A dramatized account inspired by true events. Some details and names have been changed to protect identities.
Naples, 1987. San Paolo Stadium, 60,000 people. A league match. Napoli against a small team from the south. Nobody expects surprises. Napoli has Diego, and Diego is Diego.
In the visitors’ locker room, a man ties his cleats. Roberto Fuentes, 24 years old, center back. He’s not famous, not a star, but he’s good, very good. He’s been in the first division for three years. Some big clubs are watching him, saying he has a future, saying he can go far. His father always says it: “My son is going to play for the national team. You’ll see.”
Roberto looks around. His teammates are nervous. They all know what’s coming. Napoli, San Paolo, Diego Maradona.
The coach enters. Whiteboard in hand. Serious face.
“Listen carefully. Today we play against the best in the world. If we’re not careful, he’ll score five on us.” He looks at Roberto. “Roberto, you’re going to mark him.”
Silence. His colleagues look at Roberto, some with relief. “Better him than me.” Roberto nods.
“I’m going to stop him. ”
The technician smiles.
“Don’t stop him. Hold him back. Annoy him. Don’t let him think.”
Roberto nods again. He can do it. He knows he can. He’s been training for this his whole life.
In the stands, Roberto’s family: his father, his mother, his younger brother. They came from their village. A four-hour trip to see him play against Maradona. His father is proud. “My son against the best in the world. He’ll stop him today. You’ll see.” His mother is nervous. “I just hope he doesn’t get hurt.” His brother is excited: “Maybe he’ll steal the ball, maybe he’ll be in the newspapers.”
They’ll be in the newspapers, but not in the way they think.
The tunnel. The two teams wait side by side. Roberto looks ahead and sees him. Diego Maradona. Shorter than he expected, wider, curly black hair, thick legs, eyes that take in everything. Diego feels the gaze, turns around. He sees Roberto. Their eyes meet. A second. Two. Diego smiles. Just a little. As if to say, “I know what you’re thinking.” And he turns away.
Roberto feels something in his stomach. It’s not fear. It can’t be fear. He isn’t afraid.
The referee gives the signal. The teams come out. 60,000 people roar. The sound is deafening. Roberto has never heard anything like it. The stadium is enormous, the lights are blinding, the grass is perfect. “Focus, just focus.”
The whistle blows. The game begins.
First minute. Diego receives the ball. With his back to him, Roberto approaches. Diego glances over his shoulder. He smiles again. He makes a move to the right. Roberto goes to the right. Diego goes to the left. Roberto falls to the ground. The stands erupt in laughter. 60,000 people laughing. Roberto gets up quickly. His face is red. It’s just one play. It’s 90 minutes. This is just the beginning.
Minute 10. Diego receives the ball in midfield. Roberto is nearby. Ready. Diego feints to the right. Roberto doesn’t fall for it. Diego feints to the left. Roberto doesn’t fall for it. “Good, he’s learning.” Diego looks at him as if to say, “Interesting.” And he does something Roberto doesn’t see. A soft touch. The ball passes between his legs. Diego appears on the other side. A nutmeg. In front of 60,000 people, in front of his family. The stands erupt with laughter, amazement, joy. Roberto stands motionless. The ball is gone. Diego is gone. Only laughter remains.
25th minute. Diego has the ball on the left. Roberto runs, going to close him down. Diego waits, watches him come. At the last moment, he lifts the ball over Roberto. A chip. Diego goes one way, the ball drops the other. They meet. Roberto is on the ground again. He doesn’t know how he got there. The stands roar. Roberto’s teammates look at him with pity.
Minute 35. Diego has the ball in midfield. He looks for Roberto, searching for him. Roberto knows it. Diego is looking for him. Not the goal. For him. Diego advances. Roberto retreats. Diego feints. Roberto doesn’t fall for it. Diego feints again. Roberto doesn’t fall for it. Diego smiles as if to say, “Okay, now he’s serious.” A move so quick that Roberto doesn’t see it, doesn’t understand it, doesn’t process it. And Diego is already gone. He’s five meters ahead with the ball, running. Roberto is on the ground with his back to him, looking at the sky. The stands sing songs for Diego, jeers for Roberto.
