As if Vesuvio had overflowed its lava, Naples detonated loudly after the championship and a mystical silver thread linked it with Argentina, as in so many other diverse journeys, like “Heart” from the Apennines to the Andes.
Thousands and thousands shouted "Diegooo, Diegooo", and Maradona,
so sinful in life, beatified above San Gennaro
, became champion again and no one remembers or wants to remember his misdeeds here or there because
"the liquefaction of the sangue di San Gennaro"
He repeated himself in that "miracolo" of football and of faith and Maradona returned there in Naples and here too, always alive and dead and ghostly.
The whole of Argentina and Naples tied ties from south to south, tied by the mystical body of the transgressive idol.
According to Roberto Saviano, the author of "Gomorrah", that shocking novel about the Neapolitan Camorra,
"Fear is the most vital instinct, the one that must be respected the most -and he completed his thought- Cowardice is an option, fear is a state".
Afraid of what?
Here, in Argentina, or there in champion Naples, fear takes on multiple faces, but to connote the concept in a word similar to both latitudes;
it is fear to the camorra.
Fear of the camorra not in the strict sense (although it is possible to fear it in the strict sense) but more widely it is fear and perhaps
seduction also for that vocation for disobedience
, and for the handicap of life.
Here we fear for poverty, for inflation, and for the death that is perpetrated for less than a two-cent opera, and there for a historical postponement whose banner of popular demand is precisely Maradona.
There's a state riot here
.
Or governmental, or that is perceived in general.
Due to indirect criminality: negligence, greed, selfishness and ignorance, that self-absorbed cadre also kills lives and hopes.
Neapolitan literature scholars have affirmed that it is difficult to find another city portrayed in his books, where
the desire to leave is so powerfully described.
How many of us in Argentina feel the same?
Here, today, in this country, the national Vesuvio erupts daily, with each soulless and worrying increase, with each death for nothing, because killing is a habit that certain people tend to have, because drugs also poison more and more, because education fails in general, because the political class is outlined and outlined alien to the land, because we become more and more impoverished.
And everything is stated at every moment and nothing is resolved.
There was also a great soccer eruption with the World Cup that represented
an extraordinary will as massive as ever to win
, to jump, to dance uncontrollably.
We got excited again.
By the way, Messi seems to be negotiating with the King of Saudi Arabia who has literal credentials as a satrap with bloody hands and not exactly sanctified.
But that is another story.
The truth is that
Argentina is also another volcano, with its crater always boiling in a certain apparent latency, but burning with impotence and frustration
.
There is a horizon, however, not only because of the elections, perhaps -even- because of something deeper, because of that force that transcends life that comes from elsewhere that ignites the legs of the late demon saint Maradona.
Their boots with untied laces blunt the legs that have cut us all off due to so many inexperiences and disasters, but that live dribbling what they block, and we continue dribbling, although sometimes, the fouls of life and reality turn us around and we break
Or shoot us.
When Maradona died, in his unbridled wake, President Alberto Fernández descended towards the lattice floor of the Plaza de Mayo to try to stop the bars that were climbing on the maremagnum to get closer to the catafalque.
Many had the intention of taking it by hand to who knows where.
He lowered Fernández with a megaphone and nobody heard him.
A mute megaphone.
He pronounced great impotence of him already then growing.
Diego;
yours is death, but also the strength, and the new Napoli championship and yours the goals, the gloomy of your abandoned end;
and also the light and the vibration, the dance, the traps that you knew how to perpetrate, the mischief before all the opponents that you knew how to cajole and defeat, and all your relapses, your toxicities, your rented political aberrations and your resurrections are yours.
And all that is also ours.
And that is Argentina, and that is Naples.
There is something transcendent to living bodies;
those spirits, those ghosts, complicated, haughty, losing and winning specters, in force, as well on earth as in heaven.
look also
Cristina Kirchner, crime and power
Does ultra Kirchnerism seek to defeat Messi?
