Maradona

By the way he stands,
In the middle of the field,
Killing it with his chest,
Flying up to the line,

You never know with which foot,
He'll slip away again,
With a quick move
Or setting up a wall.

By the way he stops it,
Pressing it against the ground,
Raising his head,
Winning the short sprint,

You never know with which foot,
He'll dribble past them again,
The side defender
To my unbelieving eyes.

How he breaks the waist and reason,
He adjusts in the air, bird,
To paint that goal on Sunday.

Lerelele...leleo

By the way he changes it,
Without doing one too many,
With that exquisite curve,
That anticipates chance,

You never know with which foot,
He'll break free this time,
From the defenders' legs,
To my unbelieving eyes.

By the way he stands,
To take the penalty,
Where he risks it all,
No rematch or replay.

You never know with which foot,
He'll dribble past them again,
The side defender,
To my unbelieving eyes.

How he breaks the waist and reason,
He adjusts in the air, bird,
To shout that goal to oblivion.