In the stands, his father watches in silence. He no longer says anything. His mother covers her face. His brother stares at the floor.
45th minute. Halftime. Roberto walks to the locker room. Head down, he can’t look at anyone. His teammates pass by him. No one says anything, there’s no need. The coach comes in, talks about tactics, about adjustments. Roberto doesn’t listen, he only sees Diego’s face, the smile, the eyes. 45 more minutes. He has to endure 45 more minutes.
Second half. Minute 55. Diego receives the ball with his back to goal. Roberto is all over him. Right on him. He doesn’t give him any space. Diego turns quickly. Too quickly. Roberto stretches out his leg. He’s going to tackle. But there’s nothing there. The ball isn’t there. Diego isn’t there. Only air. Diego has already gone past him. Roberto is on the ground. The stands jeer, chanting his name: “Roberto, Roberto.” Laughing.
Minute 70. Diego has the ball in the box. Roberto goes in for it with everything he’s got. Desperate. Diego jumps. The ball goes past him. Roberto gets past him. Diego lands on his feet. The ball is at his feet. Roberto is on the ground again. He doesn’t know how many times he fell. He lost count. He wasn’t even touched. Diego jumped over him as if he didn’t exist. The stadium roars. Roberto stays on the ground. Just a moment. Looking at the sky, the stadium lights. He wants to stay there. Not get up, disappear. But he gets up, because he has to get up.
Minute 80. Roberto no longer marks Diego. He can’t, there’s nothing left. His legs won’t respond, his mind won’t work. Diego watches him from afar and does something strange. He passes the ball without doing anything, without humiliating him one more time, as if to say: “That’s it, that’s enough.”
The final whistle. Napoli 4, visitors 0. Diego didn’t score a goal, he didn’t need to. He did something worse. He destroyed a man without even realizing it.
Roberto walks toward the tunnel. Slowly, head down, legs trembling. He passes Diego. Diego is waving to the fans, smiling, signing jerseys. He doesn’t look at him, doesn’t see him. For Diego, Roberto doesn’t exist, never existed. He was just an obstacle. One of many.
Roberto enters the locker room and sits alone. His teammates shower, talk, and joke around. “Diego’s from another planet,” “Did you see what he did to Roberto?” Laughter. Roberto doesn’t move; he can’t. Everyone leaves. The locker room is empty. Roberto remains seated, staring at the floor. He slowly gets up and walks to the mirror. He looks at his red eyes, his pale face, the dried sweat. This isn’t a footballer. This is a ghost. A tear falls, then another.
—I used to be a footballer. —Pause—. Now I’m a joke.
Outside, his family awaits him. His father, his mother, his brother. He doesn’t know how he’ll look at them, he doesn’t know what he’ll say. 90 minutes. That’s how long it took Diego Maradona to destroy him. 90 minutes.
The next morning, Roberto wakes up. For a moment he doesn’t remember. Then he remembers, and his stomach clenches. He walks to the kitchen. His mother is there, reading the newspaper. When she sees him, she quickly hides it.
“Good morning, son. Do you want some coffee?”
Roberto looks at her.
“Show me the newspaper.”
“Roberto, it’s not worth it.”
“Show me.”
His mother hands him the newspaper. Roberto opens it. Sports page, the headline. Big, black: “MARADONA’S TOY.” And a photo. Roberto on the floor. Diego walking over him, smiling. Roberto stares at the photo. For a long time. He puts the newspaper down. He goes back to his room, closes the door.
The following days are worse. People recognize him on the street. “Hey, Maradona’s toy.” Laughter. At the bar, men make comments. “Poor guy, Diego did this to him…” Roberto stops going out. At training, his teammates are the same. “Roberto, do you want me to teach you how to defend?” More laughter. The coach stops playing him. Three months without playing a single minute.
