In the late autumn a few years back, when the devastating news of my idol Maradona’s passing hit me, I was gripped by an overwhelming sorrow—a sharp, empty ache, as if a hole had been torn right out of my heart.
In a daze, a bizarre scene slowly took shape before my eyes: rows of tall buildings stood atop an enormous pizza, with three striking hands rising at the city’s center. Then, a slice of pizza, etched with clock markings, was being cut away from the whole by an invisible hand. It felt exactly like the most vital piece of the global football community being torn out—taking with it the era it belonged to. The silence of the scene seemed to scream: his time, his era, was fading away with that single cut. And that unseen hand, I realized, must have been God’s.
I stared at the vision for a long time, and gradually, the knot of grief in my chest loosened. It was as if I’d trapped the lingering gloom of those days, the dull pain weighing on my heart, all neatly within the canvas of my imagination—no longer swirling wildly, but settling into a quiet calm