Buenos Aires: 1972. The young boy stepped slowly into the church of the Virgin Child. He blessed himself with holy water and made the sign of the cross. This boy was in the early days of a journey where he would see the moon and the stars from across the world. Make dreams come true at Boca Juniors. Create magic and madness like a coked up mad angel in Barcelona. Watch the sun rise under the great volcano Mount Vesuvius in Naples. Dance through Neapolitan raindrops without getting wet. In the great Azteca he would shake the Hand of God and score a goal that even today they write songs about. Raise the golden trophy high to the Mexican heavens. He would rage and enchant under Arabian stars. Dance with devils in Sinaloa. Party with the Camorra, be a friend of Fidel Castro, make mayhem and love and endure a curse called cocaine. This boy would become a footballing idol to the fourth world. Those without a voice. And when he died the world would come spinning off its axis. The boy knelt down thanking God for all he had been given, before slowly standing and kissing the crucifix around his neck. He then lent down, picked up a scruffy, dirt tattered white football and continued on the journey of a life lived like no other. The boy's name, Diego Armando Maradona.
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