The Cosmic Kite: Diego Maradona, RIP

On June 22, 1986, I learned, in less than ten seconds, to love soccer.

My whole life, imitating my father, I'd hated the sport, mocked it, refused to play it. I called it ping-pong on a football field, an exercise in futility, without elegance — a game for masochists bereft of imagination.

But — some context — in May of that year, I'd been assigned by my church to complete a two-year Christian mission in the Province of Buenos Aires. Upon learning that soccer was a religion in Argentina, I decided to give the sport, by way of the World Cup, a chance. I was determined to claim Argentina as mine — my segunda patria.  I'd read that their star, Diego Maradona, might be the best player in the world, and I made it a point to watch all of their matches.

On that June afternoon, Argentina began its quarterfinal contest with England. Beyond its importance in the tournament, the match was Argentina's chance to exact a measure of revenge for 1982's Falklands War. (Or to suffer further humiliation.) I was sitting on my parents' bed, in Woodland Hills, Utah, watching the match on their bedroom television, my father having requisitioned the bigger, better, family room TV for, as he would have put it, a sport worth watching.

First, in the 51st minute, came the "Hand of God" goal. Which I knew I should disapprove of but couldn't. Its cleverness — its comic genius — was, in a word, Shakespearean.

Then, a mere four minutes later, with the soccer universe still trying to find its equilibrium, came the earthquake, the cyclone, the bolt of lightning, in the diminutive figure — 5' 5'' in boots — of Diego Armando Maradona.

I was speechless. I fell back on the bed and held my face. What I'd witnessed — and I'd spent much of my short life watching sports — seemed impossible.

Not amazing. Not spectacular or extraordinary or marvelous. Impossible.

Merely watching the highlight, which lifts the moment from its context, fails to capture that impossibility. Of course, in Utah, I'd heard the shellshocked commentary of the English commentator, whose flattened tone conveyed its own kind of disbelief. But Victor Hugo Morales' reaction communicates how the world, including England, reacted to what Maradona had done. That does not happen. That was not possible.

Soon, I raced downstairs and tried to explain what I'd seen, and how the channel had to be changed, because maybe they would show a replay, and you have to see it to believe it. And even then you won't believe it!

My awe — an inadequate word for what I was feeling — was met with little more than bored indifference.

No matter. Argentina went on to win the match and, soon thereafter, the World Cup, and over the next two years, traversing the Argentine pampa, I had the honor of catching Maradona highlights in the homes of Argentinian friends. Despite the fact that he was playing in Italy, all of his matches — all of his miracles — were broadcast in Argentina. They watched with reverence and glee. He was theirs. He was doing that, for them, in the world.

Now, soccer — fútbol — is the only sport I watch with any degree of diligence, up early on Saturday and Sunday mornings to catch Premier League matches on NBC. My favorite team changes yearly, depending upon the rosters of the team. I go for the teams that have an American — this year, Pulisic at Chelsea — or for the team with the most, or best, Argentine players. Of course, I always have an eye on Barcelona and Lionel Messi, Diego's inimitable progeny.

And I owe this passion to Argentina, mi segunda patria, and to one man, el "barrilete cósmico," Diego Maradona.

Victor Hugo Morales, in that immortal moment, asked a question the world is asking today, upon hearing of Diego's passing, with wonder and gratitude: ¿De qué planeta viniste?

Es para llorar.