Diego. The Other Maradona.

Word Count: 805
Genre: Suspense

         He was always known as the boy who never kept his feet on the ground. One who never knew how to discern the palpable line between fantasy and reality. Sonador, they taunted him. A dreamer. The villagers often cluttered around the boy, arms-folded, like a pack of unforgiving, ravenous wolves circling their doomed prey whenever he decided to practise.

         “What are you thinking, idiota? You can’t make it. No one is ever going to know there is a ‘wonder’ kid over here. Not that you are one,” Ramos’ frosty words darted out again as the boy juggled the worn-out ball expertly in the air like an international football icon performing in front of his adoring fans. The only difference was that there were no screams and cheers of admiration. Just silent murmurings meant to mock. No ecstatic fans leaping up and down to ask for autographs. Just fellow villagers asking him to stop building castles in the air.

         “I am telling you now…you won’t be playing with us boys anymore if you still think you are going to be a superstar of some sort,” Ramos snorted, clearly pleased to play the big bully again as the rest of the boys chuckled in unison. Ramos was savoring the spotlight again. His head cocked upwards towards the heavens as he held his own, proper football in his chubby hands.

         “An authentic Adidas,” he silently boasted. His mind instantly ran flashes of the vivid scenes when his father presented the coveted prize to him on his 14th birthday. Since then, the pasta-loving, horizontally-challenged boy has more bragging rights than he needed. Nobody dared to run upstream when he ran down. Ramos was hailed as the grande hermano, or big brother among the children in the village. His intimidating physique, coupled with his father’s vast influence as the village head were a lethal combination. In short, among the kids in La Falda, Ramos called the shots.

         “So…you sure you don’t want to join us, Diego? Your football is growing a few grey hairs I see,” Ramos took a swipe at him again as his boys burst out laughing. Ironically, Ramos was right to an extent. Diego’s ball lost its exterior, leaving strands of grey-colored strands exposed to sight. Nevertheless, Diego persisted in his silent treatment. It wasn’t that he was oblivious or timid. It was a wise move inspired by a severed nose and a few bad bruises. The last time he warded off his rival’s verbal assault with his own, the Ramos flung himself towards the shell-shocked Diego, throwing him off guard. The moment Diego returned the favor, he knew that he was fighting a lost cause. The other boys immediately sprang into action in favor of their grande hermano. And the rest was history. After swallowing another telling off from his livid mother, he was forced to vow never to be involved in a fight again. And Diego still remembered he had to utter those words through broken but gritted teeth.



         Ramos was already getting tired from being on the receiving end of zero retaliation. He was banking on Diego to lose his cool so that he can seize the chance to inflict pain on him again. He knew the numbers and muscles were on his side. But Diego was resolved to avoid the trapdoor. Ramos simply turned around and drove away his disappointed folks.

         “Showtime’s over, boys. Let’s play some ball. Leave the poor kid alone. I think he misses his mommy’s milk,” More shrills and laughter erupted. The crowd of boys gradually thinned as dusk settled.

         Diego breathed a sigh of relief as the boys went about their ways. He picked up his ball and headed the opposite direction. “Time to go home,” he thought. He was just about to depart from the sandy pitch when his crystal-clear eyes glued on a television screen nearby. The TV was replaying the 1986 World Cup semi-final between Argentina and England. “GOLLLLL….” The TV announcer let out the trademark scream that brought so much joy and exhilaration to Argentina for decades. Diego Maradona had single-handedly marched Argentina to the final with the “Hand of God” goal against England. Diego watched in awe as his previously dim features glowed. He was smiling broadly now. Suddenly, the scenes of euphoria in celebration of Maradona’s goal diminished. A man had just switched the TV off, bringing Diego’s short lived imagination to a screeching halt.

         The man simply stared at him and said, “Go home, boy. It’s getting dark,” With that, he pulled the windows shut and vanished out of sight.

         The boy trotted off in semi-darkness. It would be a long walk once again. Somewhere along, a gust of chilly November wind blew.

         “I should have sewn more clothes for myself,” Diego lectured himself as he quickened his pace a notch.


Diego. The Other Maradona.
By Jin Tik Ngai