Diego Maradona did not just rage against the dying of the light, he raged when the sun was at its brightest: and never more famously than on a blazing afternoon in Mexico 34 summers ago.

In less than five tumultuous minutes of a World Cup quarterfinal against England, the Argentine gave vent to both his deepest flaw and his uncontainable footballing genius.

His two goals were a microcosm of a career which, like the man himself, was a paradox of the dazzling and the dishevelled.

The ball itself gave him total obedience, but he ran wild without it. He had amazing physical strength, yet a weakness for everything.

He was only 5’5” (1.65m) tall yet towered over the game.

If the “Hand of God” was the work of the Devil, the sequel showed his feet were nothing short of divine.

With indecent haste, he superseded one of sport’s most infamous acts of cheating with one of its most celestial moments.

A global audience of two billion was transfixed: from sensing outrage to being spellbound.

Maradona never did anything by halves. For much of his life he was football’s smouldering volcano.

Born in a slum to a mother of Italian immigrant stock and a native Indian father, he almost lost his life in a cesspit as a toddler, but was saved by an uncle shouting “Keep your head above the sh*t.” It was advice he seldom heeded as an adult.

A child prodigy, he joined his beloved Boca Juniors, and mesmerised an expectant nation.

Blessed with double-jointed ankles and a low centre of gravity, he became unplayable. As one scribe memorably wrote: “He had the best pelvis since Elvis.”

It would take a world record £5m offer to prise him away to Barcelona in 1982. And an unkind cut from the “Butcher of Bilbao” (Andoni Goikoetxea) to slow him down.

With one of those ankles broken and feeling like a lost street urchin in a sophisticated city, his progress stalled. And Barca, already sensing bad habits, sold him to a Naples consortium.

He took to the seething, deprived seaport of southern Italy as if to the manor born. Almost single-handedly, he inspired the club to its only two league titles in its history as well as the Copa Italia and the UEFA Cup.

On the field, his left foot wrote poetry but off it he raged in darkness from craters of drug and debt-induced despair: a king to the Neapolitan ultras, but a pawn of the notorious Camorra mafia.

He binged on pizza, cocaine and hookers. In fact, he binged on life itself.

Cocaine was his toughest opponent and he once admitted: “Drugs made me a worse player, not a better one.” He became a tortured soul.

Over-indulgence was also the downfall of his early inspiration, George Best, who uncannily passed away on the same day, 15 years earlier. The Irishman once claimed: “If I’d been born ugly, you would never have heard of Pele.”

For Best it was booze, women and fast cars, but for Maradona it was a far more sinister cocktail that led to him missing matches although in the starting line-up.

That is why his stats are merely impressive rather than overwhelming. He was an awful lot better than the 314 career goals in 608 games suggest.

Lionel Messi has 447 in 493 for, yes, Barcelona, but will never have a fraction of the adulation Maradona has had – and is still getting.

He led Argentina to World Cup victory in 1986 and dragged a poorer side to the final in 1990 when even he couldn’t combat the efficiency of West Germany.

One last shot at global glory ended in the shame of a failed drug test at the 1994 finals in the US.

As he said, “it’s difficult to come down from the moon,” and his post-playing career was an unworthy follow up.

Found guilty of shooting at journalists with an air rifle – perhaps not a cardinal sin – but not paying taxes, not paying debts, and denying paternity suits from scores of women left his private life in a Gordian Knot.

Ever the rogue, he consorted with left-wing politicians such as Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez. But also addressed the Oxford Union, hosted a TV show and managed Argentina.

He died on Wednesday, of a heart attack, but for the later part of his 60 years he’d been dodging death as adroitly as he once dodged tackles. So often that we thought he was indestructible.

In 2005, he ballooned to 120kg and had to have his stomach stapled, losing 50kg. But he survived.

And even when he went for brain surgery last month, we thought he’d bounce back larger than life, spouting love and vitriol in roughly equal measures.

The huge outpouring of grief and affection suggests he has been largely forgiven for his peccadillos. And debate centres on his legacy and just where to place him in the pantheon of football greats.

It has to be at the very top table, with Pele and Messi, no doubt. And to show that the world loves a bad guy he is the most loved of that trio – by a country mile.

He did far more than Messi has for his country which is why Argentina is crying now. But so is football.

We love players with a bit of devil in them, but he also had the feet of an angel.

Rest in peace, Diego, because you had precious little while you lived.

The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.