#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Sports #Football
It was around the same window of my obsessive reading life—2013 to 2016—when I not only immersed myself in African literature for translation but also made detours into sports writing. Because let’s be honest: literature is not only about epics and philosophies; it’s also about those rare human beings who turn into living myths.
And Diego Armando Maradona was myth and man entangled, a comet and a shadow at once. Jimmy Burns’s Hand of God: The Life of Diego Maradona, Soccer’s Fallen Star, is, to my mind, one of the most compelling biographies of a sportsman ever written—not simply because it chronicles a career but because it grapples with the strange alchemy of genius and self-destruction.
The book begins, as all Maradona stories must, in Villa Fiorito, the slum outside Buenos Aires where Diego was born in 1960. Burns, a journalist of Anglo-Spanish descent, does not waste words in sentimentality. Instead, he paints the paradox starkly: a barefoot boy juggling oranges in dusty streets, destined to become the most luminous talent football had seen since Pelé. This grounding in poverty never leaves Maradona’s mythology—every goal, every dribble, every triumph seemed like a strike not just for Napoli or Argentina, but for the dispossessed. Burns makes you feel this sociopolitical charge, the way football carried the weight of an entire class.
But genius is never tidy. Maradona was more than football; he was theatre, rebellion, and at times chaos incarnate. Burns carefully balances the artistry—those mazy dribbles through England in 1986, the curling free kicks, the impossible control—with the ugliness that followed: cocaine addiction, mafia connections in Naples, feuds with the press, and battles with his own body. The book’s very title, Hand of God, is a perfect encapsulation of this duality. The infamous handball goal against England in the World Cup quarterfinal was both fraud and poetry: a cheat and a miracle, in the same instant. Burns never excuses Maradona but shows us why millions adored him precisely because he embodied that contradiction.
Reading this biography reminded me of other explorations of fallen idols. It stands alongside Richard Ben Cramer’s Joe DiMaggio: The Hero’s Life or Norman Mailer’s accounts of Muhammad Ali—texts that unravel the myth to reveal the frail human beneath. Burns is merciless yet oddly compassionate. He reports on the drugs, the infidelities, and the excesses, but he also conveys how Maradona could command a room with his charisma, how teammates spoke of him with reverence, and how entire stadiums in Naples wept at his feet.
What makes the book remarkable is its refusal to reduce Maradona to a cautionary tale. Too many sports biographies follow that predictable arc: rise, fall, redemption (or not). Burns instead insists that the rise and the fall are inseparable, that the same volcanic energy that let Maradona humiliate defenders also propelled him towards ruin.
This is not just biography—it’s almost tragic drama in the Aristotelian sense. Maradona is the flawed hero whose hamartia (hubris, addiction, defiance) ensures that his greatness and his downfall are two sides of the same coin.
In comparison with other football books—say, David Winner’s Brilliant Orange on Dutch football, or Simon Kuper’s Football Against the Enemy—Burns’s work is less about the game as a system and more about the man as a universe. Where Nick Hornby in Fever Pitch gave us the obsessive fan’s interior monologue, Burns gives us the dangerous glitter of the superstar himself. Both approaches are necessary to understand why football moves us so deeply: one from the stands, one from the pitch.
By the time the biography winds towards its later chapters, charting Maradona’s exile, his ballooning weight, and his failed comebacks, there is a melancholy that lingers. But even in the shadows, Burns refuses to let us forget the boy from Villa Fiorito, the man who in 1986 practically won a World Cup with his left foot alone. “Soccer’s fallen star,” the subtitle says, but you sense Burns’s book is about more than falling—it is about burning incandescently, however briefly.
A book like this makes you realise why sportswriting deserves to sit beside the novels and epics I’ve devoured. For in Maradona’s life, as Burns tells it, you find everything literature seeks: struggle, triumph, excess, tragedy, and myth. Hand of God is not just a biography—it is a human epic, carved into ninety minutes of football and decades of collapse.