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Legends & self-made
By WorldClubDirectory Team | Legends & Self-Made – 2025
There are great players, there are legends, and then there is Diego Armando Maradona – the only footballer in history who was worshipped like a god while he was still alive. A kid who grew up in a one–room house in a Buenos Aires slum, who played barefoot on muddy streets next to open sewers, and who turned a ball into a weapon against poverty, humiliation and power. This is the complete, long–form story of Maradona: from Villa Fiorito to Napoli, from the Hand of God to the Goal of the Century, from cocaine to collapse, from tears on the pitch to murals on every wall in Naples and Buenos Aires.
This is not a clean fairy tale. It is a brutal, beautiful, contradictory story of genius and self–destruction, of a man who gave more joy than his body could handle, and who died at 60 with the face of a saint and the medical report of an 85–year–old. It is also the ultimate self–made story: one poor kid who changed football, changed cities, changed politics and inspired millions worldwide – from slum kids in Buenos Aires to boxers like Tyson Fury and champions like Cristiano Ronaldo.
Diego Armando Maradona was born on 30 October 1960 in Lanús, Buenos Aires province, and raised in Villa Fiorito, one of the poorest and roughest barrios on the southern edge of the city. His parents, Don Diego and Doña Tota, came from the north of Argentina and did whatever they could to survive: construction, factory shifts, cleaning jobs, anything.
The family lived crammed into a small house with leaking walls and unstable electricity. When it rained, the dirt streets turned into rivers of mud. There were open ditches, open sewers, rats. In that environment, a football wasn’t just a toy – it was a ticket to another world.
As a child, Diego slept in the same room as his parents and siblings. Doña Tota would often say she had already eaten, so that Diego and his brothers could have a bigger portion. Years later, when he was already a superstar, Maradona would cry on TV recalling this: “Mia mamma diceva che aveva mangiato, ma non era vero.”
On his third birthday, an uncle brought him an old, worn–out leather ball. For Diego it was a treasure. He slept with it under his arm, took it with him everywhere, and started doing what would become his signature move: keep the ball in the air for minutes, hours, as if gravity did not apply to him.
Villa Fiorito became Diego’s first stadium. Street games were brutal: no referees, no rules, older kids pushing, kicking, tackling. There was dust, mud, glass, stones. If you went to the ground, there was no whistle. You either got up or you lost the ball.
To survive there, Maradona developed three weapons: a low centre of gravity, ridiculous balance, and the courage to keep dribbling even when everyone around him was trying to kick his legs. He learned how to protect the ball with his body, how to absorb contact, how to twist away from danger at the last second. Those instincts, forged in the barrio, would later destroy European defences.
At the age of eight, Diego was spotted by a scout from Argentinos Juniors, a small but well–respected club in Buenos Aires. The club had a youth team called Los Cebollitas (“The Little Onions”), coached by Francisco Cornejo. The scout watched Diego juggle the ball and could not believe what he was seeing: the ball stuck to his left foot, then moved to his thigh, shoulder, head, back to his foot, without ever touching the ground.
He was invited to join the academy. For the Maradona family, it was like winning the lottery. Argentinos Juniors offered boots, transport and a structured training environment. But even after joining the club, Diego was still the same kid from Villa Fiorito: long bus rides, little sleep, not enough food – and a ball always with him.
With Maradona as their little captain, Los Cebollitas became legendary. Under Cornejo, the team went on a sensational run of around 136 matches without defeat in youth football, winning tournaments all over Buenos Aires. The numbers today are almost mythical, but everyone agrees on one point: with Diego, they almost never lost.
At half–time of first–division matches, Argentinos Juniors sometimes sent a tiny boy with a huge afro onto the pitch. He would entertain the crowd, juggling the ball, balancing it on his head, sitting down while keeping it in the air, then standing up without letting it drop. Fans who had paid a ticket to watch grown men play found themselves hypnotised by a kid.
By 12, Diego was already a local celebrity. People recognised him on buses, in plazas, in markets. They asked him to juggle the ball, to sign pieces of paper, to pose for photos. He was still a child, but he had already started carrying something that would never leave him: expectations bigger than any stadium.
On 20 October 1976, just ten days before his 16th birthday, Diego made his professional debut for Argentinos Juniors against Talleres de Córdoba. Coach Juan Carlos Montes turned to the bench and sent him in with the famous line: “Go, Diego, show them what you can do.”
Wearing the number 16 shirt, Maradona stepped onto the pitch in the Argentine top division like it was a bigger version of his barrio. The very first thing he did was a nutmeg on an opponent – the purest Maradona greeting to the football world.
