Buenos Aires, 1997, winter, Courts of Justice. A gray building in the city center. Stone columns, marble staircases, endless corridors that smell of old files and power.
The place where the state decides who is right and who is wrong, where men in suits sign papers that destroy lives, where the law is the law. Or so they say.
That morning there are more people than usual at the entrance. Journalists, television cameras, curious photographers approaching to look. All waiting for the same thing, all waiting for someone.
A black car pulls up in front of the building. The door opens. Diego Armando Maradona gets out. He’s wearing a dark suit, a gray tie, and polished shoes. He doesn’t look like the Diego of the pitch. He looks like a businessman, a politician.
But his eyes betray him. Those eyes that saw Villa Fiorito, that saw Napoli, that saw glory and hell. Those eyes that never learned to look down.
The journalists swarm.
—Diego, Diego, what are you going to say?
—Diego, are you afraid of going to jail?
—Diego, what are you going to say to the judge?
Diego doesn’t answer. He walks through the crowd without stopping. His lawyers surround him. They protect him from the chaos. He goes up the stairs and enters the building.
The case is minor. A journalist accused him of threats and slander. He said Diego insulted him after a match, that he threatened to kill him. Nothing serious, nothing headline-worthy, but it’s Diego. And when Diego steps into a courtroom, the whole country holds its breath.
His lawyer speaks to him in a low voice as they walk down the hallway.
—Diego, listen to me carefully. This judge is special.
“Special?” Diego asks.
-What’s it called?
—Eduardo Márquez. They call him “The Doctor”.
Diego keeps walking.
—He comes from a family of judges. His grandfather was a judge. His father was a judge. He’s a judge. Three generations in the judiciary, and he thinks he’s above everyone. He treats people like they’re garbage.
Diego nods.
—And there’s something else: he doesn’t like football. He says it’s a sport for ignorant people, for people without education.
Diego stops, looks at his lawyer and smiles.
—Then we’re going to get along very well.
Dark wooden door. Number 14. Judge Eduardo Márquez’s courtroom. Diego takes a deep breath, opens the door, and enters. The room is smaller than he imagined.
Hardwood benches, cream-colored walls, harsh white fluorescent light. There’s no grandeur, no drama, just a cold room, a desk at the front, and a man sitting behind it.
Dr. Márquez, 53 years old, gray hair slicked back with gel. Round glasses with gold frames, impeccable dark blue suit. Silk tie, stony face, raised chin, eyes that look down on him.
She doesn’t look up when Diego comes in. She continues reading some papers, jotting things down as if Diego were just anyone, as if Diego didn’t exist.
Diego walks to the defendant’s bench and sits down. His lawyer is beside him. Opposite him is the lawyer for the journalist who accused him, a thin man with a smug expression. And up on the dais, the doctor reads, oblivious.
Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, then two minutes. The doctor keeps reading. The silence stretches like a wire about to snap. Diego knows this game. He’s played it a thousand times in his life, on the field, in the locker room, in meetings with club officials. It’s the power game.
The one who makes you wait is in control. The one who waits is subordinate. That’s how it works. His lawyer puts a hand on his arm, whispers in his ear.
—Relax, Diego. Don’t give him excuses. He wants to provoke you.
Diego doesn’t answer; he remains still, waiting. Finally, after almost three minutes, the doctor looks up. He looks at Diego.
There’s no admiration in those eyes. No curiosity. Nothing Diego is used to seeing. Only one thing: contempt. Cold, calculated, professional. The contempt of someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
—Full name.
The voice is dry, monotonous, as if she were reading a shopping list.
—Diego Armando Maradona.
-Profession.
-Footballer.
The doctor pauses, takes off his glasses, cleans them with a handkerchief, puts them back on, and smiles. A small, almost imperceptible, icy smile.
“Footballer?” he repeats the word as if it were a joke, as if it were something shameful. “Is that all? Just a footballer?”
Diego feels a burning sensation in his chest, something he knows all too well. Anger, pure anger, but he keeps it under control.
—Yes, footballer.
