Ar-Gen-Tina

My cover in the English bar, downtown Kansas City, was blown at half-time when I had to make a run for the bathroom. Jeers and boos rang out from the gathered English fans as they spotted my Scotland shirt. It’s true: you reap what you sow, and there’s no doubt our southern cousins relish giving back, in bucketloads, the ABE we dish out to them. It wasn’t threatening—at least, not at that point—but I wasn’t looking forward to another 45 minutes (or, as it turned out, 75 with extra time) as their target. I was therefore thankful to have an excuse to flee the bar, as I wanted to get out to Arrowhead Stadium in plenty of time for the main event: Argentina v Switzerland.

I’d been told it was best to drive, but it still took an hour or so to get to my reserved parking spot. I listened to the second half of the England game in the car and then as I walked with the Argy Army into the stadium. So many fans in blue and white stripes! It was a totally different experience to be among supporters who exuded belief in their team and expected success. Even walking across the car park, the sense of anticipation was palpable.

Entry to the stadium was much faster than in Boston—maybe they’d learned from the experience of the five earlier games—and I was in my seat with 15 minutes still to go in the England match. The temperature was nudging 90°F, so I didn’t stay there long, instead seeking sanctuary in the shaded concourse. It was packed. Every available TV was surrounded by enthusiastic, knowledgeable Argentinians… and me. Every one of us was ABE!

Joking aside, I really enjoyed watching the final minutes of normal time and then extra time with them. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I found that the majority of the Argentinians spoke very little English. I’d assumed most would be Argy-Americans, but no—the majority seemed to have made the long trip from the Southern Hemisphere to follow their team.

I’ve said many times that my gripe isn’t with the England team but with the English media, who will be relentless in their celebrations for the next 100 years should England win. The team itself is very, very good, and Bellingham is arguably the best player in the tournament. I said in Qatar that he wasn’t living up to his potential because of the weight of expectation on his young shoulders. This tournament, though, he has matured and carried England to the semi-final.

I’ll save comment on Wire-gate—the overhead camera which assisted him for the first goal—for another time. It’s just one of many refereeing controversies in this tournament.

But in the end England won, the Argentinians groaned, and the three English fans who had been lurking in the background stepped forth with a loud and, to be honest—not just because I’m Scottish—rather obnoxious celebration. Who let them in?

It was time for the main event, so I grabbed a pulled pork sandwich, a side of tater tots and a Stella, then headed back to my seat, which was still about 30 minutes from the shade line slowly creeping across the field as the sun started to set ahead of the 8 o’clock kick-off.

The food—not something I’d normally comment on—was actually reasonably good, but as I tucked into it I was still in shock at the cost: $50 for fast food. The money-grabbing exploitation of fans at this tournament has been criminal. We complained in Qatar that a beer cost $15, but that’s mostly explained by the 100% tax on alcohol to encourage moderation. Here, a $23 beer is simply corporate greed.

This was my third game and, while I’m ashamed that I’ve allowed myself to be fleeced by these people, I’m now somewhat immune to it. I was able to put it to the back of my mind as I took my seat and soaked in my surroundings.

As the sun set and the stadium filled, the atmosphere steadily built towards kick-off. After the throngs of Argentinians in the car park and on the concourse, it came as no surprise that the stands were a sea of light blue and white.

I felt a little sorry for the few pockets of Swiss supporters, trying to make themselves heard above the cacophony of Argentinian singing.
As far as I could tell, I was the lone true neutral in the crowd. Well, apart from a smattering of Americans. From the few I spoke to, most were uninitiated in the world of soccer, there for the World Cup spectacle rather than the football itself, and some seemed slightly bemused—perhaps even a little apprehensive—at the rowdy Argentinian pre-match festivities.

Coach Lasso, of course, is well accustomed to football fandom.

In front of me sat two fathers with their young sons, fresh off the plane from Buenos Aires the day before. They spoke very little English but were delighted to see the Scottish badge on my shirt supporting their team. The only rowdiness from them came from their wee boys, bouncing excitedly on their seats as the teams took the field.

The excitement and the singing continued through kick-off and kicked up another notch when McAllister—have we checked whether he has Scottish heritage?—fired Argentina into the lead after just 10 minutes.

Like everyone else, I assumed that, with the men in red major underdogs, the blue and whites would go on to win comfortably. But nobody told the Swiss, who produced an impressive, rugged defensive display and, over the course of 90 minutes, held firm and clawed their way back into the game, equalising in the 67th minute.

For years I’ve tried so hard not to jump on the Messi bandwagon. At least during the peak years of the Ronaldo/Messi debate I was firmly in R7’s camp. I’ve swung a little more towards Lionel’s side in the later years of their rivalry, and in my mind he has proved himself the better player. But… having watched him in this game, and not through the filter of TV—sharp intake of breath—I would bench him!

Yes. I would sit him. In this game he literally did nothing. I’ve watched many superstars play: Ronaldo, Modrić, De Bruyne and others. Yes, they are economical in their involvement, waiting for their chance to strike, but they are always a factor. Except for a few fruitless runs late on, when the game was in the balance, Messi was not.

In my view Argentina played the game with 10 men. Which helps explain why the Swiss held the line even after they controversially had a man sent off. Another one I’ll reserve comment on until later—but it was a red!

[Editing note just four days later. LOL. What do I know? Messi was barely a factor in this game, but he came to life in the semi-final against England before absolutely bossing the final half hour, producing two exquisite assists to lead Argentina to a 2–1 victory. I hereby withdraw my arrogant outburst and admit that, yes, Messi really is that good. Stop the wagon. I’m coming aboard.]

The difference between elite sides like Argentina and wannabes like Switzerland is that the elite teams have players who can produce a moment of magic. Martínez was that player tonight, with a beautifully shaped shot from 25 yards curling, top bins, into the right-hand corner in the second half of extra time. A thing of joy and beauty!

So long as England stay in the tournament, Scotland always has a team to support. My allegiance now transfers to Argentina for the semi-final. All jokes aside, I expect that to be a fantastic game of football. Both teams have shown vulnerabilities during this tournament and both have players capable of producing that moment of magic. I believe it will be one of those games decided by which side commits the fewest errors.

Parking any personal bias, this could be up there with the legendary Argentina-England matches—Hand of God ’86 and Beckham’s red card in ’98—for drama and excitement. I can’t wait.

Tonight though, when Argentina scored again in the final moments to put the game beyond doubt—in my mind those last-minute goals don’t count when all of the opposition players, goalkeeper included, are up the other end pressing for an equaliser—I watched the Swiss fans slip quietly away, leaving the mass of Argentinians to their revelry. I celebrated with them – for a moment. But strangely it felt intrusive. They were so incredibly joyous while my happiness, though real enough, felt nonetheless fake.

I had planned to stay in the stadium for a while after the game to let the traffic clear, but feeling uncomfortable, I slipped away too, the din of Argentinian singing fading behind me.