Maradona: "What do they her absorb. What do they her keep on absorbing"
To that they did not believe, with pardon of the checkers, what they her absorb. What do they her keep on absorbing.
This way there began the press conference Diego Armando Maradona, the technical director of the Selection Argentina. The whole boasting of education, responsibility and ripeness. Your words were principally directed to the press of your country that the biggest of the sins has committed: to stop believing in God and doing journalism without fear of omnipotences (the above mentioned also I it say for Julio Grandona, president of the AFA, a Hamlet species to the Argentine thing). And he kept on saying:
I am white or black, gray I it am not going to be in the life. You processed me as they are processing me. Keep on sucking.
Doing solemn breaks, like a bad actor playing a role that only he should create. As if your extremism before the life was a weight reason, it appropriated of what it should be a moment of collective happiness, and vomited your rancor against those who criticized him. But the pantomime had begun a little bit earlier: moments after the umpire was whistling at the end of the meeting, Maradona and Bilard embraced each other with exhilaration surrounded by the journalists. The two so distanced lately by a mutual mistrust, messages being sent by the press, moving the chairs in meetings deprived with Grondona, were appended in a hug and cried together. A communion that is that of the desavenidos that collaborate against a common enemy.
After the first ones “what do they her absorb”, The Fluff scrolled to embrace each other with your selected. The players continued the bad example of your technician and sang before the cameras an ode to the press:
(…) And they do not import for me what they say,
these male prostitutes journalists,
the prostitute who gave birth (…) to them
After the initial eruption, Maradona still had weather to say that your fights with Bilard were "invented" and, before the forced question on your continuity facing the World cup, there was allowed the luxury of leaving it in doubt (“I have to chat with Grondona”), do not be that the inflamed masses forget to ask him to remain.
If you allow me the similar musical, Diego Armando Maradona was the best bandoneonista of the history, the biggest between the big ones, but he is a genius who was touching of ear. It never took a score in your hands because your art was flowing in a natural way. Now, too old to do what he only was doing, it is incapacitated to teach. The magic but not the mathematics knows. And he, like trainer, must take charge of the mathematics, because the magic only the players can put it.
So much they it deified that your pride prevented him from saying that not to the offer of a position that he has left big. I saw the party in a bar surrounded by Argentinians of all the ages. When it exited to the field there was no scream of fortitude or of praise. The people kept on peeling manises, speaking about the possibilities of going direct to the World cup or of falling down to the repechaje, with the fear of the defeat more present that since nobody was ever daring to name it. The first thing that was heard on Diego a few laughs were, when it appeared on the screen with a red bib that he had left of bib. A few laughs that turned guffaws after Bilard exited with a species of dark nappy in the head.
Now Maradona, after turning out to be almost evicted, feels stronger than never because he trusts in the bullet that he has left in the loader. He knows that in qualifying competitions, even more in a World cup, often the motivation does more than the preparation. And on that it fights, to that he could make use of your deified ancestry in a group consisted of young lads and old men rescued in the last wags of the tail of your career, and do what today seems impossible: to return of South Africa like tricampeones of the World.
Photo | The Voice of Gallicia
