‘We arrived in Havana thinking we were there for a straightforward interview. But instead, we spent six days sitting by the hotel phone, waiting for a call to say the money had cleared into a Swiss bank account. Only then, we were told, would we be “good to go.”

Eventually, the call came.

We were summoned to a deserted medical centre on the outskirts of town, where we met Diego’s manager. He led us into what looked like a converted hut, a crumbling, sun-bleached cabin tucked behind the main building. We sat and had lunch together. He was all charm, bright smile, slick words, pure Berlusconi vibes. The kind of charisma you admire from a distance, but instinctively don’t trust.

After lunch, he told us Diego wasn’t quite ready for the interview. “Set up your kit next door,” he said, “and come back later. I’ll call you. Promise.”

So we rigged lights and cameras in the adjacent room, then drove back to our hotel in downtown Havana. Nothing. Silence.

Until 10pm.
The phone rings.
“Come now.”

We tore down the Malecón in the dark, flying through Havana’s empty streets. No map. No GPS. Just intuition and adrenaline. Somehow, we found our way back to the compound.

We waited in the dim reception area of the hut. Above us, we could hear Maradona in the bath. There was a tape deck playing a love ballad. When it finished, he rewound it. Played it again. And again.
Singing, at full volume:
"MARIAAAAA... TE AMOOOOOOOO!"

Half an hour passed. Then suddenly , boom, he bursts into the room like a Tasmanian Devil. All swagger and energy. We followed him outside, towards the interview hut. But it was pitch black. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

And then….
THUD.
A loud scream.
“¡Puta madre!”

Maradona had walked full-force into a tree and was now on the ground, swearing his head off. We all stumbled toward him, like blind mice in a blackout, arms flailing in the dark, trying to help him up.

Eventually, we made it to the hut.

What followed was a three-hour interview. Honest. Electric. Interrupted only by frequent trips to the toilet (accompanied by a few telling sniffles).

Before we left, I got him to sign eleven Argentina shirts for friends and family. Snapped a couple of quick photos. Then we drove back into Havana in the early hours of the morning, buzzing. No white powder needed.’

Adam Docker