Argentinos Juniors  2  Racing Club  1

Football is a game in which the cliches invariably are true. It’s a game of two halves, the best team wins, the referee’s a moron and I’m either over the moon or as sick as a parrot.

This was a game of two halves. Racing were superior in the first half, scored one goal and really should have gone in at the break 4-0 up. But they squandered their chances. Argentinos Juniors made some much needed changes at half time, came out with some shape and vigour and scored two goals – the first from the worst player on the pitch, Santiago Salcedo, and the second fifteen minutes from time by Gonzalo Prosperi, who’d had a lousy first half.

The referee booked the Racing player, Teofilo Gutierrez for diving when even the Argentinos Juniors fans accepted that it should have been a penalty and he sent off Franco Zuculini for a second yellow card to leave Racing with ten men, their fans as sick as the proverbial parrots and me over the moon.

Over the Moon!

Over the Moon!

This victory moves Argentinos Juniors up to a remarkable fourth place, just three points behind the leaders, Velez. Remarkable simply because they’ve not been playing very well but have hung in there with grit and determination and a small dose of good luck.

Racing are a huge club with massive and vociferous support who promise much and usually fail to deliver – sometimes in spectacular circumstances. To my mind they’re the Argentine Manchester City. They’ve even got the same colours. This was only one game but it was a game there for the taking and through a mixture of nerves, incompetence and bad luck, they didn’t take it.

Argentinos Juniors were sluggish and out of sorts, probably as a result of being dumped out of the Copa Libertadores on Wednesday night by Fluminense of Brazil.

Argentinos had been sitting pretty in their group after kicking off with two wins and a draw in a tough group that also included Nacional of Uruguay and America from Mexico. But they then lost their final three games when all they probably needed was a draw to progress into the next round.

The Wednesday night game had it all. There was a penalty for each side, the ball smacked against the woodwork, there was passion, tension and when the final whistle went, with Fluminense 4-2 winners, an almighty punch-up. Argentinos players chased the Brazilians around the pitch, riot police stepped in, fists were flailing, boots were flying. It looked at times like something out of an old Keystones Cops movie.

The papers the next day talked of national shame which I thought was a bit strong. To me it looked like a bit of hot-headed Argy-Bargy in the heat and frustration of the moment. No long-term harm done.

The football’s not been providing me with much succour these days, what with the Fluminense debacle and West Ham’s 3-0 drubbing at the hands of Chelsea. So I’ve been going to the cinema where at least you can do a bit of research beforehand about the kind of result you’re likely to get.

The unexpected though comes from the cinema audience. I saw the excellent ‘Revolution’ – an epic Argentine film about the liberator from Spanish rule, Jose de San Martin.

He’s famous for many things and his statue adorns pretty much every plaza in Argentina and many in Chile. However, perhaps his most dramatic act was taking an army across the Andes mountains to defeat the Spanish troops in the Battle of Chacabuco.

At the football, you expect those around you to talk and shout, rustle paper, send text messages on the latest scores, jump and fart and generally make noise and commotion. If they didn’t, it’d be like watching Chelsea.

But we shouldn’t be expected to tolerate that kind of behaviour from middle-aged women sitting behind me in the cinema. I stood up as the credits rolled to castigate them with the words: “San Martin didn’t march through the Andes to create a country which breeds people who talk in the cinema.”

Over the Andes.

Over the Andes.

A bit over the top, I agree. I’m also aware that there was no cinema in 1817. They looked at me as though I were the weirdo for protesting.

One of the points of the film was that sometimes we have to attempt the difficult and unexpected, then overcome huge odds to achieve great things. Another was to choose your seat carefully and avoid groups of middle-aged women with horn-rimmed spectacles who have gone to the cinema on a Saturday night for a good natter.

After liberating huge tracts of South America from the Spaniards, San Martin then went into voluntary exile, ending his days in Boulogne-sur-Mer on the north coast of France. Yes! That Boulogne. The place many of us English school kids went to on our first trip abroad – a day-trip on a vomit bedecked ferry when on the way back Katy Higgins would snog anyone prepared to cough up 20p. I’d spent mine on a Boulogne sticker so missed out.

San Martin upped and left after a meeting in Guayaquil, in what is now Ecuador, with the other great liberator, the one who freed the northern parts, Simon Bolivar. What they spoke about and what agreements or agreements to disagree they arrived at, we don’t know. It’s one of the great mysteries of South American history.

