ARGENTINA 2, BULGARIA 0
—Mexico City, Tuesday, June 10
It was in Mexico that I started making trouble for FIFA. We had played against South Korea and they had hacked us to a pulp. So I complained about the violence. Then we played against Italy and the referee was awful, which was why I made a scene with the heavy hitters in soccer in Europe and Brazil. Then came the game against Bulgaria, at Olímpico stadium again, just like our first game. They made us play at midday—at midday, at that altitude and with all that smog! Those bastards! I mean, something really bad could have happened, no joke.
I remember that we got to talking in the training camp. That was where the uprising began, where we began to realize that we had amazing power. If we said “we won’t play anymore,” everything would have come to an end. I mean everything. That was what “El Ciego” Signorini said when he came by the room to talk to Pedrito Pasculli, Valdano, and me.
Valdano wasn’t one to say what he really thought. And, truth be told, I wanted to be like him. But my legs were my weapons and my bullet the ball. If we called it quits, it wouldn’t do much good because people wanted to see us play. What was the best approach? We had to play but we also had to speak out, never shut up. So I confronted João Havelange for the first time. About the violence, about the referees, and about the schedule.
“Players are here to play—that’s it. We’re the ones who make the rules, the ones to do the talking,” he said, asshole that he was.
He should never have said that!
“Listen, don Havelange, we players are nobody’s slaves, especially not yours,” I replied. “The least you can do is listen to what we have to say. If we’re wrong, we’ll keep quiet, end of story.”
Like hell I was going to keep quiet, of course, but that was how I had to play it. To make things perfectly clear, I also said that he couldn’t be a dictator—it took guts to call that guy a dictator back then. He was in charge of everything and the most powerful guy at FIFA. If he wanted to take you down, you went down. He was badder than the baddest defenders we would come up against.
If they changed the time of a game so that people in China could watch it on TV, that was fine with us, because we also wanted them to see us. But they could have moved it back a few hours or something so we didn’t have to play at twelve noon. I mean, playing at noon with the altitude and the smog was downright criminal. We were beat by the end. During the last twenty minutes of play, some of the guys were reduced to walking; it was scary to see the vacant stares in their eyes. And the FIFA officials were sitting in their boxes, air-conditioning blasting, drinking champagne and eating caviar. Until I, a poor kid from Villa Fiorito, came up to them to say, “That’s fine, eat your expensive caviar and drink the best bubbly, but we want to put on a good show for the people without killing ourselves trying.”
And putting on a good show under the noonday sun in the heat was no mean feat.
Back then, even Julio Grondona admitted that I was right. At least he didn’t tell me to shut up. But, come to think of it, he might have been playing it both ways, telling me I was right when we were alone together and telling the FIFA officials that they were right when he was with them. That wouldn’t surprise me. Besides, he knew, because I had told him, that we would do our best on the field regardless. We would play to win, because if we won, they would listen to us. If we didn’t, they might think we were crybabies. And one thing I have never been is a crybaby. We were rebels, but we knew that we also had to be professional and responsible.
One thing that did make me cry, though, was getting up early in the morning. And to play at noon meant getting up at seven in the morning—no way around it. At seven fifteen, Trobbiani and Valdano, who were early risers, would be at the door to the room. I loved shaving outside—something I picked up from my dad on the days he would go fishing. At the training camp, there was no choice because not every room had a bathroom. So that was the first ritual on game days. Then a shower and breakfast. More like lunch than breakfast, since we had to be able to play four hours later. I would often ask Carmando to make me some pasta, real Italian-style, and I would down it at that hour—which is why I say to hell with special diets! There was something—how should I put it?—amateur about the whole thing. It was like we were the Cebollitas, but adult size. We were having fun even though we complained about everything.
Same thing with the uniforms. If you see the team photo today, the official lineup before starting the cup, you wouldn’t believe it. Bilardo and some of the coaching staff were wearing different brands from us. That Argentine team—the one that is engraved in the memory of all Argentines—got as far as it did with almost no clothes! That’s how it was for us.
By that time, we were so tight as a group that nothing could pull us apart—nothing from within our ranks or outside them. Once I got over my early morning bad mood, the bus trip to the stadium was sheer happiness. They used to say—and still do—that Islas was resentful and would complain, just like the other guys who didn’t see any play—guys like Almirón and Zelada. But, in fact, they were the most enthusiastic, the guys who cheered the loudest. We had put together a really solid group.
That Tuesday, June 10, after shaving outside, showering, and having Carmando’s pasta for breakfast, Pasculli and I embraced, as always, before the bus took off for the stadium. As I said, it wasn’t far away, which was great. And the ride there was part of the celebration. We were feeling pretty self-confident by this point, and we all looked at each other with respect. The game against Italy had gone well, and Bilardo didn’t change the lineup: Nery as goalie; Cuciuffo and Garré as fullbacks; Brown and Ruggeri as center backs; “El Gringo” Giusti, “Checho” Batista, and Burruchaga at midfield; me, covering the whole field; and Borghi and Valdano playing forward.
