10 ~Argentina World Champion: Diary of a passion.

December 18, 2022.

The World Cup began. Argentina was one of the favorites. Deep inside, I knew this World Cup was ours, and I knew it long before deciding to come to India. I told my friends several months earlier, very seriously, and they laughed in my face, but I didn’t doubt it for a second.

My original plan was to return to Argentina after two years of living abroad and for one of the biggest events in the world. Despite the more-than-valid criticisms of this World Cup in particular—the appalling way it was built, the exploitation of the workers, the 15,000 lives it claimed, and the massive boycott it deserved—deep in my heart, in that corner that is pure irrational emotion, I had the dream of seeing my country become champions. Ideologically, I am not proud of it at all, but something inside me felt an inexplicable nostalgia.

The most basic "being Argentine" instinct comes out when the World Cup arrives—it’s almost inevitable. Even if you don't like soccer, we grew up with it. It's almost part of our blood, and I would even say part of our identity. The rituals, the passions, and the damn pleasures, once again. And here is where I would start making excuses that don’t really justify anything, so I will try not to fall into that, but being far from home, what the World Cup represented was one of the things I missed the most, and one of the best things we Argentines have: the warmth and passion of our people, the joyful spirit, beers with friends, those gatherings full of expectations, the celebrations, the wild parties, the cursing, the excuse for another barbecue, a Fernet being passed around, and feeling your country close after feeling it far away for so long.

I had never seen Argentina win a World Cup. The stories of my dad came rushing back to me, telling me with eyes full of excitement about the 1986 World Cup celebrations while he jumped on top of the neighbor’s pizzeria table. Returning to Argentina after two years, hugging my friends, cheering, celebrating, and doing what we do best was more than a good excuse to come back.

Soccer, summer, my birthday, family celebrations, three months in our little beach house. I had the whole package. It was the perfect time to return. Too perfect. No matter what happened, Argentina was going to be a party. That was the package I sacrificed when I decided—or accepted—to come to India.

My body still twisted with discomfort, just as it had during the three months before making the decision that would change everything. I had told all my people to wait for me—family and friends—that I would be there in December. I would ride my bike home from work through the streets of Copenhagen, blasting cuarteto music, and I could almost make the bike dance. But the universe was pulling me in another direction, and even though I didn’t want to go, I couldn’t ignore it. I would have liked to ignore it. I would have loved to, but I couldn’t. Deep down, I felt this was what my soul needed, and this was just another heavy dose of the weight that came with that decision. Without realizing it, I was going through an immense surrender and detachment that was breaking me down. One of the first of many to come, perhaps the hardest. The first step when you don't want to move an inch from where you are.

It was incredibly hard to let go of that perfect idea and take a different path. The one that was truly meaningful to me, the one that was my own challenge.

I resisted as much as I could. Internally, I kicked and screamed and cried even more, every night, until I had no tears left, until there was nothing left but to accept it. My body was still tied to those pleasures that I knew were temporary, but I didn’t care. I was dying to experience that World Cup, to go to the Obelisco in Buenos Aires to celebrate and hug my friends at the biggest party in the world after so much time apart. It was stupid, of course. It wasn’t going to solve anything I was feeling inside, but my blood raced just thinking about it.

I cried a lot, but if I am writing this, it’s because I gave up that iconic moment. Instead, I was in Rishikesh, the Yoga capital and the place with the fewest bars and soccer atmosphere I had ever seen in my life. No beer, no TV screens, and no World Cup excitement. Just yogis, monks, and zen mode.

-This time the universe really screwed me over, I thought.

It was funny. The rest of India seemed like Argentina! I had never seen anything like it. Maybe you saw it on TV, but in South India, in Kerala, and also in Bangladesh, everyone was going crazy with gigantic light-blue-and-white flags. I had never even seen that in Argentina—they were stadium-sized banners waving from the rooftops of private homes. Everyone cheering for Argentina, but in India! It was unbelievable.

-Where does this come from? The answer is that they love soccer here, and therefore, they love Messi and Maradona. Just because of that, every time you say you're from Argentina in India—and in most Asian countries—they instantly love you and practically throw you a party. Unlike that, in Rishikesh where I was, the Yoga and wellness bubble, we couldn’t find a single place broadcasting the World Cup Final.

I had watched many of the matches in Denmark, cheering like never before. All of us Argentines living abroad were losing our minds—as always, but now in World Cup mode, which meant even more than usual. We packed several hostels in central Copenhagen with drums, jerseys, and stadium chants, showing the Danes what passion feels like. Climbing onto tables and grabbing any railings we could find as if they were goalposts. That´s so us.

After going through such a huge resignation, I had carefully planned my flights to India around the matches, delaying my departure as much as possible. I planned to watch the games in Copenhagen at least until the quarterfinals, with my friends and my people. After that, a part of me hoped Argentina wouldn’t make it to the final so I wouldn’t regret not being there, at the biggest party in the world.

But we won the World Cup, just as I had known from the very first day.

One part of me was mourning. The other part was cheering.

I watched the match against the Netherlands in a hostel, in a dark room, with the broadcast in Hindi on a projector with a shitty signal

It was just me, Akash, and an Indian guy wearing an Argentina jersey who cried more than I did when we advanced to the next round. The three of us suffered through the penalty shootout, the three of us went crazy when the connection froze, and the computer forced us to move around in the middle of the match, which, as always, was pure agony.

Argentina... we're already used to it, right? What can we say? It's hard work, as my father would say.

The three of us clutched our heads in desperation, and the three of us jumped together, hugging in a circle when we qualified.

Are we hugging? - we all thought.

