Argentinos Juniors  1  Banfield  0

I woke this morning to the sound of birds twittering outside my bedroom window. The first Saturday sun of the Southern Hemisphere Spring streamed through the crack between my curtains and I bounded out of bed. This was going to be a good day. I could feel it in the air.

I follow West Ham United from afar and Argentinos Juniors from right up close. And this, so far, has not been a good season for either club. That’s putting it mildly. As I munched on my breakfast toast, both sides were rooted firmly to the bottom of their respective divisions with a combined total of just four points from twelve games played and not a single victory between them.

But, as I said, I knew today was going to be a good day. I settled in front of the tele to watch West Ham run rings around their North London rivals, Tottenham Hotspur. That Frédéric Piquionne goal on 29 minutes came as no surprise. And as I slipped on my Argentinos Juniors shirt to head for the Diego Armando Maradona stadium and the early afternoon kickoff against Banfield, I knew that the Hammers would not let that victory slip from their grasp.

“I don’t want to go,” wailed my son. “I get too depressed with all the losing.” It’s foolish parenting to promise your kids things you can’t deliver and none of us wants to see our children suffer so I chose my words carefully.

The drum is the most important instrument

The drum is the most important instrument

“Just put your bloody shoes and your Argentinos Juniors shirt on. You’re coming with me. We’re going to win this one.”

I don’t know if you’ve noticed but if you’re waiting for a 113 bus then you can normally guarantee that three 65s, the bus you don’t want, will sail by in quick succession. But not today, they didn’t. There were two empty 113s waiting at the bus stop when we arrived. It was just that kind of day!

To tell the truth, and it hurts me to do so, this was a poor game. Both sides lacked cohesion and far too many passes went astray. The home side’s captain and lynchpin, Nestor Ortigoza, was missing through injury. But the weather was glorious and the rooftops of La Paternal glistened in the sunlight.

“I’m bored,” moaned my son twenty minutes from the end with the game still at 0-0. “Can I have my DS?”

“No you can’t. Victory is nigh,” I proclaimed.

“What!” he said.

I wasn’t wrong. About ten minutes from the end Gonzalo Vargas got on the end of a pass from Franco Niell and pushed the ball into the net. I’m not sure this victory was deserved but when has that ever concerned us?

Another loose ball

Another loose ball

My son was leaping about swinging his shirt in the air and the sparse crowd banged their drums like there would be no tomorrow. There will be a tomorrow but it won’t be as good as today.

Two crap teams close to my heart both clinch their first victories of their seasons and both by a single, nerve-jangling goal. What are the odds? This was as good as it gets. Or so I thought.

When I got home I switched on the tele to discover that Leo Messi  was owning up to a life-long passion for that delightful east London delicacy, jellied eels, and a love of Essex architecture and was hoping to fulfil his dream of signing for West Ham by the start of next season. Remarkable!

What more could I ask? Peace in the Middle East perhaps? I switched channels just in time to see Benyamin Netanyahu and Mahmoud Abbas announce a power-sharing deal in Jerusalem and that a joint Palestinian-Israeli team would represent the region at the next World Cup.

Unlikely, I know. But at first light, so were victories for both Argentinos Juniors and West Ham United. And when the unlikely comes your way it’s tempting to get a little greedy.

As the sun set over Buenos Aires and the family gathered around the piano for a bi-lingual rendition of  the West Ham anthem ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,’ I clinked the ice-cubes in my glass of whisky and reflected on what a wonderful world this would be if everyone were as shallow as me and could glean such joy and optimism from two such hapless teams.

Back in the real world, Boca’s short-lived revival came to an abrupt 1-0 end against Estudiantes. Velez Sarsfield regained the top spot with a 3-0 drubbing of Olimpo and Independiente clinched a useful 1-0 win against my tip for the drop, Gimnasia. River only managed a 1-1 draw against lowly Quilmes, Colon beat previous high-fliers, San Lorenzo 2-0, Lanus won 1-0 against All Boys and everyone else drew. Argentinos Juniors lifted themselves off the bottom and now sit proudly in 16th place with a visit to second-from-bottom Gimnasia next weekend.

Quilmes  2  Argentinos Juniors  2

Football, so they say, is a funny game. Only I’m not laughing. Argentinos Juniors were 1-0 up in the second half when Quilmes had a player sent off. Quilmes started to play better and scored an equaliser. Now that, whichever way you look at it, doesn’t make sense. Then they had another player sent off and, with nine men against eleven, they scored a second.

