A dramatized account inspired by true events. Some details and names have been changed to protect identities.
December 31, 1995, Buenos Aires. A man walks among the tables of a nightclub.
Four bodyguards behind him, Italian suit, eyes that don’t blink. They call him “The Hawk” and he walks straight towards Diego Maradona.
It’s 30 minutes to midnight. Palermo’s most exclusive club is packed. Politicians, businesspeople, models, actors; people who matter, people with money, dangerous people.
And at a table in the back, with a bottle of champagne worth more than a car, sits the most dangerous man in Argentina.
Nobody knows his real name. Nobody asks. Those who did ask are no longer here to tell the tale.
The Falcon controls Buenos Aires. Not on paper, not in the news, but on the streets everyone knows who’s in charge.
Drugs, weapons, prostitution, bought politicians, threatened judges, silenced journalists. If you want to open a business in certain neighborhoods, you have to ask his permission.
If you want to live peacefully, you don’t look him in the eye. If you want to keep breathing, you never say no.
The last person to tell him no was a businessman who refused to pay him. A week later, his body was found floating in the Riachuelo River.
The police closed the case in two days. Suicide, they said. Nobody believed them, but nobody said anything.
Diego Armando Maradona enters the club at 11 p.m. He doesn’t wait in line, he doesn’t need a list. He’s Diego. He’s 35 years old, he’s playing for Boca. He’s returned to the club he loves after years in Europe.
He’s not the Diego of 1986. His body is heavier, his legs don’t run the same anymore, but he’s still Diego.
He’s still the man who won the World Cup single-handedly, he’s still the god of football. And when he comes on, everyone looks at him.
Diego walks toward the VIP area. Four friends with him. No bodyguards. He never uses bodyguards. “If they want to kill me, they’ll kill me anyway,” he said. “I prefer to live free than to live in fear.”
He sits down and orders champagne. His friends laugh and celebrate. Diego is calm and happy. He doesn’t even know that in 30 minutes he’s about to experience the most dangerous night of his life.
The Hawk watches him enter from his table with those cold eyes. He observes Diego. Everyone looks at Diego with admiration; the Hawk looks at him differently. He looks at him like a hunter looks at his prey.
The Falcon collects famous people. Not autographs; photos with him by their side, smiling. Those photos are his power.
When a politician refuses to cooperate, he shows him the photo: “Look, we’re friends.” When a businessman refuses to pay, he reminds him: “I have a photo with the president.”
He has photos with governors, judges, and police chiefs. But he doesn’t have a photo with Diego Maradona. He wants one tonight.
The Hawk calls one of his men and whispers something to him. The man walks over to Diego’s table, approaches, leans in, and speaks softly.
—The gentleman at the back table would like to invite you for a drink.
Diego looks into the distance. He sees the Falcon, he sees the bodyguards, he sees the cold eyes. Diego knows those kinds of eyes.
He saw them in Villa Fiorito when he was a boy. He saw them in Naples with the Camorra. Eyes of people who think they can buy anything.
Diego smiles.
—Tell him thank you, but I’m fine here.
The messenger remains still.
—Sir, I don’t think you understood. The gentleman wants…
—I understand. Perfect. Tell him no.
The messenger returns. He whispers the answer to the Hawk. The Hawk doesn’t move. His face doesn’t change, but his eyes darken. The Hawk doesn’t receive many “no’s” in his life, and the few he does receive, he makes others pay for.
It’s 10 minutes to midnight. The Hawk gets up. His four bodyguards get up with him. Automatically, without a word, he starts walking towards Diego’s table.
The conversations die down table by table. The silence spreads like a wave. The music continues, but no one speaks.
Everyone watches the Hawk walking between the tables. Slow, calm, as if he had all the time in the world.
Diego’s friends see it coming. One of them turns pale.
—Diego, that’s The Hawk.
Diego doesn’t turn around.
—I know who it is.
—It’s dangerous. Very dangerous.
—I know what it is.
—What are you going to do, Diego?
Take a sip of champagne.
—That’s what I think.
The Hawk arrives at the table. He stands in front of Diego, the four bodyguards behind him. He smiles. A cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
—Diego Maradona. The greatest.
Diego looks at him. He doesn’t get up, he doesn’t offer him his hand.
-I know you.
—Everyone knows me.
-I don’t.
Silence. The entire club seems frozen. The Hawk bows his head.
—They call me The Hawk. I have some businesses in the city.
—That’s good for you.
The Falcon takes one step closer.
—I want to ask you for something simple. A photo. You and me toasting to the new year.
A photo. It sounds innocent, but Diego knows what it means. A photo with El Halcón is a pact. It’s putting yourself under his control.
That photo is going to be everywhere. “Look, Diego Maradona is my friend.” Diego is going to be his trophy, his possession.
One of Diego’s friends touches his arm.
—Diego, it’s just a photo.
Diego doesn’t look at him, he keeps looking at the Hawk.
—I don’t take pictures with anyone.
The Falcon blinks.
—What did you say?
—I said no.
The club is completely silent. The Falcon takes another step forward.
—I don’t think you understand, Diego. I’m not asking you.
The bodyguards shift, their hands close to their belts. The Hawk leans toward Diego, speaking softly.
—Do you know what happened to the last person who told me no?
Diego doesn’t move.
—It appeared in the Riachuelo. In pieces.
Silence.
—Is that what you want? For your mother to receive pieces instead of a son?
