When we play with them, one says he's Cubillas and the other Cueto
En julio de 1979, un adolescente de dieciocho años llegó a Lima con una sudadera de Harvard y el peso del mundo sobre sus hombros: Diego Maradona, ya cotizado en cifras astronómicas, jugó su primer partido en suelo peruano en un empate 2-2 que la historia recordaría menos por el marcador que por un gesto íntimo. Al final del encuentro, el joven prodigio pidió la camiseta de César Cueto —no como trofeo, sino como regalo para su hermano—, revelando que detrás del fenómeno todavía habitaba un muchacho del barrio que admiraba a otros y soñaba en voz alta.
- Un club argentino necesitado de dinero y una federación peruana hambrienta de espectáculo sellaron un acuerdo de treinta mil dólares para traer a Maradona a Lima, convirtiendo un amistoso en un acontecimiento de proporciones casi diplomáticas.
- El estadio Nacional recibió a 14.337 espectadores que fueron convocados por el nombre de un chico de dieciocho años que ya valía más que muchos equipos enteros, mientras los diarios abrían sus páginas deportivas como si anunciaran una visita de Estado.
- Maradona anotó primero y Argentinos Juniors llegó a liderar el marcador, pero fue César Cueto —despidiéndose del fútbol peruano para emigrar a Colombia— quien robó la ovación más larga de la noche, opacando al propio fenómeno.
- Cuando sonó el pitazo final, Maradona cruzó el campo no hacia los flashes sino hacia el banco donde Cueto se sentaba, y le pidió su camiseta con una sencillez que desarmaba: su hermano la quería, y eso era razón suficiente.
- Ese gesto —un ídolo pidiendo la camiseta de otro con la humildad de un niño de barrio— quedó suspendido en el tiempo como la última imagen de Maradona antes de que la fama lo transformara en algo más grande, y quizás más solitario, que él mismo.
La mañana del 4 de julio de 1979, Diego Armando Maradona llegó al estadio Nacional de Lima con una sudadera de Harvard y dieciocho años recién cumplidos. Era ya una corporación andante: Barcelona había ofrecido mil millones de pesetas por su pase, Austral Airlines le pagaba trescientos mil dólares anuales por lucir su logo, y Argentinos Juniors —el club que lo había criado— cobraba treinta mil dólares solo por traerlo a jugar un amistoso en suelo peruano. Maradona sostenía económicamente a su familia en los barrios populares de Buenos Aires, y el mundo entero lo observaba como si fuera un presagio.
El partido terminó 2-2. Maradona abrió el marcador a los treinta y nueve minutos con un remate zurdo tras un error del capitán Chumpitaz, y Argentinos llegó a ponerse en ventaja antes de que un autogol sellara el empate. Pero el verdadero protagonista de la noche fue César Cueto, el zurdo más elegante del fútbol peruano, que abandonaba el campo por última vez antes de emigrar a Colombia. La tribuna le dedicó una de las ovaciones más largas que se recuerdan, y la revista Caretas lo resumiría con ironía: Maradona llevó al público al estadio, pero Cueto hizo el espectáculo.
Lo que ocurrió después del pitazo final fue lo que la historia decidió guardar. Maradona se acercó al banco donde Cueto descansaba y le pidió su camiseta —no como trofeo, sino como regalo para su hermano, que en Buenos Aires jugaba a ser Cueto en las canchitas del barrio. "Cuando jugamos, uno dice que es Cubillas y el otro que es Cueto", explicó el joven a La Crónica con una naturalidad que desarmaba.
Esa noche en Lima fue la última imagen de Maradona antes de que la fama lo convirtiera en leyenda. Un mes después ganaría el Mundial Juvenil en Tokio. Años más tarde sería otra cosa: más grande, más trágico, más solo. Pero en julio de 1979, todavía era un muchacho de barrio que quería llevarle un regalo a su hermano.
On the morning of July 4, 1979, an eighteen-year-old Argentine arrived at Lima's Nacional stadium wearing a Harvard University sweatshirt. Diego Armando Maradona had come to play a friendly match, but he was already something more than a footballer—he was a phenomenon, a boy who had escaped the poverty of Fiorito and was now supporting his entire family on wages that seemed impossible for someone his age. Barcelona had already offered a billion pesetas for his contract. The world was watching.
Argentinos Juniors, the club that would later be called the Nursery of the World for producing players of Maradona's caliber, had been hired by the Peruvian Football Federation to bring their young star to Lima. The fee was thirty thousand dollars—roughly one hundred ten thousand in today's money—a sum that reflected both the desperation of a club needing cash and the magnetism of a player who was already rewriting what was possible in the sport. Maradona earned eighty thousand pesos monthly, about nine hundred dollars, according to his contract from May 1977. But the real money came from sponsorships. Austral Airlines, Argentina's second-largest carrier, had signed him to a three-hundred-thousand-dollar annual deal, a contract so extravagant that it required the backing of Guillermo Suárez Mason, one of the regime's strongmen and a devoted fan of Argentinos. The airline's logo would appear on his chest like a badge of national importance. At eighteen, Maradona was already a corporation.
