How sorry.
A sorrow that has been adding up hour after hour since you left us yesterday afternoon, dear Diego.
The news has shocked everyone, but perhaps we underestimated the power of your goodbye. All in all, it was news that we knew would come sooner or later. On the other hand, you had been everything and the opposite of everything in your extraordinary consistency. Your excesses and flaws had led you to push your physique far, far too far.
Today, 24 hours later, we feel the epochal detachment that your death brings us as a dowry.
A detachment from a world that was and a world that is. Today we realize that you were the last link between the old and the new world.
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They will tell us that it is the end of an era but this, frankly, would be reductive.
The world that you represented was analog and not digital and yet the echo of your deeds has arrived everywhere in the world. In the sands of the Sahara desert and on the waves of New Zealand surfers.
You were the emblem of the revolution.
A Masaniello from afar who had managed to be for Naples what no one else had managed to be before.
A winning revolutionary.
2 championships and a UEFA Cup. Victories that had never arrived and would never again arrive in the land of contradictions forgotten by the blindfolded goddess, by governments, by the powerful, by the banks.
You and that people arrived, at least for 90 minutes, forgetting their problems, discrimination, the hard work of being Neapolitan and therefore lazy, easygoing, butterflies and delinquents.
That left foot of yours has enchanted generations and even those who were not your contemporaries know who you are and weep, weep because it has lost a fixed point in the stories of grandmothers, uncles, fathers and brothers. Tales that spoke of redemption and joy, of parties and pride. The pride of an entire people, climbed, thanks to you, on the roof of Italy.
For 6 years Naples has counted for something.
Thanks to you.

The world of the weakest felt stronger.
From the Alps to the Pyramids, from Manzanarre to the Rhine, that number 10 jersey represented the same thing for everyone, in a thousand different ways.
Genius, fantasy, willpower, joy, feeling, passion, love.
To each one its nuance, to each one its belonging with its own experience.
And these free words, without brake, without a logical link, are a praise to you, to your delicious chaos, a chaos without which we risk losing ourselves in the routine of days all the same, of samples all the same, of characters all the same, like the days of the pandemic, of the quarantine, days full of homogeneity and too equal to themselves.
The opposite of you, eternal champion who has made diversity, freedom, dynamism and beauty his identity.
That's why losing you means losing much more.
That's why every hour that passes the dimension of your disappearance takes on sadder and bigger and bigger connotations.
Like you, the greatest player in the history of soccer, the greatest creator of emotions of the last century and the greatest symbol of a time that once was and now will disappear, before our sad eyes.

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