There aren’t many Hungarians who do not have at least one, direct or indirect memory of Ferenc Puskás. For me, the first of these memories is when as a child, I had a chance to shake hands with the legend when he visited Balatonfüred for a gala match, back home after decades in Madrid.
He was no longer on the pitch, he came in civilian clothes, elegant but relaxed. Possibly it was only my grandfather, the same age as him, who appreciated our meeting on the sidelines more than I did, watching his youthful icon signing autographs for his grandson. But I, as a little boy, also sensed Uncle Öcsi’s exceptional charisma.
My other precious memory is of the death of the world’s emblematic Hungarian a decade and a half later, but it is still uplifting. Puskás moved to the football pitches of Heaven in November 2006, when a trip to Prague for Advent had already been arranged for me and my group of friends. Unfortunately, this coincided with the funeral of Uncle Öcsi (Little Brother) in early December, which we would have loved to attend. We ended up designing and producing custom T-shirts with his name, jersey number 10 and portrait for the trip, and all fifteen of us wore them as a memorial on the day of the funeral in the Czech capital. There was not a tourist, local or foreign, who did not nod in recognition of our attire. These experiences, the one in Balatonfüred and the one in Prague, together sent out a message: Puskás lives in the hearts of everyone, regardless of generation or nationality.
Hungaricum laude 