Everything started as a popular party and it got clouded because the crowd was not contemplated and there were failures in the organization.
The feeling it leaves is that the entire combo was going to be like this. The sadness that remains is that in everyone’s head the image of such a goodbye was forged over the hours. That it didn’t have to be like that, that it shouldn’t be like that, that it didn’t deserve to be like that, but that inevitably each step led to an equal amount of emotional and shameful scenes, to police repression mixed with genuine passion, outrageous screams and overflows, logistical imbalances and organizational clumsiness difficult to explain, loving expressions and Unforgettable messages punctuated by collective chaos.
Diego Armando Maradona surpassed them all. Dead in a coffin, I live in the village.
It is a pity that it could not have been his family even in this last moment. But who ever thought that the end point was going to be different from all the rest of the story.
Diego is from the town.
And whoever likes it, people is what there was this Thursday, what happened, what was breathed and perspired in the streets. What was suffered and also what was enjoyed for many moments and will be saved for eternity.
Diego is from the town. And the people are the kids who crossed the Pueyrredón Bridge on a motorcycle with the T-shirt from the day of the tribute game, the one from when Diego made public catharsis by confessing that he was wrong and paid. Those who came from Rosario or Córdoba, those who approached in a suit and left the office for a while, those who climb on the shoulders of the kid who barely walks and one day will better tell him where he was.
Diego is from the town because the town is Jerónimo, who is 7 years old and at 9 in the morning he walks with one hand holding his mother and the other holding a letter that he wrote and in which he thanks Diego for teaching him to play football. Jerónimo was born when Diego had retired from soccer for more than 20 years.
Diego is from the town because he must be the guy who gave the most work in the middle of a pandemic. Salami and cheese sandwiches were sold for 100 pesos, there were hats, flags and also chinstraps. There was cold beer, young people pouring indecipherable liquids into cut plastic bottles, there were T-shirts with his face, his signature and his number.
“Diego, dear, the people are with you”, explodes the crowd that parades down the runway. During the morning you can enjoy a beautiful and passionate pilgrimage. It’s the court. Yes, outside is the field that the coronavirus stopped. Along the Avenida de Mayo there were searches, shouts, police controls, people who snuck in, some raptors, drums, brave bars, songs.
And suddenly, silence.
A shocking funnel. It gives the chills.
The huge line was fraying towards the entrance to the Casa Rosada when that giant crepe broke over it.
There he is. It is the people observing themselves. It hurt.
A witty kid from the crowd brings out a beautiful smile when in an emotional pothole he shouts with poetic fairness: “Daaaale, man, this looks like a wake.”
He defined it better than all. It looks like a wake. But in turn this was something else, it seemed like a party, it turned into madness. And it was a bit of everything. Like Diego, like the people.