, Juan drove that Ford Escort. He cared for it like it was a Ferrari. He never sold it, even though there were tough times when money would have helped, because it wasn’t just a car; it was a reminder that kindness exists, that famous people can be human, that a simple act of helping a stranger can change lives. Martín wore those boots until his feet grew too big. He never became a professional soccer player, but he played in amateur leagues for years, and every time he played, he remembered Diego’s words: “It doesn’t matter where you come from; what matters is how far you want to go.”
In 2010, a journalist from Mar del Plata wrote articles about Maradona’s acts of kindness that no one knew about. He found Juan’s story and interviewed his family.
Juan, now 55, said:
“That day we picked up a guy who was hitchhiking because he seemed to need help. We didn’t know it was Maradona, and honestly, if we had known, maybe we wouldn’t have picked him up. Maybe we would have thought he didn’t need our help, but since we didn’t know, we treated him like an equal, like family. And he repaid us a hundred times over. Not just with rides, but by reminding us that we’re all equal on the road. We all need help sometimes, and helping costs nothing except time and kindness.”
Maria added:
—Diego could have waited for a tow truck. He could have called a car, but he hitchhiked. He got into our broken-down Renault, talked to us like friends, and then gave us the car. But the real gift wasn’t a car. It was during those two hours that he made us feel important, where he listened to our stories as if they mattered, where he was just Diego, not Maradona the famous. That was a real gift.
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