He did not score that day, but he didn’t need to. Everyone understood: a new phenomenon had arrived. In the following seasons, he became Argentinos Juniors’ absolute star, scoring free–kicks, penalties, solo goals and constantly finishing among the top scorers in the league despite playing for a relatively small club.
By 1977, Maradona had already played for the Argentina national team in friendlies. The country hosted the 1978 World Cup and everyone assumed the 17–year–old Diego would be there. He seemed born for that stage.
But coach César Luis Menotti made a cold decision: he thought Maradona was still too young to handle the pressure of a home World Cup. A few days before the tournament, Diego was cut from the final squad. He went home shattered. While Argentina celebrated its first world title, with Mario Kempes as the hero, Maradona watched on television – crying, angry, feeling betrayed.
That exclusion left a scar. But scars can be fuel. Maradona promised himself that one day he would deliver a World Cup to his country, not as a passenger, but as the main architect.
In 1979, Menotti gave Diego a different stage: the FIFA World Youth Championship in Japan. There, with a talented Argentina under–20 side, Maradona played some of the best football ever seen in youth tournaments. He scored brilliant free–kicks, slalomed through defences and controlled the tempo of games as if he were an experienced veteran.
Argentina won the tournament, and Maradona was voted Player of the Tournament. It was the first time the world outside South America really understood that this kid was something else. Clubs in Europe took note. Fans in Argentina fell even more in love with him.
By 1981, Diego had outgrown Argentinos Juniors. The next logical step in Argentina was Boca Juniors, the club of the people, of La Bombonera, of that blue and yellow shirt that defines the working–class identity of Buenos Aires.
Boca did not have the money to buy him outright at first, so a complex loan deal was agreed. But for Maradona, numbers and clauses did not matter. Boca was his dream. He had grown up as a Boca fan, and now he was about to play there in his prime.
In the 1981 Metropolitano, Maradona led Boca to the league title, scoring crucial goals and destroying rivals, including River Plate in the superclásico. La Bombonera became a temple dedicated to him, with fans painting his face on banners and singing his name for 90 minutes.
That year cemented his status as a national idol. He was no longer just “that kid from Fiorito” – he was the face of Argentine pride. Boca gave him a spiritual home and a direct connection to the heart of the people. Even decades later, after Napoli and everything else, Maradona would always say: “Yo soy de Boca.”
Before leaving for Europe, Maradona’s numbers in Argentina were already those of a monster:
But the real battlefields still waited for him: Europe, the World Cup and the city that would change his life forever – Naples.
In 1982, after intense negotiations, FC Barcelona paid a world–record fee to sign Diego Maradona from Boca Juniors. For the first time, the boy from Villa Fiorito was moving to Europe. The expectations were insane: he arrived just as Spain hosted the 1982 World Cup, and many expected him to dominate the tournament on his future home soil.
The World Cup, however, was a disappointment. Argentina never truly found its rhythm. The team was caught between the 1978 champions and the new generation built around Maradona. Diego scored twice against Hungary, but in the second round, Italy and Brazil suffocated Argentina. Frustrated, Maradona was sent off against Brazil for kicking João Batista – his first World Cup ended in anger and tears.
At Barcelona, when he was healthy, he was spectacular. He produced stunning solo goals, dribbled past defenders as if they were pieces on a board, and gave the Camp Nou flashes of pure genius. But his time there was cursed: he suffered hepatitis, then a horrific ankle injury in 1983 after a brutal tackle by Andoni Goikoetxea of Athletic Bilbao.
Maradona fought his way back, sweating in rehab rooms instead of stadiums. He won the Copa del Rey and Spanish Super Cup, and destroyed Real Madrid in some classic Clásicos. But the relationship with Barcelona’s president Josep Lluís Núñez, Spanish media and some rivals grew increasingly toxic.
The breaking point came in the 1984 Copa del Rey final at the Santiago Bernabéu against Athletic Bilbao. After a match full of violent tackles and insults, Diego exploded at the final whistle, attacking opponents who had provoked him for months. A mass brawl erupted live on television. The images shocked Spain and Europe. For Barcelona’s board, it was too much. For Maradona, it was clear he could not continue there.
In the summer of 1984, something unthinkable happened. SSC Napoli, a club from the south of Italy that had never won a league title, somehow managed to sign the world’s most expensive player. The transfer fee from Barcelona to Napoli was another world record. For many, it seemed insane. For Naples, it was destiny.
On 5 July 1984, more than 70,000 fans filled the Stadio San Paolo just to see Maradona presented. They didn’t come to watch a match – they came to watch him juggle the ball, smile and pick up a microphone.
He said the words that Naples needed to hear: “Voglio diventare l’idolo dei ragazzi poveri di Napoli, perché loro sono come ero io in Argentina.” “I want to become the idol of the poor kids of Naples, because they are like I was in Argentina.”
