Argentinos Juniors  4  Independiente  3

I have a confession to make. I prayed at today’s game since I have faith. How could I not have? We were three-one down and not getting the breaks. The title was slipping away from Argentinos Juniors. So I prayed to the God of Football who I imagined must be floating above the pitch or sitting high in the stands above the press boxes. I didn’t ask that my team should win. That would have been unfair to the opposition team and to the Independiente fans, some of whom no doubt deserve to be rewarded with regular victories for their good work in the shanty towns or for looking after their incontinent grannies. I merely asked for a just result, that the best team should win, that good football should dominate, that a bolt of lightning should strike that servant of the devil, otherwise known as the linesman, for ruling offside a perfectly good goal.

Look to the Sky

Look to the Sky

I didn’t go down on my knees or face Upton Park or anything like that. It was just a gentle: “C’mon God. You appreciate attacking football. Don’t you think we deserve this one?”

And he came through. With goals from Nicolas Pavlovich and Juan Sabia to level the score. “Oh thank-you mighty one!” No, not you Diego! Although he was reported to be sitting up in the only executive box at the ground, the one reserved for his family. I’m referring to THE mighty one who, in added time, allowed a loose ball to fall to Matias Caruzzo who stubbed the ball as only a defender who finds himself in an attacking position can and we watched it chink off of an Independiente player’s leg and into the net.

The word loco does not begin to describe the scenes that followed, both on the pitch and on the packed terraces. The kind of men who you’d move away from if they sat next to you on the bus, were hugging and kissing me and my family. In any other circumstances, I’d have called the police. Here, I celebrated alongside them, not forgetting to look skywards and give thanks. And if that were not enough, the morning’s leaders, Estudiantes, could only manage a 0-0 draw at home to lowly Rosario Central.

And there’s more. “We can’t take any more,” I hear you squeal. But you must. The Estudiantes driving force, 93-year-old Juan Sebastian Veron, was sent off and misses their last game at Colon. Argentinos need to beat Huracan away to be crowned champions for the first time in twenty-five years. Of course there’s a God!

I think there’s some logic to my twisted theory. The basic ingredient for survival as a football fan and as a religious person is faith. Faith that Jesus Christ really is God’s son and did rise from the dead. Faith that, despite overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary, God did create the world in six days and on the seventh grappled with the offside law. Faith that league leaders, Estudiantes would slip up against Rosario Central and allow Argentinos Juniors a shot at the title. Faith that Wigan might beat Chelsea on Sunday. Now that last one’s just daft – really eight steps too far.

Much has been written and spoken about Argentines’ almost religious fervour for football and I suppose, that for some at least, it does replace the more conventional religions – the ones that involve Gods and things. The official religion is, of course, Roman Catholicism. It’s still strong in the countryside but less so in the cities where the church establishment lost a great deal of credibility for siding with the murderous military government that terrorised the Argentine population between 1976 and 1983.

The most poignant embodiment of that terror was the priest, Christian Von Wernich, a police chaplain in the city of La Plata. He would take prisoners’ confession then pass incriminating information on to his bosses. He attended torture sessions and visited prisoners’ families, pretending to be sympathetic. He betrayed their trust. Von Wernich was sent to prison in 2007.

I attended his trial in La Plata where the Argentine Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Adolfo Perez Esquivel, said in evidence that he’d visited the then Pope who told him the church was justified in siding with the military since they were fighting a battle against Godless communism.

I’ve often thought that Buenos Aires is a city split in two. There are those who go out late on a Saturday night to wine, dine and dance until the Sunday sun comes up. And there are those who don’t.

Among the latter are the growing armies of evangelical Christians — Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses and the like — who prowl the quiet city streets on Sunday mornings knocking on doors and ringing the bells of the debauched other half who have just crawled into bed.

Gauchito Gil

Gauchito Gil

Many saw the former first lady, Evita Peron, as a saint and her mausoleum in the Recoleta cemetery is treated much like a shrine. Then there’s Gauchito Gil. All over Argentina there are shrines to him, red ribbons and bits of red cloth hanging from trees and fences. There are competing stories about what he did but the one I like best is the following:

Gil was a gaucho or cowboy who fell for an attractive widow. Only her brothers and the local police chief, who fancied her himself, chased him out of town and he enlisted in the Argentine army to fight in the War of the Triple Alliance – Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay versus Paraguay. And you thought Chelsea against Wigan was a lopsided contest!