A lesser mystery is what happened in the Argentine first division this weekend. Nearly all the teams expected to win, lost. Top team Velez, went down 3-2 at home to lowly Quilmes. Title contenders Estudiantes lost 2-0 at home to Colon. River, also with championship hopes, were defeated by modest Godoy Cruz and San Lorenzo lost 1-0 to Tigre. Boca Juniors, who’ve not been able to get anything right this season, beat Huracan 3-0 with Martin Palermo ending his goal drought.

Newell’s remain rooted to the foot of the table after losing 1-0 to Banfield and Independiente and All Boys drew 2-2 while Arsenal and Gimnasia tied at 1-1.

Argentinos Juniors  0  Nacional de Montevideo  1

It’s standard for the home fans at Argentine football matches to be kept in the stadium after the game to allow the away fans to be safely transported from the area. It might take twenty minutes if there are few or longer if there are many.

A line of policemen block the exit and won’t let you leave until they’ve had authorisation from their chief that he’s happy the away supporters are well clear of the neighbourhood. Most fans accept the practise – grudgingly.

This was a Copa Libertadores game against the Uruguayan side, Nacional, and they’d brought several thousand noisy supporters across the River Plate. It was a Tuesday night game that kicked off late and therefore finished late. No-one wanted to hang around to let so many boisterous Uruguayans amble their way home. Why should we?

Thick Blue Line

Thick Blue Line

I was one of the first to reach the police line blocking the exit. I played the dumb foreigner, remonstrating about the ludicrousness of the measure, simply because I like to argue with authority.

“It’s for security, it’s the rules,” said the short, stocky policeman who looked like he’d rather be at home with his wife sharing a mate.

“Stupid rules should be challenged,” I insisted. “And this is a stupid rule that I’ve only ever seen applied in Argentina. This doesn’t happen anywhere else.”

I’d intended to insult his national pride but suspected I hadn’t since he’d no doubt seen and heard it all before.

“Do you get that in other countries?” he asked, nodding in the direction of five or six fans, haranguing the policemen at the other end of the line.

They were angry – red hot, eyeball-to-eyeball angry. They spat the words ‘Hijo de Puta’ in the policemen’s faces but the men in uniform stood firm. The crowd parted to allow through a bald, middle-aged man with broad, tattooed shoulders, strutting as only a leader struts.

The crowd closed behind him as he found the policeman with the most authority and began shouting into his face and waving his arms in the air. The crowd urged him on, pushing, cajoling, threatening, trying to find the collective courage to attempt to breach the police line.

Those tall enough smashed their hands against the rusty metal shutters hanging just above the policemen’s heads. The dark passageway between the pitch and the exit was now full. The air hung heavy with sweat, cigarette smoke, urine and angry tension. The pushing became a surge, the police line tensed while worried fathers ushered their boys to a safer place.

Then the riot police arrived to form a line just behind the first cordon. The one in front of me cradled a shotgun in his arms. His smirk was framed by a black helmet, his eyes two dark slits. There was a taller, younger man next to him. He was laughing when he arrived, I thought at first at a colleague’s joke. But the laughter continued. It was no joke. He was laughing at us, probably at the pleasure he’d no doubt get from doing what he was paid to do.

He wore leather gloves and gently masturbated the wooden club he held, loosely, casually across his chest.

The tension and the anger ebbed and flowed. Angry fathers pushed through the crowd with small, scared boys in front of them and appealed to the human side of the men in uniform to let them through. The crowd took up their cause, for the crowd was one angry, impatient, uncertain mass.

The noise made the concrete floors of our concrete cavern vibrate and angry hands again bashed the metal shutter and anything else that made a noise.

A sergeant standing in front of me, grey flecked moustache and slightly hunched back, briefly consulted the short senior officer who was lurking behind the line, nervously clutching a radio. They let the children and their parents through and the tension immediately waned in the wake of this pyrrhic victory. For the rest of us, the standoff continued.

Suddenly, the order to let us out must have come through because both lines of police melted away. We surged into the night, breathing fresh starlit air.

We’d lost one-nil.

Atletico Tucuman  1  Argentinos Juniors  1

At least Argentinos Juniors managed to dodge the rain and play the full ninety minutes. Two of their five matches played so far this season were abandoned after the skies opened and the teams were not equipped with the flippers and snorkels needed to finish the game.

This was one the boys from Buenos Aires really should have won against a poor Tucuman side. Sloppy defending allowed Claudio Sarrio to put the home side in front in the third minute. But from then on it was all one-way traffic. Javier Paez equalised with an impressive own-goal in the 28th minute. Argentinos hit the woodwork twice, had the Tucuman keeper contorting himself into positions he didn´t know were possible and saw countless sophisticated moves break down on the edge of the penalty area.