In India, hugging between men and women and that kind of physical contact between strangers isn’t common. Before doing it, we looked at each other. The three of us evaluated it in the split second that clarity lasts. I felt a pause in the inertia of our bodies, and in the next second, we were pressed together, head to head, jumping and holding each other like maniacs. I was almost one of the guys. Thankfully, there are moments when those formalities go straight to hell.

The Indian guy did his ritual. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but of course, I followed along.

We were in the penalty shootout; we needed all the energy and a bit of luck, and if the magic was Indian, even better—anything that could help was welcome!

We placed our palms and foreheads on the ground. He prayed in Hindi. I prayed in whatever language came to me. I asked my father and all the saints to send us at least one good thing!

We held hands through the penalty shootout. I taught them Argentine chants that he repeated phonetically. I sent voice messages to my mom, screaming the goals when we scored each penalty, almost crying with emotion.

I wanted to be there. I still couldn’t believe I wasn’t. I also couldn’t believe I was watching the World Cup final like this—in a shitty, dark room with two Indian guys I barely knew, while Argentina was exploding with THE PARTY, and everyone was overflowing with excitement. Meanwhile, I was hiding from the world, still telling everyone I was in Copenhagen.

The madness that defines us started to emerge on the screen.

I couldn’t understand the commentators or what they were saying, but the images spoke for themselves.

What the hell am I doing here wrapped in Indian clothes?! How absurd!

I was alone and on another planet—one that was being left out of the party.

Opening Instagram and seeing all the celebrations broke me in half.

I should be there, a little voice in my head kept saying.

The more mature voice answered back:

Shhh, take a deep breath... We are exactly where we need to be.

And so, Argentina kept advancing, and I kept trying to engrave those words deeper and deeper into my mind.

I decided to watch the last match at my friend Ilo’s hostel with other Argentine girls who were also passing through. I tried to stay calm...

It was the final. Argentina was bursting into celebration, and once again, we were almost in the dark on a mattress on the floor, listening to commentators speak in Hindi, understanding nothing, and unable to feel even a drop of the excitement. I couldn’t take it anymore—my football-loving soul was on the verge of collapse.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I apologized, grabbed my things, and went to another small hostel where there were five or six more Argentines.

The mate- the argentine potion par excellence- started passing in all directions. Meanwhile, we all tried to find an Argentine broadcast to capture the feeling of what was happening back home.

I never missed the football commentators as much as I did that day.

We all chanted the mantra to Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, asking him to please give us a break. We chanted “Om” during the penalty shootout to send calmness and peace to our players and to ourselves, who were suffering like never before.

-Stay calm, boys, the World Cup is ours - we said to each other between vibrations, mudras, and hands in meditation pose. A couple of yoga practitioners in India had to be useful for something. That was our mission. We were Messi’s angels, Di María’s, and the entire team’s.

We suffered through the match, as always and like everyone else, because we are Argentine. It can’t be any other way—but we won! Yes, we won the fucking World Cup! Just like in '86, and I hugged my dad in heaven.

(Attempt to recreate the emotion of a video that cannot be played) ______________________________________________________________

The owner of the place had asked us, please, not to scream because a family member had died in the neighboring house, and everyone there had to show respect. We started jumping in a circle, all of us hugging each other, shouting the famous phrase “we are champions, we are champions” at the top of our lungs. Like lunatics, completely deranged, breathless and with no regard for anything, out of our bodies, stepping on everything around us, spilling the mate and yerba, out of our minds and as if we had just won the World Cup. It was unbelievable, but we had won it.

I still remember our faces, completely disfigured by the emotion. An emotion none of us had ever experienced before in our lives.

The hostel owner turned off the TV. We wanted to jump at her throat, practically begging her on our knees to please, please turn it back on, trying to explain in the shortest time possible—because every second was gold—how important it was for us to see THAT moment: when the team became immortal.

Of course, she didn’t do it. She was outraged. She didn’t understand what was happening or why we were jumping like maniacs... She wasn’t Argentine.

These seven lunatics, the only thing we wanted after all that agony was to see the celebrations. To see Messi lifting the cup after everything he had been through and everything we had been through as well. A joy in sky blue and white.

We climbed up to a sort of terrace and put the match on there. The signal was still terrible, but it didn’t matter. We started calling our families to try to share that emotion. Calls to Argentina from the mountains of Rishikesh were almost impossible. My mom was watching the final alone at home. I was dying to be there with her somehow, but it was just shouts, massive delays, and a desperate desire to hug her tight and not being able to.

It was happiness and deep sadness at the same time. I took a deep breath, once again. It was like a meditative practice.

All the expats lined up, in the dim light of an almost empty room, with a phone, a projector that froze every five seconds, and all of us desperately trying to win that battle against technology.

We stood side by side, like when the players sing the national anthem. We hugged the person next to us, someone we had only known for 180 minutes of the match, but by then, we were almost like siblings. We were fighting the same battle together and sharing that same inexplicable longing. The only thing we wanted was to see Messi lift the cup and hug each other as if we were all those people who were far away and whom we couldn’t embrace.

Of course, the transmission froze right at THAT glorious moment, like in the movies. The price of being “away,” my friend! We didn’t get to see Messi lift the cup, but we all cried with the same emotion as if we had.

We went out into the street, of course. In the silence of the night, at 1 AM in Rishikesh, there was no one else but seven lunatics jumping from side to side, cheering for our national team thousands of kilometers away from home. Repeating the same football chants, screaming so loud that even the players could hear us. Shouting, in a small town in the middle of the Indian Himalayas, loving being Argentine.

I was going through lesson number one, with sky blue and white tears, accepting and understanding that I had to be here, but that I will always be Argentine.