On his return from the war he was hunted down and captured. As the noose was placed around his neck he told the hangman that he’d better pray for the recovery of his sick son. The hangman did, the son recovered and the executioner returned to give Gil a decent burial.

I’m not convinced, I must say. I’ve heard of better miracles – Greece winning the 2004 European Championship for one. And Carlos Tevez helping West Ham to stave off relegation a few seasons back, for another. But Gauchito Gil seems to provide a lot of comfort to a lot of people in difficult times, so who am I to question that?

Buenos Aires has the largest mosque in Latin America, built during the presidency of Carlos Menem, a Christian convert from a Syrian Muslim family. But there are not that many practising Muslims.

Argentina has the largest Jewish community in Latin America, mostly descended from European Jews fleeing the pogroms at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century.

Many of them are to be found on the terraces at Argentinos Juniors since their neighbourhood, La Paternal, has a large working class Jewish contingent.

Others live out in the countryside, the so-called Jewish gauchos. Moisesville, in the northern province of Santa Fe, is a typical Argentine country town with a neat plaza. Only the flower beds are laid out in Stars of David¸ and Hebrew writing adorns the facades of the theatre and bank.

The town also boasts a Hebrew school and chola bread in the bakery. The first arrivals were city dwellers in search of a biblical idyll but they proved to be useless on the land since they didn’t know one end of a shovel from the other.

Crops failed and they suffered hunger, racial abuse and general misery. Then word of their plight got out and reached the ears of European Jewish philanthropists who sent funding and technical help.

Moisesville and other similar Jewish towns thrived. Like in many rural communities in Argentina, the youngsters have now moved to the cities and of Moiseville’s five synagogues only one is still functioning – and that for an increasingly aged congregation.

The Holy One!

The Holy One!

Football and religion rarely seem to mix in Argentina. But there is one notable exception – The Church of Maradoniana. It started as a kind of joke played by four friends in the city of Rosario. Diego Maradona,  reasoned his disciples, didn’t just own The Hand of God but could claim the whole body.  And the church celebrating the stocky Number 10 has grown and grown.

Their holy day is October 30th – Diego’s birthday and we now find ourselves in the year 49 A.D. – After Diego. Among their ten commandments are:  Thou shalt declare thy unconditional love for football and Thou shalt spread the words ‘Diego Maradona’ throughout the universe.

After today’s result, I find my faith has been strengthened. Faith in football and faith that Argentinos Juniors can clinch that first league title in 25 years.

Argentinos Juniors  1  Godoy Cruz  2

I’m going to ramble only semi-coherently in relation to this game since it pains me to be direct. The Argentinos Juniors’ front man,  Nicolas Pavlovich is nicknamed El Buitre or the vulture because he’s a ruthless predator who devours any loose ball and callously slots it into the net. But after this game he should perhaps be renamed ‘The Pampered Budgie’ or ‘Mimi the Poodle.’

Hungry for goal

Hungry for goal

A wounded herd of antelope lay invitingly in the Godoy Cruz penalty area, with assorted vegetables available, but instead of sinking their talons into the tender flesh, ‘The Vulture’ and his teammates pondered the menu, inquiring over the vegetarian option. As the home side nibbled on crudities, Godoy Cruz stole into their nests, ate their children and stole their electrical appliances.

By the time Santiago Gentiletti grabbed one back for Argentinos Juniors it was too late. Godoy Cruz had already scored two and were ready to saunter back to the western city of Mendoza, licking the blood off their lips and chuckling heartily to themselves. This modest little team, which Argentinos Juniors thrashed at their own stadium last season, are unbeaten this year and sit proudly as joint leaders with Colon at the top of the Argentine first division.

This was the first time my kids had seen Argentinos Juniors beaten at home and I could see them losing faith. “Be strong,” I said wisely. “Strength in defeat will make you more of an Argentinos Juniors fan and victory, whenever it comes, will taste even sweeter.”

They looked at me admiringly and replied: “Can we have another Coke and a hotdog.” As a West Ham fan I’ve learnt to deal with defeat. I prepare myself for disappointment and am well aware that football, like life, can turn from being 2-0 up with twenty minutes to go into a 3-2 home defeat in the time it takes to drink half a cup of Bovril.

I have an ill-thought out theory that bears no scientific scrutiny whatsoever that the team you support says something about the kind of person you are.  We could, but we don’t, all support Manchester United, Chelsea, Real Madrid and River Plate. Who are those fans who turn out every week to cheer on Rochdale, Stenhousemuir and Platense? What kind of grit do you have in your souls? And is there a Swiss Army knife blade designed to remove it?