Naples was a city with a giant complex: looked down on by the rich north, mocked for its poverty and chaos. By signing Maradona, Napoli sent a message to Milan, Turin and the rest of Italy: the south was ready to fight back.
Maradona’s first season was about survival and adaptation. Serie A in the 1980s was the toughest league in the world: tactical, brutal, full of elite defenders. But little by little, Diego transformed Napoli from a mid–table side into a contender.
He scored free–kicks that flew like missiles, chipped goalkeepers, danced through defensive lines, and, most importantly, gave the fans a reason to believe. Napoli finished mid–table at first, then climbed, then started fighting for the title.
In the 1986–87 season, history changed. With Maradona as captain, Napoli won its first ever Serie A title and also lifted the Coppa Italia, completing a legendary double. Naples lost its mind.
Millions of people poured into the streets. Murals of Diego appeared on buildings, balconies, shop shutters. In some neighbourhoods, people painted “Giù il Nord” – “Down with the North” – and “Il nostro re è Diego”.
Women named their sons Diego. Churches put up posters of Maradona next to saints. For many Neapolitans, who had been treated like second–class citizens for generations, he wasn’t just a footballer – he was a symbol of revenge and dignity.
Napoli’s golden era with Maradona did not end there. In 1989, the club won the UEFA Cup (today’s Europa League), beating Stuttgart in the final. In 1989–90, Napoli won its second Serie A title. Each trophy deepened the love story between Diego and the city.
While he was carrying Napoli to the top of Italy and Europe, Maradona was also rewriting World Cup history with Argentina.
The 1986 World Cup in Mexico is, for many, the single greatest individual tournament ever played. It belongs to Maradona in the same way that the Mona Lisa belongs to Leonardo. Everything revolves around him.
Argentina arrived in Mexico with doubts and criticism at home. The team was not considered the best on paper. But Maradona had reached his prime. He was faster, stronger and more focused than ever. From the first match, he took control – not only of Argentina’s attack, but of the entire World Cup narrative.
On 22 June 1986, in the quarter–final at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City, Argentina faced England. The match was politically loaded: just four years after the Falklands/Malvinas War, emotions were high on both sides.
In the 51st minute, Maradona went for a high ball with England keeper Peter Shilton. He was too short to reach it legally, so he improvised the most famous foul in football history: he punched the ball with his left hand and sent it into the net. The referee did not see the hand. The goal stood.
After the match, Diego described it with a sentence that became immortal: “Un po’ con la testa di Maradona e un po’ con la mano de Dios.” “A little with the head of Maradona and a little with the hand of God.”
Just four minutes later, he scored the exact opposite kind of goal – the most beautiful legal one. He picked up the ball in his own half, turned, accelerated, and dribbled past half the England team: Beardsley, Reid, Butcher, Fenwick, Butcher again, and finally Shilton. He slid the ball into the net with his left foot. It was later voted “Goal of the Century”.
In that single match, Maradona resumed his entire personality: street cheat and football artist, sinner and saint, a man capable of bending rules and reality in the same 90 minutes.
In the semi–final, Argentina faced Belgium. Maradona scored twice – another dribble, another finish, another demonstration that no one in Mexico could stop him. In the final, against West Germany, he did not score but orchestrated the game, constantly dictating tempo and passing angles.
With the score at 2–2 late in the match, Maradona found Jorge Burruchaga with a perfect through ball. Burruchaga scored the 3–2. Argentina were world champions. Diego had done what he had promised himself in 1978: he had delivered a World Cup to his country as the absolute protagonist.
That tournament elevated him to a different category. From that moment on, Maradona was not just a great player – he was a global myth, on the same level as Pelé in the eternal debate for the greatest of all time.
Four years later, at the 1990 World Cup in Italy, Maradona’s story took a darker, more complex turn. He arrived tired, carrying injuries and the weight of too many battles. Still, he dragged Argentina through the tournament with flashes of genius and pure will.
The most symbolic match came in the semi–final against Italy – in Naples. Italy had not lost at home for years. The crowd was expected to be fully behind the Azzurri. But Maradona knew Naples was different.
Before the match, he spoke directly to Neapolitans through TV and newspapers, reminding them how the rest of Italy treated them: as inferior, as second–class citizens. He asked them, in a way, to choose between their nation and their city.
The stadium was split. Some supported Italy, some supported Argentina and Diego. The game went to penalties. Maradona scored his kick with icy calm. Argentina won. Italy were out of “their” World Cup, eliminated in their own backyard by the player who had given Naples everything.
