“Gentlemen,” he began, “we have a serious problem in this team, and we’re going to solve it now, today, before it destroys our season. We paid a world record for Diego Maradona. We brought him here to take this club to heights it has never reached. But I’ve noticed, and I know Diego has noticed too, that some of you aren’t playing with him.”
Marchesi looked around the room.
“They’re deliberately sabotaging plays, letting perfect passes go nowhere, blocking shots in practice. This has to stop.”
There was an awkward silence. Then Bruscolotti spoke, his voice harsh.
—With all due respect, Mister, perhaps the problem isn’t us. Perhaps the problem is that Maradona doesn’t understand Italian football. He plays too individualistically; he doesn’t understand our system.
“That’s rubbish and you know it,” Marchesi said sharply. “Diego has played for Barcelona, he’s played for Argentina, he’s played against the best defenses in the world. He can adapt to any system. The problem is you’re not giving him the chance.”
Bagni also spoke, his voice bitter.
“Do you know how much he’s paid? 13 billion lire. That’s more than the entire annual budget of some Serie A clubs. That’s four times what I earn. And I’ve been here for five years. I’ve given everything for this club, and now I’m supposed to be happy to pass the ball, to be its servant on the field.”
Diego felt anger burning again, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“I didn’t ask you to be my servant,” he said quietly. “I asked you to be my teammate, my brother on the field. And I didn’t decide my salary. I didn’t tell the president how much to pay me. He decided I was worth 13 million lira. If you have a problem with that, talk to him, not me.”
“Easy to say when you’re the one receiving the money,” Carannante muttered.
Diego stood up abruptly.
“You want to know why I get paid so much? I’ll tell you why. It’s not because I’m a better person than you. It’s not because I work harder, although I think I do. It’s because I was born with a gift. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t choose it. I was simply born with the ability to do things with a soccer ball that others can’t.”
Diego took a deep breath.
—It’s unfair. All of life is unfair. Do you think I don’t know how unfair it is?
Diego walked to the center of the room, looking each player in the eye.
—I grew up in Villa Fiorito, the worst slum in Buenos Aires. We were so poor that some days we didn’t have any food. My father worked in a factory 14 hours a day and barely earned enough to keep our family alive. My siblings and I shared a room so small we could hardly move. We didn’t have running water half the time. We didn’t have reliable electricity. That was my life.
The players were listening now, some of them looking uncomfortable.
—And do you know what saved me from that life? Football. This stupid, unfair gift, given to me by my genes or God or whoever, gave me a way out. It allowed me to lift my family out of poverty, to give my parents a decent house, my siblings an education. And yes, now I get paid millions. And yes, it’s unfair that I get paid so much when people who work harder earn pennies.
Diego stopped, his voice cracking slightly.
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