The day I played in the ’86 World Cup final, among the many things Bilardo said, only one moved me: “Today in Argentina there is no class, so the kids can see you.” Big tournaments continue to take me back to childhood.
Childhood is the place where the footballer puts his dreams and challenges into action. And where the first stories nest. My family had gotten smaller since my father passed away. My mother was the supreme boss, my older brother the “man of the house” at eight years old and I, at four, a child hugging his ball. Football, which was the passion of the two men, never lacked the columns that strengthened it: the games in the “pastures”, the conversations, the thread with professionalism in the crazy voices on the radio and in reading. of the magazine The graphic.
We kids grew up. My brother studied in Rosario and returned to our town every weekend to excel in local soccer. He played well, competed like a beast and was “hot.” I waited my turn and when I was 16 I also went to Rosario, but to try to progress from the lower divisions of Newell’s Old Boys. He trained during the day, studied at night and lived in a humble boarding house with kids from all over the country. The first year I played in the “Fifth Division”, I was up to the task and quickly gained promotions, to the point that, at 17 years old, I was one step away from reaching the First Division.
Everything was slower than these paragraphs suggest, but faster than was appropriate for my age. Then Jorge Griffa, a soccer player training guru, came to the club and decided that each player should play in the Division that corresponded to them by age. The decision took me away from the dream of debuting in First Division. It was discouraging and my brother, who was interested in my career, interpreted it as a lack of respect. During a small family meeting, he advised me not to admit this outrage. I just said: “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” My mother accepted the interested party’s point of view; that is, mine.
Saying that I managed it meant that, if I had shown my superiority once before all the competitors, I could show it a second time. At the age of 18 I made my debut in Primera on one of those days of absolute happiness and there began a career that at the age of 19 took me to Spain.
I progressed until I reached Real Madrid and the Argentine National Team until in 1986 I had to reap what I had sown: a league and a UEFA Cup with Madrid and the World Championship with Argentina. Being World Champion makes you live experiences that exceed your most exaggerated dreams. In my town, which at that time had ten thousand inhabitants, 30,000 people were waiting for me.
My house was an incessant parade of people who wanted to see the prodigal son and I took hundreds of photos with the medal I had won hanging around my neck. At two in the morning, we closed the parade promising that there would be more the next day. Finally alone, my mother, my brother and I met in the same kitchen that was always our meeting center. That was where a phrase gave me another priceless medal. My mother said it to my brother: “What? Did he handle it or not? The Copa América and the Euro Cup are coming. How many small stories have these heroes who are just men who play have starred in? And, above all, how many dreams will they come true?
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