The noise from the middle tier of the stand at the Spartak Stadium was strangely persistent, rising above the pre-match hum of Argentina versus Iceland in Moscow, the pitch a humid pocket of shade, the far end still pounded by heavy mid-afternoon sun.
It was a banging noise. And a rattling noise. And a yelling noise. People had already begun to turn and point. Looking up, the first thing you saw from below was the fold of chins and sub-chins. Then it was the cigar, protruding like a gun snub above the lip of the balcony. And finally it was the face of Diego Maradona craning over the rail, arms spread in a papal gesture, and looking like, if not the most excited man of all time, then surely the most excited man yet.