Everyone is waiting. Everyone knows Diego is going to give in. He has to give in. Nobody says no to the Hawk. Diego gets up slowly, without fear.
Now they’re face to face. The Falcon is taller, but Diego seems bigger. He looks him straight in the eyes.
—No.
One word. Two letters. The most dangerous sound in the presence of the Falcon. Three seconds of silence. Three seconds that feel like three hours.
—Do you know who I am?
—I know exactly who you are. That’s why I’m telling you no.
The hawk smiles. The smile of a shark.
—In this city I decide who lives and who dies —pause—. And you tell me no to a photo.
One of the bodyguards opens the bag. The metal of a pistol gleams in the lights. Diego’s friends close their eyes.
Diego looks at the gun, then at the Falcon, and laughs. It’s not a nervous laugh, it’s a real laugh.
—What are you laughing at?
—I’m laughing because you’re showing me a gun as if it’s the first time I’ve ever seen one.
Diego takes a step forward. Now he’s the one making progress.
—You know where I come from.
The Falcon does not answer.
“I was born in Villa Fiorito. Do you know what Villa Fiorito is?” Silence. “It’s a place where guys like you don’t dare to go. Where 10-year-old kids have already seen more dead people than you have in your entire life.”
Diego is getting closer.
“I saw guns before I saw a ball. I saw blood before I saw milk”—his eyes gleam—”And you think you’re going to scare me with an expensive little suit and four gorillas.”
The Hawk stares at Diego. He’s used to fear, to people trembling, pleading, crying. But Diego doesn’t tremble. Diego doesn’t beg. Diego looks at him as if he were a mosquito.
—I said no to presidents, to FIFA, to Julio Grondona, to the Italian mafia —pause—. Do you know what they have in common?
The Falcon does not respond.
—They’re still waiting for me to say yes.
Diego gets so close that their noses almost touch.
—I don’t kneel before anyone. Not before kings, nor before guys who think they own Buenos Aires—his voice low, almost a whisper—.
I am Diego Armando Maradona. I was born in the mud, I ate garbage, and I became the best in the world —pause—. What did you do?
Killing people who couldn’t defend themselves?
Diego spits out the words.
—That doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you a coward.
The bodyguard draws his pistol. The entire club awaits the shot, but El Halcón raises his hand. A small gesture. The gun lowers.
The Hawk keeps staring at Diego, searching for fear, searching for the crack. He doesn’t find it. Fifteen seconds of silence, eyes locked. And then, the Hawk does something he hasn’t done in thirty years.
Step back. One step, just one step. But in that world, one step is everything. Finally, the Falcon smiles. A real smile.
—Do you have any balls, Diego?
Diego says nothing.
—In 30 years nobody has told me no. You’re the first.
The Hawk takes a card out of his pocket. Black, gold lettering, just a number. He places it on the table.
—If you ever need anything, call me.
Diego looks at the card. He doesn’t touch it.
—I won’t need anything.
The Falcon laughs.
—I know. That’s why I’m giving it to you.
The hawk turns around. After three steps, it stops.
—Diego… happy new year.
And he keeps walking. Diego’s friends watch him.
—Diego, what was that?
Diego grabs his glass.
—A guy who wanted a photo.
—He almost killed us all, but he didn’t. How did you know he wouldn’t?
Diego looks at his friend.
—I didn’t know.
The lights are flashing. It’s 30 seconds to midnight. The club is coming back to life.
Ten. Diego looks toward the Falcon’s table. The Falcon is looking at him.
Seven. From afar, The Falcon raises its cup.
Four. Diego raises his. It’s not friendship, it’s one man recognizing another.
One. Happy New Year!
The club erupts. Hugs. Champagne. Fireworks. 1996 begins. Diego hugs his friends and smiles because he’s still alive. Because he didn’t kneel. Because he’s still Diego.
That night the story spread like wildfire. “Did you hear about Diego and El Halcón? They say he told him no to his face. They say El Halcón backed down.”
—Impossible.
—With Diego, yes.
Diego never spoke about that night. But once, many years later, he was asked: “Have you ever said no to someone really dangerous?”
Diego smiled.
—I said no to many powerful people. I never regretted it.
-Because?
—Because the day you say yes to someone you don’t respect, you stop being yourself—pause—. And I’d rather die being Diego than live being someone else’s pet.
The Falcon continued to control Buenos Aires, but they say he never went back to look for Diego.
They say that in his office, among the photos with politicians and judges, there was an empty space. The photo he never got.
November 25, 2020. Diego died. The world mourned, and somewhere in Buenos Aires, an old mobster learned the news.
They say that that night El Halcón raised a glass alone, in silence, to the only man who told him no and lived.
December 31, 1995. A New Year’s Eve, a mobster who wanted a photo and a footballer who would rather die than kneel.
That night Diego didn’t score a goal, he didn’t win a championship, but he did something bigger.
He proved that there are things that cannot be bought, that there are men who do not bend, that there is dignity that is priceless.
Diego Maradona was born poor. He was born in the mud, in hunger, in nothingness. But he was born with something that no one could take away from him: pride.
And that night, that pride was worth more than all the bullets in the world.
Because Diego wasn’t just a footballer. Diego was a way of life. Standing tall, always standing tall, until the very end.
If this story made you feel something, and you were in Diego’s shoes, would you have said yes or no? Let us know in the comments.