The Bulgarians looked scared of us, especially in the players’ tunnel, on the way out to the field, when “El Tata” Brown and I started fooling around and a bunch of the others joined in. What did I do? I jumped on his back and started shouting like a gorilla; then I climbed off and started beating my chest. Next thing we knew, we were all screaming like madmen. “Let’s go get ’em!!! Let’s go to it!!!” The Bulgarians looked terrified.
It started out as a joke, but we ended up taking it seriously. I recently found out that the guys from Argentina’s Olympic basketball team, Generación Dorada—who are amazing—used to do something similar.
When the referee—Berny Ulloa from Costa Rica—gave the word for us to come out, I remember I said to Brown, “It’s all good, Tata. We’re going to win this thing.”
“Don’t get cocky, Diego. You always tell us not to let our guard down.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m not saying it because of us. I’m saying it because of them. Take a look at these guys.”
The truth is, we didn’t know much about the Bulgarian team. We knew Georgi Yordanov—we had him pegged—but nobody else, really.
As predicted, we took control of the game against Bulgaria quickly, with a goal by Valdano right away. But if you watch the game again, as I did, you’ll see that we were still running after the ball like a bunch of savages. I don’t want to say anything against Bilardo, because everyone’s going to say, “There goes Maradona, thinking he won the cup on his own.” But that’s not true. We all won the world championship together, as a team. I was the cherry on top, and nobody can take that away from me. But that’s a long cry from saying we were a well-oiled machine thanks to Bilardo’s training sessions during the week. Come on! He wouldn’t even let us train!
Anyway, we were beating the poor, frightened Bulgarians, one to nothing, three minutes in. In those few minutes, Cuciuffo rushed one of their fullbacks and stole the ball from him. He looked up and kicked center Garrincha-style, and Valdano headed the ball in. It was incredible. I see it now and it’s like a frozen frame, like a photo. He jumped as high as the crossbar, like Michael Jordan or something.
And Cuciuffo turned out to be a monster player, another of the cup’s surprises. He hadn’t expected to play much, but he ended up marking like Beckenbauer and kicking to center like Zico.
That game against Bulgaria was not so spectacular, actually. It allowed us to qualify for the next round—that’s it. But we didn’t play any better than we had against Italy. It was partly the Bulgarians’ fault, since they were satisfied with losing by a little. It was partly the fault of the weather, which was hot and humid. The best part was that play by Cuciuffo and another thing, the defensive line, the center backs. Brown and Ruggeri nailed it. Also, I found an ally in Valdano. Jorge was able to make contact, not only with the ball, but also with me. And he headed in that amazing shot.
The guy who didn’t shine in the cup was “El Bichi” Borghi. He only played in the first period; then Bilardo took him out. And he didn’t put him back in. Too bad, because Borghi was extremely talented. Maybe that cup came before his prime. Bilardo also took out “Checho” Batista. I mean, he was always taking him out, and Checho didn’t like that one bit. I didn’t either, though I began to understand that it was important to make a place for “El Vasco” Olarticoechea, who would come in for Batista, and Enrique, who would come in for Borghi. But I don’t know—or, actually, I do—if the changes were about the players per se. But we would find our way later on.
The thing was to qualify and come out on top in our group. I didn’t like tight games. Luckily, half an hour into the second period, when we were all taking a nap, I took off from the left—which I used to love to do—almost like an outside forward or a left winger, as they’re called these days. We had recovered the ball at midfield and Valdano back-heeled it to Garré, and he booted it. I bolted to the ball, kicked it past number 6 on one side, and then caught up with it on the other side, heading deep, but not before looking up to see who was coming. I passed center. Burruchaga was the guy who made it there first, to head it in, just as Valdano had done. And that was another good sign, because Burru hadn’t had many chances at a goal. When he played for Independiente, he was upfield like a forward, but he was having trouble letting it rip for the national team. But he was worth waiting for. In my view, nobody else on the team played like him, with that combination of skills. He just had to start playing, really playing, in the World Cup—and that, if you ask me, was when the cup started.
We had come out on top in our group, but it was in the quarterfinals that it got real heavy. Unlike four years earlier, in Spain in ’82, when we came up against Brazil and Italy in the quarterfinals, this time it was do or die.
This is why I called another meeting, another serious meeting. And I got right to the point:
“Fellows, things go our way when we play the way we want to—isn’t that right? So if Bilardo tells us to lay back and stick to defense, we’re going to head upfield and attack. If not, who the hell are we, Burkina Faso? We’re going to play to win, man. Because now it’s do or die. If we don’t win now, everything we’ve done so far isn’t worth shit.”