It’s not supposed to go like that. Argentinos Juniors are the current champions and currently sit at the bottom of the table. Quilmes are only one place above them.

Of course I was relieved when Nicolas Berado bundled the ball into the net for the equaliser in the dying seconds of the game but my innate sense of justice meant that I cheered with a heavy heart.

Quilmes showed greater fight and deserved more. They evoked the spirit of the indigenous people after whom the town of Quilmes is named, rather than the beer by the same name which, as I believe I’ve complained about on many previous occasions, has about as much bite as a pensioner who’s lost his false teeth.

The Quilmes people were a tough bunch, resisting the Inca invasions of the fifteenth century up around what is now the northern province of Tucuman. Then they spent another hundred or so years fighting the Spaniards until they were defeated in 1667.

Food Handout

Food Handout

The Spaniards, because they had guns and horses and the Indians didn’t, decided to relocate the survivors to a reservation just south of Buenos Aires and two thousand or so were marched the 1,500km, hundreds of them dying on the way. The settlement was abandoned in 1810 and the survivors moved to what is now the city of Quilmes – home to the nation’s most popular beer and its second worst first division football team.

A few hundred Quilmes Indians stayed on in Tucuman province and today their descendants cling onto scraps of land where they live in abject poverty, a shadow of their former glory. It’s much the same story for the remainder of Argentina’s other indigenous people.

Julio Roca is a national hero. He must be since his face adorns the Argentine 100 peso note. He was twice president at the end of the nineteenth century, rising to prominence as a talented and brave military officer, responsible for taming the wild interior of Argentina, the pampas. By taming I mean subduing the ferocious Indians. At least that’s what some history books will tell you. Others say he was a ruthless murderer who butchered innocent women and children. Nothing is ever simple, is it?

Whatever the truth, many Argentines are not even aware that they still have an indigenous population. There are quaint stories down in the southern town of Ushuaia about the 1831 British expedition, led by Captain Robert Fitzroy, that took four local Fuegian Indians back to England to ‘civilise’ them. Streets in Ushuaia go by the names they were given –Boat Memory, York Minster, Fuegia Basket y Jemmy Button.

But there were also ferocious battles, brave and colourful chiefs and well-established indigenous communities equal to those in North America. The difference is that there was no Hollywood film industry to record and romanticise them.

The truth is that in the end there wasn’t much to romanticise. There are hardly any Indians left in the far south, for instance. Illness and poverty killed them off many years ago.

There are communities in the north of Argentina, saved by their remoteness from modern society and their poverty. I’ve been there — the Toba in Chaco province, the Wichi in Salta and the Guarani in Misiones.

They are different communities with their own languages and customs but what they have in common is the poverty in which they live and the disdain with which they’re treated by the local authorities.

The Toba in Chaco were dying from malnutrition and tuberculosis – in the twenty-first century in a country that belongs to the G20 group of the world’s wealthiest nations.

Young Guarani were committing suicide because they felt ostracized by modern society. Their elders decided to keep them under quarantine and limit their exposure to the outside world – patrolling the perimeter of their community.

The Toba in Chaco

The Toba in Chaco

The Wichi, near the borders with Bolivia and Paraguay, were victims of a battle for souls being fought by North American and European evangelical missions which, in their race to win converts, paid little heed to the indigenous people’s history and culture.

These are all people for whom land is life. Yet land is also power in Argentina and after generations of falling victim to unscrupulous farmers, corrupt politicians and mercenary police forces, the remaining indigenous communities have been pushed into barren scraps of land where most rely on government food handouts and their only comfort is often in drink and drugs.

Yet despite the abject conditions in which they were living, I still encountered a generosity, a peacefulness and a nobility lacking in modern society. I always felt enriched by my visits.

“You’re a naive, soft-in-the-head old hippy,” I hear some of you say. “Romanticising a community that does little to help itself.”  Perhaps. But I can’t help thinking that Argentina needs its original people more than it thinks it does.

That’s what happens when your team is bottom of the table and playing crap football – you end up searching elsewhere for spiritual solace. It’s certainly not going to be found in that insipid Quilmes beer, unlikely to be discovered in the industrial drabness of the Quilmes neighbourhood but maybe, just maybe, it lurks in what remains of those once noble Quilmes people.

Elsewhere in the first division, there were goals galore. Underachieving Racing Club thumped Lanus 4-0. Rubbish Gimnasia claimed their first victory of the season with a 3-0 drubbing of Huracan and San Lorenzo continued their fine start to the season with a 3-1 win over Olimpo.