I’m fairly likely to forget your name, will certainly not remember your children’s but I will never forget what football team you support. You might be John the chartered accountant but to me, fundamentally, you’ll always be ‘that bloke with a season ticket at QPR who was at the 1967 League Cup final.”

Why oh why oh why!!!?? Half time misery.

Why oh why oh why!!!?? Half time misery.

The team you support and what it says about you is vital in Argentina where football seeps, sometimes unexpectedly, into everyday life. And real life very rarely seeps into the football stadium, which is probably one of the main reasons why the game is so popular here.

Argentina is a wonderful country but it should be so much better. They’re celebrating their bicentenary this year. When they marked the first hundred years in 1910, the future looked so bright. Immigrants were pouring in at a steady rate, attracted by the promise of a brave new world. The recently tamed pampas stretched the length of ten-thousand football pitches. There was land and jobs for all. Their railway network was one of the finest in the world. Grand, new European-style buildings lined the boulevards of Buenos Aires.

But a hundred years and several military coups later, spiced up by countless corrupt governments and millions of squandered pesos, the bicentenary is a little less sparkly.

A taxi ride rarely goes by without the driver bemoaning the state of the country, pining nostalgically for the good old days and grumbling about rising crime, the government, the economy and the schools. Since none of them were around in 1910 I’m not sure what golden age they’re referring to. But they’re not happy and football provides some much needed escapism.

There’re a lot of teams to choose from in Buenos Aires so just pick the one that best suits your personality. Boca Juniors if you’re a working class lad made good or with aspirations to make good or with the desire to flaunt real or imagined working class roots. It’s River Plate, the Millionaires, if you were born affluent, or would like to have been, and want the world to know. Racing Club will do for those who really revel in a good whinge since they constantly disappoint and it has to be your local neighbourhood side if you’re a local neighbourhood sort of person.

No-one is quite so calculated about which club they are seen to support as Argentine politicians. The former president and wannabe racing car driver, Carlos Menem, was an avid River Plate fan. Nestor Kirchner, the last president, husband of the current president and widely thought to be the man behind the throne, is a Racing Club man.  Much was made of the fact that as he went under the knife for a recent operation he asked how his team was doing. His wife and the doctors lied since, as usual, Racing had thrown away a lead and they didn’t want to upset Mr Kirchner in his delicate state.

Racing Club fan

Racing Club fan

The mayor of Buenos Aires, Mauricio Macri, is stinking rich and would look much better in the red and white of River Plate than the blue and gold of Boca Juniors. But it was as president of Boca that he gained national recognition. While he was at the helm, Boca won trophies and balanced their books. Many of the large working population of Buenos Aires thought: “Maybe he’ll run the city as well as he runs the club.” They voted for the kind of man who they’d normally dismiss as just another cocktail sipping, rich man’s son.

As you can probably tell from the tone of this ramble, I’m a little disillusioned with the Red Bugs after two defeats on the trot. It’s Estudiantes away next then Velez at home, two tough games and the team isn’t gelling.

Before all the games this weekend,  there was a minute’s silence for the victims of the Chilean earthquake. Two Argentinos players, the goalkeeper Nicolas Peric and Emilio Hernandez, are Chilean and perhaps, with the uncertainty back home to worry about, they were not fully concentrated on their game. Real life can sometimes, even in Argentina, seep into the football stadium.

Argentinos Juniors 1 River Plate 2

This was the worst I’ve seen Argentinos Juniors play this season. Their passing, usually so precise, was all over the place, more often than not at the feet of their opponents. River, who have had a terrible season so far, played with spirit and came away with a victory that could turn their campaign around. Their goals came from Diego Buonanotte in the first half and Mauro Rosales in the second. Argentinos pulled one back when Néstor Ortigoza slotted home a penalty right at the end – but it was too little, too late and the large River contingent celebrated late into the night.

River Plate is in the midst of an election campaign for a new president, with all the wild promises, sordid accusations and macho threats that make up an intrinsic part of any Latin American election. But fundamentally, this campaign is about how this once mighty club, still with a huge fan base and the best stadium in Argentina, has become mediocre, bordering on crap.

If I wanted to stretch a point, and I do, I would argue that River Plate could be a metaphor for Argentina – once great, bursting with promise but now among the also-rans.