Even Passarella agreed with me, not to mention Bochini. “El Tata” Brown defended Bilardo—and looking back I can see why, and I am sure he now understands my point of view too. I had Brown’s back as much as Bilardo did. It was because of the faith I had in him, in “El Cabezón” Ruggeri, in “Cuchu” Cuciuffo, that I knew we could go for it and take a few more risks out there.
I was all in, on the field and off it.
Getting back to the FIFA issue, and looking back at everything that has happened over the course of these thirty years, I think what’s been missing is player unity, players rallying together the way we did in Mexico. They have tried to buy me off a number of times over the years. Even at the cerebration of the hundredth anniversary of AFA, where they gave me a medal—I thanked them and made nice because it had to do with the history of soccer, not politics!—they tried to buy me off. It was ’93 and the national team was playing against Denmark in Mar del Plata, and then against Brazil at Monumental stadium. They gave me a medal for being the best player in history, and then they locked me up in a room with Havelange. Sepp Blatter was there too. And they told me, “Dieguito, we want you to be part of the FIFA family.”
“Thanks, guys, but I’ve already got a family.”
“But, listen, Dieguito, the guys who form part of the FIFA family make big bucks.”
“Listen, thanks for the offer, but you must be confused. You see, I play soccer for a living. I earn money kicking a ball around. And I kick it pretty good.”
Grondona was waiting for me when I came out.
“What happened, Diego?” he asked.
“Nothing at all, Julio. Nothing at all.”
And nothing did happen, until now. That’s why I say a lot of players should have been as clear as I was that time. And a good number were, actually. And there are a lot of good guys, like Didier Drogba, who is phenomenal. He took his struggle way beyond soccer. I mean, if you see what that guy did for the Ivory Coast, you have to take your hat off to him. Now that’s using soccer for a good cause, not the way politicians use it. He used soccer to bring people together in a country where they were gunning each other down. Romário too. He got involved in politics and used it to defend the sport before the World Cup in Brazil, for example, sending all the corrupt officials, the guys who filled their pockets—or wanted to—from the sport, to jail. And I can’t leave out Hristo Stoichkov, who—like me—has always been a rebel, a fighter.
But check this out: the guy who swapped his shorts for a suit and tie was Platini, the lowest of the low. Even thirty years ago, I could tell he had no guts, what with his perfumes and his finesse. The thing is, Platini always wanted to play it both ways, eating caviar and drinking champagne but also wanting to be seen with us, the players, who stood our ground and would go out on strike if necessary. He played both sides. Or he wanted to.
That’s why I really wanted to beat Platini on the field, to show him there in Mexico who the better player was. We were true rivals, because we both wore the number 10 and because we couldn’t have been more different when we took our jerseys off. In terms of play, my rivals were Zico, Rummenigge, and maybe Laudrup—but he was still a kid. The thing is, Zico was a great guy, who would invite you over and goof off, introduce you to his kids. Platini’s another story. I have never met his kids, his wife, his mistress, or been to the bank where he put all the cash he stole.
That’s why I would have liked to be part of a different FIFA. But not part of “the FIFA family,” the way Havelange, Blatter, Grondona, and their gang offered me so many years ago. No way. “The family” stinks of the mafia, and that’s what FIFA was. I would have liked to be part of a FIFA where, if I went out to dinner, I wouldn’t pay with the FIFA credit card—that would be using soccer money to chow down with my friends. That would be stealing. And that’s exactly what they’ve been doing all this time, and I hope it comes to an end. Are we all nuts? They say that players can’t run the league because we don’t have the authority. But who would we learn from? Just the way an old shoemaker chooses a kid to learn the trade, Blatter chose Platini at a certain point, not to learn how to run things, but to learn how to steal.
There’s a lot of stuff that still has to be worked out at FIFA, and in the federations too. The anti-doping tests, for example—something I have some personal experience with and I’ll say so before anyone else has a chance to. You know what should be done? The anti-doping test should be about prevention, not punishment. And the tests should be performed better too, which means not letting anyone meddle with them—not the sporting brands or anyone, because some of the brands get involved to keep the careers of their stars from crashing down. That’s not prevention, that’s cover-up. Prevention means not punishing a player the first time he tests positive, or even the second time. If he keeps using, put him in rehab, but don’t suspend him. If he can’t keep playing, help him find a purpose in life. Help the person recover, even if the player can’t.
One more thing: no more choosing the hosts of two World Cups at the same time. Enough of that. Isn’t it obvious that it’s only a way to get more votes and more money from bribes? From now on, they should just go over the options and choose the host for the next cup. End of story.
But judging from the last FIFA elections, there doesn’t seem to be much of a move to make changes. They elected Gianni Infantino, who went from picking out the hot and cold balls during the draws to being president of FIFA. He couldn’t have cared less that his boss, Blatter, was against the ropes—if not behind bars. He didn’t care because they don’t care about soccer. This question goes to the prosecutor who is investigating the whole thing: shouldn’t Infantino be summoned? Let me just remind you, with all due respect, that he was Platini’s assistant for nine years.