Boca are beginning to string results together with a 3-1 win over Colon, made all the sweeter for their fans knowing that River had lost 1-0 to Newell’s. Banfield beat Independiente 4-0 and new boys, All Boys, continue to shine with an impressive 2-1 victory over Estudiantes.

Argentinos Juniors  1  Newell’s Old Boys  2

It’s been a long and traumatic day. I played my part, running the Buenos Aires Half Marathon in a personal best time of one hour, forty-three minutes and forty-four seconds. So I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Why oh why oh why do we do it?!

Why oh why oh why do we do it?!

Picture the scene as the first twinkle of dawn light appears over the silhouetted Buenos Aires apartment blocks. Groups of loud, slightly wobbly youngsters are saying their farewells after a long night in the clubs and bars.

But they are not alone. Another breed emerges from the shadows, few at first, then in ever greater numbers, culminating in a wave. They are sprightly in their step and wearing shorts, despite the chill morning air. These are the runners, ten thousand of us, just emerging from our beds as the youngsters of Buenos Aires head for theirs.

This half marathon is one of the high spots of the Buenos Aires racing calendar, along with the full marathon in a month’s time. It started close to the River Plate stadium, took us to the Plaza de Mayo in the heart of the city where we turned and ran back.

In a country where so much is poorly organised, it’s always a joy to take part in something that is run properly. This race was certainly that, with well-placed water and fruit stations  along a route, interspersed with bands performing jazz, salsa, pop, James Brown and Michael Jackson numbers.

For a city that prides itself on its sometimes debauched, late-night, meat-fuelled lifestyle, there’s a surprisingly vibrant running scene. Buenos Aires doesn’t boast a great many parks but one whole side of the city is covered in green – the Bosques de Palermo. And this is where runners come – in large numbers on weekdays, in hoards at the weekend.

They come alone, as members of clubs or with their personal trainers. If you arrive early enough you’ll catch the tail-end of the transvestite prostitutes’ all-night shift. After the really busy nights you have to choose with care where you do your warm-up exercises as the ground is littered with used condoms.

Room to spare.

Room to spare.

Once the weather begins to cool, from about April onwards, there are races pretty much every Sunday – mostly 10km. There’s one annual race, la Carrera de Miguel, run in memory of Miguel Sánchez, a promising runner who was ‘disappeared’ during the 1976-1983 military dictatorship.

Because pretty much every muscle in my body was aching, I decided to treat myself to a seat in the top tier of the Diego Armando Maradona stadium. This gave me a view unhindered by wire fencing which meant I could see what was really going on. And it was not a pretty sight.

Perhaps last year was all an illusion created by distorted vision as we ducked and dived and contorted ourselves to peek snippets of action through the barbed wire and the metal posts and mesh surrounding the pitch-level standing only terraces from where I normally watch the games.

The home side’s defending was comical but was matched by the visitor’s farcical finishing. It would have been perfectly acceptable for either side to have brought on substitutes wearing red noses and with boots twenty sizes too big for them who then proceeded to push custard pies into the referee’s face.

Bird's Eye View.

Bird's Eye View.

I accept that a blustery wind didn’t help matters. Little scraps of paper, which I can only assume were manager Pedro Troglio’s game plan, blew across the pitch and twirled in the air.

And where were the fans? OK, it wasn’t a pleasant day and goals are hard to come by. But just four months ago Argentinos Juniors were champions and we were queuing for hours to buy tickets. There were gaps here bigger than the spaces you’ll find on the average footballers’ bookshelves.

Argentinos Juniors were lucky to go in at half-time with the game at 0-0 after the ball had sometimes bobbled, sometimes whizzed across the face of their goal like an escaped pinball.

Nico Navarro kept the home team in the game with a string of fine saves. And, against the run of play, they took the lead in the seventeenth minute of the second half with a header from Gonzalo Vargas. But Newell’s were always threatening and the equaliser a few minutes later came as no surprise. The winner six minutes after that was a cruel blow though. A draw, I thought, would have been a fairer result for two teams who slogged away in one of the worst games I’ve seen here. But then who ever said that football was fair?

Grey clouds hung heavy and ominously over the La Paternal neighbourhood. The executioner is sharpening his axe and looking hungrily at manager Pedro Troglio’s neck. The club authorities have pledged their confidence in the manager which, as we all know, probably means he’s already clearing out his desk.

The champions sit in equal last place with Gimnasia de La Plata, heads are drooping and Santiago Gentiletti’s sending off at the end of the game was I think their fourth in the six games they’ve played so  far this season.