The doctor nods slowly and writes something down on a piece of paper. Without looking at Diego, he asks:
—Level of education.
—I didn’t finish school.
-Because?
—Because at 15 I was already playing in the first division and my family needed me to work.
The doctor raises an eyebrow.
—Work… Is playing football work?
Diego clenches his fists under the table. His lawyer touches his leg.
-Quiet.
—Yes, it’s work —Diego replies.
—Interesting definition—the doctor puts down his pen, leans back in his chair, and looks at Diego the way a scientist looks at an insect—. So, if I understand correctly, his only occupation in life has been kicking a ball.
Silence.
—He never studied anything. He never prepared for anything more. He never thought about having a real job.
Diego’s lawyer gets up.
—Your Honor, this is completely inappropriate. My client is here for a specific reason. These questions are irrelevant.
The doctor looks at him coldly.
—Please sit down, doctor.
—But Your Honor…
—Sit down! I decide what’s relevant in my room.
The lawyer looks at Diego. Diego nods. “Sit down. Leave him alone.” The lawyer sits down. The doctor turns his attention back to Diego. The smile is still there, small, venomous.
—Mr. Maradona, do you know why you are here?
—Because a journalist lies.
—You’re here because you allegedly threatened a citizen. A member of the press.
—A liar.
—That’s up to me to decide.
—No, you…
Break.
“You don’t decide anything in this room. Do you understand?” Diego doesn’t answer. “There’s no court here, no ball, no millions of people shouting your name.”
The doctor leans forward.
—Here there is a law, and the law is the same for everyone. For the president, for the worker, and for you.
Diego listens in silence.
—Here, his fame is worthless, his goals are worthless. His “Hand of God” is worthless.
Murmurs in the room.
—Here you are just another citizen, just another man. Nothing special.
Diego remains silent, but something has changed in his eyes. They have darkened like storm clouds. The doctor doesn’t notice. Or perhaps he doesn’t care. He continues talking.
—I’m going to ask you a question, Mr. Maradona. And I want you to think carefully before you answer. Diego, wait.
—What do you think you contributed to this country?
Absolute silence.
—Excuse me, it’s a simple question. You’re famous. You’re rich. You’re recognized worldwide.
Break.
—But what did he do for Argentina? What did he leave behind? Hospitals? Schools? Foundations?
Diego doesn’t answer.
—Or did he only leave behind scandals, drugs, newspaper headlines…
Diego’s lawyer suddenly gets up.
—Your Honor, this is unacceptable! You are humiliating my client. This has absolutely nothing to do with the case.
The doctor looks at him with annoyance.
—Sit down or I’ll have you removed from the room.
The lawyer looks at Diego. Diego’s eyes are fixed on the judge. He doesn’t blink. The lawyer sits down slowly. The doctor looks back at Diego and has no answer. The great Diego Armando Maradona, the god of football, has nothing to say.
Silence.
—Football, the great Argentine passion— the judge says sarcastically. Eleven guys running after a ball and millions of ignorant people watching as if it were important.
Look at Diego.
—And you are the king of all that, the king of the ignorant.
Something breaks. Diego stands up. The doctor frowns.
—What are you doing? I didn’t give you permission to get up.
—I don’t need your permission.
Diego’s voice is low and calm, but there’s something underneath, something the doctor has never heard in his life.
—Sit down, Mr. Maradona. That’s an order.
Diego doesn’t sit down.
—I order you to sit down.
Diego takes a step forward.
—You asked me many questions, doctor.
Another step.
—Now it’s my turn.
The doctor stiffens.
—This is a court. You don’t ask questions. You answer them.
Diego continues to move forward.
—You asked me what I contributed to this country.
He stops three meters from the stage.
—Do you really want to know?
The doctor doesn’t answer.
—Then listen, because I’m going to tell you.
Diego looks the judge in the eye and begins to speak.
—1986. Do you remember 1986, doctor?
He does not expect a response.
—Sure they do. Everyone remembers. But maybe you remember it differently. Maybe you were in your office, at your faculty, in your world of papers and files.