The Peruvian national team, under coach José Chiarella, was in transition. The country had won the Copa América the year before but was struggling to maintain that form. Chiarella, a serious and studious tactician trained in Brazil, had made controversial choices—leaving out stars like Nene Cubillas and Cholo Sotil—and Peru had already stumbled in early Copa América qualifying. But on this July night, none of that mattered. The draw was with Maradona, and the newspapers had announced his arrival with the solemnity of a state visit. El Comercio's sports page opened with a five-column headline: "Maradona and his team will arrive in Lima today." It was the first time the Argentine's name appeared in Peru's most important newspaper.
The match itself ended 2-2. Maradona scored first, at thirty-nine minutes, capitalizing on a mistake by Peru's captain Héctor Chumpitaz with a sharp left-footed strike past goalkeeper Darío Chacal Herrera. Peru equalized through Leguía, then Argentinos took the lead through Moreno. An own goal by Minutti sealed the draw. Fourteen thousand three hundred thirty-seven people paid to watch. The evening carried the smell of anticuchos from Paseo de la República, and the match was already becoming memory.
But what happened after the final whistle was what mattered. César Cueto, Peru's most gifted left-footed player and a two-time champion with Alianza Lima, was being substituted out of the match for the last time. He was leaving for Atlético Nacional in Medellín, Colombia, and the crowd gave him one of the loudest ovations in recent memory. Cueto was Peru's poet, the embodiment of something the country recognized in itself. The magazine Caretas would later write, with irony, that "Maradona brought the people to the stadium, but Cueto made the show."
When the whistle blew, Maradona walked to the bench where Cueto sat and asked for his jersey. Not as a trophy or a souvenir, but as a gift. His brothers had asked him before he left Buenos Aires—one of them wanted Cueto's shirt, wanted to own something that belonged to a player he admired. Maradona told La Crónica what he said: "It's Cueto's jersey. He's a great player and I admire him. I'm taking it to Buenos Aires because my brother asked me for it as a gift. When we play with them, one of us says he's Cubillas and the other says he's Cueto." The shirt was an adidas model with long sleeves and a red crew neck, different from what Peru had worn in Argentina '78. Today it is worth more than a thousand dollars to collectors, a rarity that traveled back to Argentina in the national team's charter after October's qualifying matches.
That was Maradona's first night in Lima—a 2-2 draw, a goal, a request for a jersey, and a sentence that captured something true about how the young Argentine saw the world. He was already a legend in the making, already commanding impossible sums and sponsorships, already the subject of magazine covers and newspaper speculation. But he was also still a boy who wanted to give his brother a gift, who admired other players, who played imaginary games where he and his siblings became Cubillas and Cueto. Within a month he would win the World Youth Championship in Tokyo. Within years he would become something else entirely. But on that July night in 1979, before the documentaries and the series and the endless analysis, he was just a teenager in a Harvard sweatshirt, asking for a souvenir to take home.
Citações Notáveis
It's Cueto's jersey. He's a great player and I admire him. I'm taking it to Buenos Aires because my brother asked me for it as a gift.— Diego Maradona, speaking to La Crónica after the match
Maradona brought the people to the stadium, but Cueto made the show.— Magazine Caretas, commenting on the match and Cueto's farewell
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did Maradona's brothers ask him for Cueto's jersey specifically? What made Cueto matter to them?
They were kids in La Paternal, in Buenos Aires. Cueto was a left-footer, like Diego. He played with style, with poetry. When you're young and you see a player like that—someone who makes the game look like art—you want to own a piece of it. You ask your brother to bring it home.
Maradona was already earning enormous sums at eighteen. Why would he care about a request from his brothers? Why not just buy them anything?
Because money wasn't the point. The point was that Cueto was real. He was someone Diego admired. You can't buy admiration. You can only ask for it, and hope the person you admire gives it to you.
The match ended 2-2. Maradona scored, but so did Peru. Was it a disappointment?
Not really. Argentinos came to Lima to be paid and to be seen. They were seen. Maradona scored. But the real story was Cueto leaving. He was the one saying goodbye. Maradona was just passing through.
The shirt is worth over a thousand dollars now. Do you think Maradona's brother still has it?
I don't know. But someone has it. Someone who understands what it meant—that for one moment, two left-footed poets acknowledged each other across a field in Lima, and one of them asked the other for proof that the meeting had happened.
What does that moment tell us about the young Maradona before he became a global icon?
That he was still capable of being moved by other people's talent. That he hadn't yet become the thing the world wanted him to be. He was still just a kid who admired other players and wanted to bring gifts home to his family.