Every night, the same dream. The stadium, the lights. Diego smiling, the ball passing between his legs, the laughter. He wakes up sweating. Every night.
Three months later. Locker room. Roberto alone. The coach enters.
“Roberto. Is everything alright?
” “No, nothing is alright.” Pause. “Every time I step onto the field, I see it. Every time I touch the ball, I feel it.” Pause. “I can’t play anymore. It’s over.”
Roberto takes off his boots and leaves them on the bench.
—Thanks for everything.
He leaves. He doesn’t come back. Twenty-four years old. His whole career ahead of him, over. That night his father is waiting for him in the kitchen.
“I heard you quit.
” “Yes.
” “Why?
” Roberto looks at him.
“Because every time I close my eyes, I see Diego Maradona walking all over me and I hear the laughter.” His voice breaks. “I can’t, Dad, I can’t.”
His father remains silent.
“So what are you going to do now?
” “I don’t know. Whatever.”
He gets a job in a factory. Good hours, good pay, honest work. But it’s not football. The years go by. He meets a woman, gets married, they have two children, a small house, a quiet life. But every night the same dream: the stadium, the lights, Diego, the laughter. Twenty years. Twenty years with the same dream.
2005, Buenos Aires. A television studio. Diego Maradona in an interview. The journalist asks:
“Diego, on the field you were unstoppable, you destroyed opponents. Did you ever think about the other player? The one left on the ground?
” Diego laughs.
“That’s football. If you can, you can.
” “Do you know the name Roberto Fuentes?”
Diego thinks.
“No. Who is he?”
“He was a defender. ’87. San Paolo. You humiliated him so much that he quit football. He was 24 years old.
” Silence. “
He never played again. He works in a factory. For 18 years.”
Diego swallows.
“I didn’t know.”
“You worked your magic. But someone was left behind.”
Diego says nothing, but something changed in his eyes. That night Diego can’t sleep. Roberto Fuentes. He doesn’t remember his face, he doesn’t remember the game. For him it was one of hundreds, but for Roberto it was the end. Diego calls his assistant.
“I need you to find someone.”
One week later. Roberto Fuentes, 42 years old, married, two children, ceramics factory, a town near Naples.
—Do you want me to arrange a meeting?
—No. I’ll go alone.
Italy, a small town, narrow streets, old houses. Diego walks alone: cap, glasses. No one recognizes him. He looks for the address. A small house, peeling paint, clothes hanging on the balcony. Diego stops in front of the door. His heart is pounding. What is he going to say? He doesn’t know, but he has to.
The doorbell rings. Footsteps. The door opens. A man. Gray hair, a tired face. Roberto Fuentes. Twenty years later. Diego takes off his glasses. Roberto recognizes him immediately. Those eyes, the same ones from twenty years ago.
“Roberto. It’s Diego.
” “I know who you are.”
Silence. Twenty years of silence.
“May I come in?”
Roberto looks at him. Twenty years of anger, twenty years of pain. He steps aside.
—Come in.
The house is small, humble. Photos on the wall: the children, the wife. No soccer photos. They sit facing each other. Diego speaks first.
“I heard what happened after the game. They told me you quit soccer because of me.”
Roberto looks at him.
“It’s true.”
Diego closes his eyes.
“Do you want me to tell you what happened?”
Diego nods.
“Yes. I want to hear it.”
Roberto takes a deep breath.
“After the game… I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you passing by, smiling, and the laughter.” He pauses. “The newspapers. ‘Maradona’s toy.’ People in the street, my teammates, everyone was laughing.” He pauses. “Three months without playing. The coach wouldn’t put me in. He said I wasn’t ready. But the truth was different.” He pauses. “And the nights… 20 years, Diego. 20 years with the same dream. The stadium, the lights, you, the laughter.”