At the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century, millions of Europeans flocked here, tempted by the wide-open spaces, modern, bustling cities and the promise of good things to come. The British brought the railways and football. Thanks lads!

French-style architecture lined wide boulevards. Italians, Spaniards, Russians, Croats and Germans discarded their lederhosen, furry hats, and castanets to forge a new Argentine identity to the beat of the tango and the smell of steaks sizzling on the barbeque.

Then, somewhere along the way, like a River Plate game-plan, it all went horribly wrong. The first military coup was in 1930 at the height of the world economic crisis – the original pre-internet, black and white crisis when, however poor and downtrodden the men were, they still wore a hat.

The military stepped in again in 1943. Three years later Juan Domingo Perón, an admirer of Mussolini and himself admired by the masses, won elections. He softened his hard-man image by placing a glamorous wife, Evita, at his side. She stood on the balcony of the presidential palace, entertaining the crowds by singing Andrew Lloyd Webber songs.

Juan Domingo and Evita

Juan Domingo and Evita

Today’s game didn’t kick off until well after 9pm and I rolled home in the early hours of the day after the night before. So I may be mixing things a little here. But the truth is that in the late 1940s and early 1950s there really was no need to cry for Argentina.

They didn’t join the Second World War until the Allies were 5-2 up and deep into injury time. So without a bead of sweat on its brow, Argentina was well placed to sell its abundant wheat and meat to a hungry, war-weary world. Perón was convinced that World War Three between the United States and the Soviet Union was imminent and that Argentina would emerge from the debris as a new superpower. He opened his doors to fleeing Nazis. Then in 1952, Evita died a premature death. If only those tunes had died with her!

Perón lost his way and in 1955 was turfed out. He left a legacy, some would say, of a confident, well organised workforce. Others would argue that the union movement was, and still is, riddled with corruption and Perón created more divisions than he healed.

Civilian governments took office, only to be thrown out by the military – in 1962, 1966 and then the murderous junta in 1976.

The Argentine economy has enjoyed a few blips of success. But they’ve usually been followed by spectacular crashes. There are many theories, usually involving mention of corruption and mis-management. The fact that the country is on its fifty-fifth economy minister in almost as many years can’t help. The fifty-second had to go when she was found to be hiding large sums of cash in the toilet cistern in her office.

Hyper-inflation in 1989 saw prices rise almost by the hour. Diners paid for their meals before eating in case the restaurant put the prices up before the coffee arrived. The provinces printed their own money.

I was working in Buenos Aires at the time and the pesos paid to me on the first of the month were worthless by the tenth. We had to negotiate a mid-month bonus to see us through to the end.

Throughout the nineteen-nineties, Argentina was governed by Carlos Menem, the president with the largest side-burns in modern world history. He sold the trains, telephones, water industry and pretty much anything else he could lay his hands on to foreign investors. A common topic of dinner-table conversation nowadays is whether the governments he headed were more corrupt than the husband and wife Kirchner team running the country at the moment.

Carlos Menem

Carlos Menem

At the end of 2001 Argentina defaulted on the biggest international debt in history – something around $95billion, give or take a peso or two. Transit vans full of undeclared and ill-gotten cash sped to the border with Uruguay to be stashed in foreign accounts. The banks pulled down their shutters and savers were denied access to their own deposits. They took to the streets in protest, bashing pots and pans. The then president, Fernando de la Rúa, fled the presidential palace in a helicopter.

Businesses collapsed. Millions fell below the poverty line. One Buenos Aires shanty town is reported to have erected a banner reading ‘Welcome to the Middle-Classes.’

Things have picked up a bit since then on the back of massive soya exports and a booming tourism industry. I like to think I’ve played my part by investing heavily in Argentine wine, although my only return so far has been in liquid assets.

Argentina still has the best education system in South America. But it continues to lose its best and brightest to well-paid jobs in Europe and North America, where there’s also the added attraction of better security and less corruption and bureaucracy.

The sad irony of course is that these emigrants have gone back to the lands their grandparents and great-grandparents fled a century or so ago in search of a better life in Argentina.

Argentina, like River Plate, still has plenty to offer. But I can’t help feeling that with all the talent they’ve had and with all the money that’s flowed in their direction from the sale of top quality players to Europe, the club should be on a par with AC Milan, Manchester United and Real Madrid. What we’ve got is Leeds United with a diagonal red stripe across the chest.