It may be disguised behind a romantic name and a loving nod to nostalgia. But the Diego Armando Maradona Stadium is a slaughterhouse of a venue.
And for reasons only known to himself, Giovanni van Bronckhorst walked into it last night like an unsuspecting lamb. A man who has experienced football at its highest and most punishing level, taking one of the biggest gambles of his illustrious career. That he left with nothing more severe than a three-goal beating might feel almost like a moral victory given what has been done to his team during this unrelenting trauma of a Champions League campaign.
He may even point to chances fluffed by Alfredo Morelos as proof he knew what he was doing all along. But this would be no more than deflection. Or a desperate distortion of the truth. The fact is, he arrived in the south of Italy needing a miracle. He left with another bloodied nose – dished out by the hand of God.
