‘Timing in life is everything.’ – John Sculley
‘To be on the ground in Buenos Aires to watch the final is something else. If there is a silver lining to England getting knocked out, then perhaps it’s that I can be here, watching the game without fear of death. Famous last words!’ – Richard Smyth 18/12/2022 (Match day)
I woke up that morning around 8:30, got showered, and as I hadn’t had time to grocery shop yet, I popped out for a bite. Things were already starting to heat up, and swarms of people were on the move to claim their seats for the final. World Cup fervor was palpable!
A lot of Argentinians like to watch the games at home with friends and family, often for superstitious reasons, which I completely get. Then they head out after if celebrations are in order. That said, there were still fans heading into bars in droves, and I would be one of them; I was just waiting for Joe to arrive. We had arranged to meet at mine at 10 am, and then the plan was to head out to a bar in San Telmo. It was way after 10 now, and Joe still hadn’t arrived; I was getting antsy.
I received a text from him around 10:30, saying he was leaving his place and would be here soon. He better hurry up or we’re going to struggle to get a decent seat (I thought); kick-off was at noon. I waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity, and around 11, I got another text saying he was in a taxi en route. Phew!
I called him up about 5 minutes later just to check on his ETA (expected time of arrival) as we were cutting it fine, and he said that he had messed up. He’d been trying to flag down a taxi driver for a while now, but to no avail. It seemed that all the taxi drivers were knocking off early to watch the match. He apologized and said he didn’t realize just how crazy things would be. I wouldn’t have minded, but I had told him that he would have to leave early and that we needed to get into a bar by around 10:30. Thanks, Joe, for potentially messing up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I ran out into the street and tried to get into a couple of bars, but they were already packed to the rafters. I didn’t care too much anyway; I wanted to be with the people, and I’d heard the obelisk about 15 minutes away was the place to be. I ran down there, and already the celebrations were in full swing. Thousands upon thousands of supporters donning blue and white were partying around the obelisk and surrounding streets – drums, chanting, dancing, foam spray going everywhere…
I grabbed a beer from a street seller and soaked up the atmosphere. After a while, I figured I better try and find somewhere to watch the match. On the hunt for a TV, I passed a very old, frail woman in a wheelchair who looked like Mother Teresa, dressed head to toe in the Argentinian football kit. She was being pushed through the crowds by, I assume, a doting son with a beaming smile. It’s one of the images that has stuck with me from that day.
I finally managed to find a bar where I could see the TV screen from the door, so I was half in the street and half in the bar. It wasn’t ideal, but I could just about watch the game, and it meant that I could also see the madness in the street unfold. Twenty-three minutes into the game, Argentina was awarded a penalty, and the man himself, Messi, stepped up to dutifully dispatch it, and in that moment, all hell broke loose – fireworks, jumping, wild swinging of t-shirts overhead, hugging, cheering, and foam spray filling the air.
Thirteen minutes later, Argentina scored again, and once again, the crowd went wild. One of the popular Argentinian football songs is loosely translated as ‘If you are not jumping, you are English,’ and this song seemed to be on repeat. As a man who is English, I certainly didn’t want to let everyone know, so I was jumping higher than anyone else. Clearly, there was still rivalry between us and the Argentines, and no surprise then that it boils to the surface at such events. Or perhaps, it once did, and now singing such songs has just become tradition.
Regardless, I was draped in an Argentinian flag that Lucila had bought me for protection, my protection cloak as I called it, and just in case, I had my Irish passport that I’d be waving high if things got too hairy. I also apparently look quite Argentinian; I have those dark Italian features from my Irish ancestry. Black Irish they call it. Thankfully, my Spanish teacher had recently taught me to perfect the local pronunciation of Argentina, which helped!
I was an infiltrator, an outsider. But I didn’t feel like one. It was evident in their warm embraces that the locals believed I too was Argentinean. As long as I refrained from opening my mouth and belting out ‘God Save Our Gracious King,’ I remained in the clear. I suspect that most wouldn’t have minded me being English, especially when they were winning, but I was also aware that football has the power to evoke nationalistic sentiments. Argentina and the UK are historical adversaries both on the pitch and the battlefield.
At halftime, I stepped into the streets. There was a real carnival atmosphere. Argentina was winning, and they were daring to believe. All was right with the world. A huge Argentinian flag was unfurled off the top of a building, and the crowd below cheered. Each time an elderly lady dressed in blue and white waved to the crowds down below, everyone hooted and hollered. There was dancing, more fireworks, and more drums.
I got speaking to a lady in her late 50s, early 60s, who had studied in England in her youth, and she told me to be careful as there were some bad people about and pointed to a few. For me, I just saw a lot of happy people celebrating and thanked her but assured her I’d be fine.