In the final, a tired Argentina lost 1–0 to West Germany. Maradona cried while the Italian fans in Rome booed the Argentine anthem. Those tears, full of anger and disappointment, became another iconic image of his complex relationship with Italy.
While he was conquering Naples and the world, Maradona was also losing internal battles. Cocaine, which had entered his life in Barcelona, became a constant presence in the late 1980s. Parties, bad companions, lack of sleep and the constant pressure of being “Maradona” created a dangerous cocktail.
In 1991, the inevitable happened. Maradona tested positive for cocaine in a doping test after a Serie A match. He was banned from football for 15 months. Naples, which had adored him, now had to watch him leave under a cloud of scandal, investigations and rumours of links to the Camorra.
His time at Napoli ended not with a celebration, but with a bitter goodbye. Yet the city never stopped loving him. Years later, when he returned to visit, Naples still treated him like a king.
After the ban, Maradona tried to resurrect his career in Europe. In 1992, he signed for Sevilla FC in Spain. There were flashes of the old Diego – clever passes, moments of genius – but his body was not the same, and neither was his lifestyle.
He later returned to Argentina to play for Newell’s Old Boys, and finally closed the circle by coming back to Boca Juniors in the mid–1990s. At Boca, he was more of a symbol than a consistent performer, but La Bombonera still vibrated every time he touched the ball.
His official playing career ended in 1997, on his 37th birthday. He left the pitch overweight, full of scars and stories, but still capable, in rare flashes, of magic that others could only dream of.
One last scene at the World Cup remains unforgettable: USA 1994. Maradona returned to the national team with a mission – to prove he could still dominate on the biggest stage.
He scored a rocket against Greece in the group stage and ran towards the camera with a wild, intense scream – an image that would later become ironic. After the match against Nigeria, he was selected for a doping test and tested positive for ephedrine, a banned substance.
His World Cup was over. FIFA sent him home. Maradona described it as having his legs cut off. For Argentina fans, it was a mixture of sadness and anger. For Diego, it was another wound in a life full of highs and lows.
After retiring as a player, Maradona tried to reinvent himself as a coach and global icon. He had a chaotic spell at Mandiyú de Corrientes and Racing Club in Argentina, then many years later became head coach of the Argentina national team, leading Lionel Messi and company at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa.
On the bench, he showed the same passion he had displayed as a player: hugs, screams, tears, celebrations. Argentina were eliminated by Germany in the quarter–finals, but the image of Maradona as a passionate, emotional leader remained powerful.
He then coached in the UAE, Mexico and at Gimnasia La Plata in Argentina, while battling ongoing health issues: weight problems, heart concerns, surgeries, and the long–term consequences of years of excess.
Maradona’s final years were a constant battle between his love for life and the limits of his damaged body. He underwent gastric bypass surgery, had hospitalisations for heart problems, and at various moments seemed close to death – only to recover again, to the point that many people thought he might be indestructible.
Yet his lifestyle, decades of abuse and the stress of being “El Diez” in every room he walked into, took their toll. Even when he was working as a coach, he often appeared fragile, moving slowly, sometimes slurring his words, always surrounded by bodyguards and assistants.
On 25 November 2020, Maradona died at the age of 60 in a house in Tigre, near Buenos Aires, after suffering heart failure. Argentina declared three days of national mourning. In Naples, fans lit candles, painted new murals and covered the streets around the stadium with banners and flags.
The stadium that had witnessed his miracles, the San Paolo, was officially renamed Stadio Diego Armando Maradona. Around the world, from Barcelona to Tokyo, from Mexico City to Naples, tributes poured in. Clubs, players, politicians and artists all said the same thing: football had lost one of its gods.
His death was followed by investigations, legal battles and accusations about his medical care, his entourage and his final days. Even in death, Maradona’s life remained complicated, controversial and full of noise.
More than five years after his death, Maradona’s presence in football culture is stronger than ever. You see him on murals, tattoos, documentaries, podcasts, and in endless debates about who is the greatest of all time: Pelé, Maradona or Messi.
His stats are impressive – titles with Napoli, a World Cup won almost single–handedly, countless unforgettable goals – but his legacy goes beyond numbers. Maradona represented something bigger:
In Naples, there are altars dedicated to him with candles and rosaries. In Argentina, the “Church of Maradona” was created by fans who treat his goals like sacred events. On the internet, clips of his dribbles still go viral daily.
Modern stars like Messi and Ronaldo play in a different, more professional, more controlled era. Diego belonged to a dirtier, more brutal, more romantic time – and that is exactly why he still touches hearts in a way few others can.
Beyond the goals and scandals, Maradona’s life contains powerful lessons for anyone chasing a dream:
If you loved this complete Maradona story, explore other long–form legend profiles on WorldClubDirectory:
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