I didn’t hate football until I moved to England. My first big footballing memory was the 1990 World Cup. I was six, we were living in Portugal at the time, and Argentina were playing West Germany in the final. I remember the fun of feeling part of something so huge: that was the country my papa was from. And we were in the final. And we had Maradona – the best player in the world (don’t argue with me, I was six and also I don’t care).
Maradona was to punctuate my life as I grew up moving and traveling from country to country. Back then, if you told anyone you were from Argentina they would smile and say “Ah Maradona!” It didn’t seem to matter where they were from or how little English (or Spanish) they spoke. He is – was – something of a lingua franca around the world. Watching his decline was an odd, sad part of growing up.
People in England, however, don’t like Maradona so much and I have a theory about this: it’s because you all take football too bloody seriously.
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