Elsewhere, Boca Juniors finally found their feet and whooped new boys, Olimpo, 3-1. River Plate scraped a 1-0 at home to Arsenal to reclaim the top spot along with Estudiantes who beat Racing 2-0 and Velez who drew with San Lorenzo.

Argentina  4  Spain  1

I’ve said it all along to anyone who would listen – which pretty much reduces it to my cat and the elderly neighbour who walks around the block all day mumbling to himself – that Argentina have the best collection of players in the world and could and should have been champions in both 2006 and 2010.

As we all know, a collection of players does not make a team. But here, against the world champions in the Monumental stadium in Buenos Aires, we saw something of what could have been and what might be under Sergio Batista.

All Politely Seated...

All Politely Seated...

This was a joy to watch in the early Spring sunshine with an array of players before us to make the mouth water as much, if not more, than the succulent Choripan that I’d eaten before the game.

Imagine putting the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, a spattering of Rembrandts, a few Van Goghs and the best that the National Gallery can spare from its really expensive room on display at the same venue at the same time.

As well as the artistic talent on show, the combined value of the Spanish and Argentinian benches, never mind the starting 22, probably amounted to the GDP of a medium-sized European country.

Argentina, with a point or two to prove, were sublime from the starting whistle, passing the ball around to the sound of the crowd’s mocking ‘Oles.’ Spain, with little to prove since they’re world champions, didn’t really show up…at least not for the first half.

I’m talking figuratively here. But from where I was sitting way up in the clouds and almost touching distance from the planes that use this as the flight path as they come in to land at the city airport,  it is possible that those specks in red shirts down below were not David Villa, Cesc Fabregas and Andres Iniesta. It could be, and I’m being unnecessarily kind to Scotland here, that there was mix-up as they changed planes in Belgium or somewhere, with the Lichtenstein team on their way to Glasgow for their Europe 2012 qualifier.

And Lichtenstein, having arrived in Buenos Aires along with Spain’s red shirts, thought: “Well lads, we might as well.” While the Spaniards, one nil up against Scotland suddenly realised: “Hey, we’re supposed to be Lichtenstein.” And let in a couple of late goals.

Argentina were two up in fourteen minutes with goals from Messi and Higuain. Carlos Tevez took advantage of a comical slip by the Spanish keeper, Jose Reina, to add a third before half-time. This was dream football, only something was not quite right.

Collection of Artists

Collection of Artists

“Oi! Sit down. I can’t see.” What? We were in the stands, standing room only, in a country where football is watched for the most part with your knees straight, the soles of your shoes firmly resting on concrete and the earlobe of the bloke in front obstructing your view of the corner flag.

This was not opera in the Teatro Colon. But the insistence on being seated, the level of noise, the polite ripples of applause that barely disturbed the balmy evening air brought to my mind a summer evening in a small English village watching cricket. “Excuse me Mrs Pilkington. Would you kindly pass the cucumber sandwiches.”

This crowd was made up of people who don’t normally frequent the club grounds at the weekend. Here were men with their jumpers carefully slung over their shoulders like they were going punting in Cambridge. They didn’t know the words to the songs. There were times when the loudest voice was that of the ice-cream seller eight blocks and fifteen rows away. “Helados. Helados. Get your strawberry helados” are hardly the kind of lyrics to stir your team into action.

Presumably Del Bosque gave the Spaniards a good talking to at half-time because they came out with a little more purpose. But still, that patient build-up for which they were praised during the World Cup, here was often languid. Argentina showed more grit and all their players did what we know they can do, especially Lionel Messi.

Time for Fireworks

Time for Fireworks

He produced a few moments of pure magic played as though he were genuinely on speaking terms with the rest of the team. Ever Banega showed his class, Javier Zanetti, making his three-thousandth appearance for his country aged 94, played as he always does, with composure and never at any moment at any risk of putting a single hair on his immaculate head out of place. And Sergio Romero, to my mind a goalkeeping fashion icon, was both authoritative and agile.

And when you have the luxury of being able to bring on as second half substitutes the likes of Sergio Aguero, who scored Argentina’s fourth,  Angel Di Maria and Andres D’Alessandro then all you can really do is sit back and purr.

OK, OK. I know that this was only a friendly and we shouldn’t read too much into it. But Argentina is a country where the phrase ‘unfulfilled potential’ is unfortunately applied far too often in many areas of life.

So at least in the sporting world, on the same day that Argentina beat Brazil in the basketball World Cup in Turkey and shortly after the women’s team had beaten England in the hockey World Cup in Rosario, the post-match firework display was a fitting celebration.