Anyone who hasn’t had a chance yet to leaf through the book El Diego should immediately correct that omission and procure a copy. You will be entering a world where sport and the cosmos collide as one man, THE man, Diego Armando Maradona, pours forth on his life in soccer, refusing to take any slip-road that may provide the opportunity to avoid colliding with those he sees as beneath his level.

It is truly a breathtaking read, as one is unsure whether to be impressed or disgusted at the sheer arrogance/bravado that Diego exhibits. Right throughout the book he is comfortable with his position as a near Deity in his homeland, happily referring to himself in the third person. From a young age Maradona felt that he was destined to become the best in the world, and so it transpired. There is a clip on You Tube that shows a teenage Diego speaking of his ambition to win the World Cup – the words were prophetic, as in 1986 the human dynamo produced a month of football that propelled the South Americans to the top of the world. I was eight when that wonderful tournament in Mexico took place, and watched mesmerised as this pint-sized man, with a fantastically low centre of gravity, took hold of his destiny.

What can’t be ignored from El Diego is that there is a recurring theme that flows throughout the pages – “it’s everybody else’s fault”. Maradona seems unable to take responsibility for anything bad that happens in his life. His ego balloons as the years go by, it is always Fifa, or the northern Italians, or even his own FA who must take the blame. He even finds time to have a go at Pope John Paul II!

What can’t be denied, even if the book is bulging with hot air, is that the man was a sporting genius. In South America, as opposed to Europe, the individual is often lauded ahead of the team. Maradona’s skill, his unique genius with a ball, stood in marked contrast to the European prototype of team work and efficiency. If you were to pick one moment that encapsulates this theory, you need look no further than that famous World Cup quarter-final in Mexico 86 when Diego took the ball inside his own half and dribbled past countless English men. The flamboyancy of brilliant individualism had defeated the practicality of teamwork in one sweeping move. It was one of the sporting highlights of the twentieth century.

In this part of the world there has been, at times, a suspicion of the eccentric genius, a doubt about his contribution to the overall team ethic. Here in Ireland we experienced Jack Charlton dismissing the genius of Liam Brady, the manager believing that Brady could not be accommodated in “the system”. Never mind that the Dubliner had one of the sweetest left feet of the time – it was the fact that Brady couldn’t track back, pick up his man, win the dirty ball that persuaded Charlton to underutilise him.

In France, David Ginola, he of the “because I’m worth it” locks, was deemed to be a liability (which did prove to be the case when he gave possession away in the last minute of a World Cup qualifier in 1993 at the Parc de Princes, the ensuing goal knocking the French out of USA 94. Gerard Houllier never forgave him). In sport, especially at the top level, results are what count at the end of the day. Ginola entertained, that for him was reward enough. The Newcastle teams that he was part of suited his character perfectly – brilliant football, but no rewards.

It is interesting to watch the dichotomy between the Argentine reaction to Maradona and the ease with which he felt he could express himself in such glowing terms, and the culture in Ireland, which by and large eschews the cult of personality. We in this country are adept at playing the poor mouth, fearful of blowing our own trumpet in case we’d have the legs cut from under us by some sour mouthed cynic. It is true that in this country we tend to take far more pleasure in the misery of others than in our own success. Schadenfreude is your only man.

Our culture is more constrained than that in which Maradona grew up. The little Argentine was lauded from the beginning and encouraged to express himself. His football prowess was seen as an expression of something beautiful, something free. He had a talent that was lauded by all. The number 10 knew he had a gift from God, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

I’ve always found that disparity between soccer and GAA an interesting one. The GAA has as much soul as association football, its games have as much character, yet there has always been, even up to present times, an element of modesty about our games. Perhaps the prime example of this is when a goal is scored – witness the sheer abandon that exists when a soccer player scores (particularly in South America). The outpouring of joy that accompanies the scoring of a goal at the Bombonera is orgasmic, as the climax of a score has been reached with the foreplay of some beautiful football. Contrast that with a goal at Croker – the head will be bowed, almost in embarrassment, as the scorer reverts to his position on the pitch.

This is to return to the Irish attribute of false modesty – a fear of “getting ahead of themselves” means that the GAA player will eschew any mad celebration (bar perhaps the receipt of a manly slap on the arse) for fear that they may provoke the ire of the opposition players and supporters.

If any GAA player had contributed to a book such as El Diego they would have been vilified the length and breadth of the country. Our culture demands that the individual is subservient to the team, the common cause must not be impinged upon. Players such as Ring, O’Connell, Carey and Canavan would have been ridiculed if they had sought to impose themselves just as Diego Maradona did. The culture in this part of the world would not have accepted such glorification of one individual to the detriment of others, as was witnessed in the 2002 World Cup when Roy Keane departed the Irish camp in acrimonious circumstances.

But that’s a whole other topic for another day…