Diego takes another step.
—I’m going to tell you how we, the ignorant ones, those who run after a ball, experienced it.
She lowers her voice, but in the silence of the room everyone hears.
—Four years earlier, in 1982, this country went to war.
Pause. “Malvinas”. The word hangs in the air.
—They sent 18-year-old kids to fight against one of the most powerful navies in the world. Kids who didn’t even know where the islands were. Kids with no training, no equipment, nothing.
Diego pauses.
—649 did not return.
Let the number breathe.
—649 mothers received a telegram. 649 families buried their children. 649 kids who died of cold, hunger, fear, alone on an island they had never seen.
Look at the judge.
“Do you know what that did to this country, doctor? Do you know what it’s like to lose a war? Do you know what it feels like to be humiliated like that?”
Silence.
—No, you don’t know. You were in your own world reading your books, signing your papers.
Diego walks to the left. All eyes follow him.
—1986. Mexico. World Cup.
It stops.
—Quarter-finals. Do you know who we’re up against?
He does not expect a response.
-England.
The word lands like a bomb.
—England. The same ones who sank the Belgrano with 323 kids on board. The same ones who killed our soldiers. The same ones who humiliated us in front of the world.
Diego turns around. He looks at the judge.
—Do you know what this country felt before that match? Do you know what we Argentinians felt? Anger, pain, helplessness. Four years of swallowing the humiliation.
Diego walks towards the center of the room.
—And then the game arrived. Azteca Stadium. 115,000 people in the stands. The whole world watching.
Her voice changes, becoming lower and more intense.
—I was there on that field wearing the Argentine jersey with the number 10 on my back. And I knew it wasn’t just a football match, it was something more. It was revenge, it was justice. It was closing a wound that had been bleeding for four years.
See a doctor.
—First goal. Minute 51. The “Hand of God”.
She barely smiles.
—Yes, I used it. You threw it in my face a little while ago. The hand of God. You know what, doctor? I don’t regret it for a second.
A step is coming.
—That hand was the hand of the 649 mothers who never saw their children again. It was the hand of a country that needed to win, even just once. It was the hand of all those who wept in silence for four years.
Diego pauses.
—Second goal. Four minutes later.
Close your eyes for a moment.
—I grabbed the ball in my own half, lifted my head and took off.
Open your eyes.
—60 meters, 11 seconds. Six Englishmen in the way, all on the ground and the ball at the bottom of the net.
Look at the judge.
—Do you know what happened in Argentina at that moment, doctor? Do you know what 30 million Argentinians did when that ball went in?
Silence.
They cried, they shouted, they hugged strangers. They went out into the street as if it were New Year’s Day. Because for them, the war was over.
Diego approaches the stage.
—That day, doctor, that day I gave this country something that you will never be able to give it.
—What? —the doctor’s voice comes out weak, almost a whisper.
-Dignity.
The silence is total. Nobody breathes.
—You ask me what I contributed to Argentina. I contributed the happiest day many Argentinians remember. I gave them a reason to believe. I gave them the goal that healed a war wound.
Diego is getting closer.
—And you, doctor, what did you contribute?
The doctor doesn’t answer.
—How many sentences did you sign in your life? How many people did you send to prison? How many lives did you ruin from that desk?
Diego bows his head.
—Has anyone ever cried tears of joy because of something you did?
Silence.
—Has anyone ever gone out into the street to celebrate one of your decisions?
Silence.
—Has an entire country ever embraced each other because of something you achieved?
The doctor lowers his gaze for the first time in the audience. For the first time in a long time. Diego doesn’t finish.
—I was born in Villa Fiorito. Doctor, do you know what Villa Fiorito is?
The doctor doesn’t answer.
—Mud, hunger, corrugated iron sheets. Not knowing if you’ll eat tomorrow, seeing your dad work 16 hours and it’s not enough for anything, six people sleeping in one room.
Diego points to his chest.
—That’s where I come from, from nowhere, from a place where people like you don’t dare to go.