Diego’s eyes are moist.
“Roberto, I didn’t know. For me, it was just another game.
” “I know.”
“I was just playing, doing what I knew how to do. I wasn’t thinking about…”
“I know, Diego.” Roberto looks at him. “And that’s why I came to tell you something.”
Diego waits.
“I blamed you for years, decades. Every night, in my dreams, I hated you.” Pause. “But at some point, I understood something.
” “What?
” “That you weren’t the one who destroyed me; I destroyed myself. “
Diego doesn’t understand.
“You were the best in the world, and I couldn’t stop you. That’s true.” Pause. “But neither could others. Hundreds of defenders, thousands. And not all of them quit football.” Pause. “I couldn’t bear the shame. I couldn’t bear the laughter. I couldn’t accept that there was someone better. Much better.” Pause. “That’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
Diego looks at him.
“You spent 20 years hating me, and now you’re telling me it was your fault?”
Roberto smiles. For the first time.
“I didn’t come here for you to apologize. I came to apologize to you. “
Diego doesn’t understand.
“You apologize to me?
” “Yes. I’m sorry for hating you for 20 years. For blaming you for something that wasn’t your fault.” Pause. “You were a genius. You did things no one else could do, and I had the bad luck to be on the other side.” Pause. “But I was also lucky enough to see the best player in history up close. In person.”
Roberto looks at him.
“Do you know how many people would have loved to be in my place? Even if it was just to lose. “
Diego has tears in his eyes.
“And you know what? I don’t regret it.”
Diego looks up.
“Because if I hadn’t given up football, I wouldn’t have met my wife, I wouldn’t have my children, I wouldn’t have this life.” Pause. “This isn’t the life I dreamed of. I’m not famous. I’m not rich.” I didn’t win any trophies. —Pause—. But I’m happy in my own way, with what I have.
Diego looks at him.
“You’re stronger than you think, Roberto.”
“No, I’m just as weak. But I’ve learned to live with it.”
They stand up, they look at each other. Diego hugs him. Roberto freezes for a moment, then hugs him back. Twenty years of hatred, of dreams, of pain, and now an embrace. They separate.
“Roberto, that night at the San Paolo you fought until the end. You didn’t give up.” Pause. “That’s more than many did.”
Roberto looks at him.
“Thank you, Diego.”
Diego walks toward the door. He stops.
“If you ever need anything…”
Roberto shakes his head.
“You already gave me what I needed.
” “What?”
“You came. You listened to me. You looked at me as an equal.” He pauses. “That’s more than I expected.”
Diego leaves. Roberto watches him go down the narrow street. He closes the door. He sits alone, breathes. For the first time in 20 years, something loosened in his chest. That night Roberto sleeps without dreams, without the stadium, without the lights, without the laughter. For the first time in 20 years, he sleeps in peace.
November 25, 2020. Roberto is at home, the television on. “Diego Armando Maradona passed away today at 60.”
Roberto sits down slowly. He watches the screen: the goals, the cup, the tears of millions. And he remembers that afternoon, the hug, the words. He cries.
His wife approaches.
“Are you okay? ”
Roberto nods.
“He came to my house once.
” “Who?
” “Diego Maradona. He came to see me.”
His wife looks at him. He never told her why.
Roberto smiles through his tears.
“Because he was a human being. Above all else, he was a human being.”
He looks at the screen.
“Rest in peace, Diego. And thank you.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For coming. For listening. For setting me free.”
Diego Maradona: the genius with his feet, the man who effortlessly destroyed rivals, the man who one day sought out someone he had hurt, not to justify himself, but to listen, to understand. Roberto lost his football career, but he gained something that afternoon. Twenty years of peace, for a hug, for a conversation, for a man who came to his door. Diego wasn’t just a genius on the pitch; he was a genius off it too. Although few knew it, Roberto knew it and never forgot it. Standing tall, always standing tall until the very end.
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