How a wind-up convinced Maradona he could win World Cup on his own

The late Argentina great’s personal trainer recounts in this book extract a visit he made to the player’s room before Mexico 86

Diego Maradona arrived in Mexico like a well-tuned violin. He had managed to stabilise his weight at 76kg long before the World Cup. His physical condition was optimal from the feet to the neck, and little by little he managed to acclimatise to the Aztec high habitat. The place chosen as the training camp was ideal for footballers – although they baptised it as Alcatraz, the famous American penitentiary located on a small island in the San Francisco Bay. They could perform the necessary exercises to adapt to the altitude, enjoy many hours of rest and sleep, a good diet and a relaxed, calm atmosphere.

The coach Carlos Bilardo, who had rehearsed acclimatisation to the altitude with a group of players – although without Diego – in Tilcara, a town in the province of Jujuy located about 3,000m above sea level, also organised several training sessions at the time set for games, so the boys would also get used to the torrid heat of the Mexican summer. Diego trained with the team on the field, where Bilardo ordered his tactics and strategies.

I was there as Diego’s personal trainer and, as in Naples, I worried about choosing what work to do so as not to overload Diego’s muscles. The Italian season had been very demanding and I couldn’t allow him to overtrain and reach the World Cup with wet gunpowder, as had happened in Spain four years before. I also set out to motivate him, to help him free his mind from understandable hesitations, from the fears that stage fright can generate. One night, I decided it was time to adjust the last nut on that incredible 1.68m-tall football machine.

I got to Diego’s room and found him on his bed, reading a magazine, lying on his back and with his legs bent. I said hello and only Pedro Pasculli, Diego’s roommate and former Argentinos Juniors teammate, answered. “The 10” continued, engrossed in reading. He didn’t answer me. I took advantage of his concentration to give Pedro a knowing wink, making him understand that I needed his collaboration.

“How are you, Profe?”

“How are you, Pedrito?”

“Well, and you?”

“The truth? I am perfect. Today was a great day, Pedro!”

“Why? What happened?”

“Today I realised that all these guys who came to be World Cup stars are in fact a bunch of cowards!”

“Nooooo! Really?”

“Believe me! In one of the newspapers, I read that Zico declared that he prefers a great performance from Brazil rather than his personal brilliance. Platini said more or less the same; Rummenigge, the identical music …”

I made a deep, brief, deliberate silence. And I added: “And one I know …”

I could not finish the sentence. Directly alluded to and beside himself, Diego, apparently concentrating on reading, flipped the magazine over and shouted at me: “But what do you think, fucking Blind [Signorini’s nickname], that this is as easy as you think?”

With a very calm voice and looking into his eyes, I replied: “Easy? Very easy I would say! God gives bread to those who have no teeth. If I had your conditions, you’d see!”

He wanted to interrupt but I, pretending to be angry, raised my tone and concluded: “Convince yourself once and for all, pig head! If not, what the hell did we do everything we did for? If you decide, you win the World Cup alone. Understand it!”

I did not say “pig head” in a derogatory sense: that is what tremendously noble guys with well-defined principles are called in Argentina. Diego knew that I always spoke to him from affection and protection. I took two steps back, opened the door, and went to my room. As I walked down the corridor, I heard the loud insults that Diego dedicated to me resounding, combined with Pedrito’s laughter.

The next day the press was authorised to enter the Club América campus and a cloud of journalists from all over the world invaded to talk with the boys. As always, Diego was the favourite prey of the reporters, among whom Bobby Charlton stood out, the unforgettable England midfielder and world champion in 1966. The Albiceleste captain stood before the cameras and microphones with excellent humour. He answered all the questions with wit and determination.

That night I stopped by his room and saw him excitedly playing cards with other guys, so I said hello and left. The next morning I got up for an early breakfast. At the bar, Jorge Valdano and the delegation’s cook, Julio Onieva, chatted animatedly. Scattered on a round table, the just-arrived newspapers were waiting. I started flipping through them until one headline made a huge impact on me. The title that headed a photograph of Diego with a huge smile announced: “Maradona opens the fire: ‘I will be the star of the World Cup.’”

I experienced infinite pleasure. “Now we are ready,” I decreed. Today, when the outcome of the tournament is known and recognised, I must say that what followed was, for me, a fantastic experience that should be titled Chronicle of an Announced Victory. But, logically, no one could predict anything before the opening whistle against South Korea, at the Olympic in Mexico City; nor when that game ended, because the Koreans gave Diego so many kicks that I thought he was out of the World Cup in the first match.

The most egregious blow came from Huh Jung-moo: within four minutes of the first half, Diego eluded two rivals, and Jung-Moo landed a terrifying kick in the knee. The Korean launched himself directly to destroy his opponent, without any intention of reaching the ball – if you don’t believe me, you can relive it thanks to YouTube. He would have deserved to go straight to jail, but Spanish referee Victoriano Sánchez Arminio didn’t even show him a yellow card. This is how Fifa cared for the skilled: with matches played at high altitude, during the midday of a hellish summer, without repressing criminal violence?

Meanwhile, João Havelange, the guy who presided over Fifa at the time, filled his mouth with words like “show”, “sport” or “fair play”. Pure blah-blah. I don’t know how Diego recovered from that and another dozen blows, but in that match he provided three assists for Argentina to win 3-0: two to Valdano and one to Óscar Ruggeri. “The 10” seemed a beast as hungry as he was insatiable. The physical preparation and internal fire had made him an unstoppable bulldozer, who also threw rays of genius, like the goal that he scored against Italy.

Frankly, I can’t find how to describe what he invented in Puebla. Valdano played a ball that seemed complicated and he turned it into a poem: flying into the rivals’ area, closely marked by the experienced defender Gaetano Scirea, Diego jumped over the corner of the small area and, in the air, as if suspended, he managed to get his left boot to caress the ball so that it passed away from goalkeeper Giovanni Galli. It seemed that the ball was going out, but no: it stung and twisted its course towards the net. How did he do it? No one could explain it. Not even he found a coherent justification.

Inside Diego is published by Pitch (£14.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply

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