He approaches the bench so closely that he can almost touch the judge’s desk.
—And I made it this far, to the top of the world. Without a family of judges, without an illustrious surname, without connections. With nothing more than this.
Point to your legs.
—With these feet you despise, with this body you look at as if it were garbage. I rose from the mud to the top.
Break.
—And you, doctor…
The doctor cannot answer.
—You were born with everything handed to you, your path laid out for you. Son of a judge, grandson of a judge. The robe was waiting for you in the closet since you were born.
Diego shakes his head.
—You never fought for anything in your life. You never won anything. You never knew what it’s like to be told you can’t and prove it anyway.
Take a step back.
—So don’t come telling me I’m ignorant. Don’t come telling me I just kick a ball. Don’t come asking me what I contributed.
Her voice rises.
—I gave this country the best moments in its history. What did you give it?
Absolute silence. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Dr. Eduardo Márquez looks at Diego Armando Maradona for the first time in his life. He has nothing to say, no law to cite, no code to apply, no answer to give.
Diego looks at him for a moment longer, then turns around, walks to his seat and sits down calmly, as if nothing had happened.
His lawyer stares at him, wide-eyed. The journalist’s lawyer’s mouth hangs open. The people in the courtroom are stunned. And Dr. Márquez sits motionless on his dais, looking at Diego with an expression no one had ever seen on his face in his 30-year career: defeat.
30 seconds pass. One minute. Finally, the doctor speaks.
—The hearing is suspended.
His voice comes out hoarse and broken.
—We’ll continue tomorrow at 10.
There was no tomorrow. The next day, the doctor closed the case. “Lack of merit,” the file stated. The journalist appealed, but lost. The case died there.
But that’s not what people remember. The story of what happened in that room spread like wildfire. First in whispers, then in the newspapers, then everywhere.
—Did you hear about Diego and the judge? They say he left him speechless. They say the judge didn’t know what to say. They say Diego asked him what he had contributed.
Truth became intertwined with legend. Each time someone told the story, it grew a little more. Some said Diego slammed his fist on the desk, others said the judge wept, others said the people in the courtroom applauded. But one thing was clear: Diego Maradona had defied power, and power had bowed its head.
And Dr. Márquez… no one knows exactly what happened to him. Some say he continued as a judge until he retired. Others say he took early retirement. But there is a story, a story told by someone who worked in the courts.
He says that after that day the doctor changed. He wasn’t the same anymore. He no longer spoke contemptuously about ordinary people. He no longer made fun of football.
They say that one day, months later, they saw him in his office, alone, watching a small television. A Boca Juniors match was on. The doctor watched in silence, and they say that when Diego got the ball and started dribbling, the doctor smiled. A small, almost sad smile, like someone who understands something too late.
November 25, 2000. Diego died. The world mourned. Argentina came to a standstill.
And somewhere in Buenos Aires, an 80-year-old man heard the news. Dr. Eduardo Márquez, retired, alone. They say that that night he took a newspaper clipping from an old, yellowed, wrinkled drawer.
The photo of Diego in court. He stared at it for a long time and they say he whispered something under his breath, to no one in particular.
—You were right, Diego. You were right.
Diego Maradona was judged many times in his life by courts, by journalists, by public opinion, by the entire world. Everyone wanted to condemn him. No one could, because Diego didn’t answer to judges. Diego answered to the people. And the people had already given their verdict long ago: Innocent. Innocent forever.
Diego Maradona, the kid from Villa Fiorito, the one who humiliated England, the one who confronted the mafia, the one who beat the casino owner, the one who left a judge speechless, the one who never knelt before anyone.
Because Diego wasn’t born to obey. He was born to rebel against poverty, against power, against everyone who said it couldn’t be done. And every time someone told him he couldn’t, Diego proved them wrong. With his feet, with his mouth, with his heart.
Diego was not just a footballer, he was a way of life, standing tall, always standing tall, looking power in the eye until the very end.
If this story resonated with you, we want to know what you would have said to the judge. Let us know in the comments.