It wasn´t going to be. But if Argentinos Juniors keep playing this way they will reap the benefits, eventually, with the results they deserve. Theirs is a history of remaining true to their footballing ideals, for which they´re rewarded every one-hundred years or so. Given that they last paid a visit to the trophy engravers in the mid-eighties, glory is due some time in the middle of the twenty-first century. That was the message I came away with after a visit to Argentinos Juniors´ newly opened museum.

Old Shirts

Old Shirts

On the bus to the ground I warned my kids not to expect too much from the  museum. It wouldn’t be like the Boca Juniors or the Real Madrid museums that we’d visited previously. We’ve got photographs of us pretending to pee in all the urinals in the Bernabeu changing room since we know that at some stage, before some particularly nerve-wracking match, David Beckham would have used at least one of them. So would Alfredo di Stefano, Cristiano Ronaldo, Steve McManaman and Luis Figo for that matter. We’ve pissed where the greats have pissed.

At Boca’s Bombonera stadium, we sat where Diego Maradona sat before each game, beneath a small shrine and statue of the Virgin Saint of plump little arrogant but amazingly talented footballers. The dazzle created by the collection of silverware in both museums is so great that the use of sunglasses is recommended.

That’s not the case at Argentinos Juniors. They did in the mid-eighties, remarkably, unbelievably, win two Argentine national championships and the South American club title, the Copa Libertadores. But it has to be said that the Argentinos Juniors museum is a modest one telling the tale of a modest club. They do, however, do it very well.

The ticket man was unsure about the prices and called upstairs. I got the impression that any reasonable contribution would have been welcome. This is one of only three football club museums in Argentina – the other two being the aforementioned Boca Juniors and the not-to-be-outdone- by-their-rivals River Plate, who have just opened theirs. There are no open-topped tourist buses parked outside.

El Diez

El Diez

The museum is only open for three hours on a Saturday morning. We wandered aimlessly into the ground, not sure where we going, until we came across the word ‘museo’ stencilled on the concrete pillars. We were welcomed by our guides, Alberto, Eduardo and Dario. The first thing we were told, as a point of pride and not an apology, was that the museum had been financed and stocked by the fans. And they keep donating dog-earred programmes and newspaper cuttings, pre-sponsorship shirts and a ticket from that 1954 match against San Lorenzo which they’ve found stuffed into the pocket of some baggy shorts.

Our guides were first and foremost fans. The club, with various changes of neighbourhood, stadium, name and footballers’ hairstyles has been in existence since 1904. And in place of pride in the entrance was an original piece of wooden terracing.

There is silverware on display on the shelves but the gaps between the cups have to be filled with old programmes, newspaper articles and other bits and pieces of footballing paraphernalia representing past decades. There’s a wooden corner flag pole, bits of goal net and a knife once thrown on the pitch in a particularly tense game.

Alberto, our well-informed guide, was constantly interrupted by his colleagues, keen to impart their own memories and opinions. A video was shown detailing the club’s history and as I watched, I could hear the guides, who must have seen the goals from those key games a million times, unable to contain muffled cheers since that 1977 goal against Independiente still meant something to them.

Argentinos Juniors prides itself on being the seedbed of Argentine footballing talent – the Temple of Football, they call it. Among those over the years to pull on the red shirt with a sometimes diagonal, sometimes horizontal white stripe are Juan Román Riquelme, Juan Pablo Sorín, Esteban Cambiasso, Fabricio Coloccini, Fernando Redondo, Julio Arca, Claudio Borghi and 1986 World Cup winner, Sergio Batista.

The Libertadores Cup - Really!

The Libertadores Cup - Really!

One name, of course, stands out above all others. The stadium, for Christ’s sake, is called the Diego Armando Maradona and his family claims the only executive box at the club. His picture is everywhere – a fresh-faced, cocaine-free, innocent look about him. Many of our guides had seen him take the pitch as a precocious sixteen-year-old and still talked with unbridled enthusiasm about his raw talent. Diego was at the inauguration of the museum in December, still harbouring a soft-spot for the club which gave him his start in the kids’ team, the Cebollitas or Little Onions.

He went on to the much bigger and more prestigious Boca Juniors but with the money received from that sale the club could put together a team that a few years later conquered first Argentina then South America.

When I tried to explain my affinity for West Ham, as a club that put more store by playing well than winning at all costs, our guides nodded enthusiastically and with understanding. “Yes, that’s us too,” they said. We all know deep down that that’s simply a euphemism to justify our loyalty to a team that is simply not very good. But without that kind of self-delusion we’d all be Chelsea, Barcelona and Boca Juniors fans.  And where’s the fun in that?!

What I’ve known since I’ve been watching Argentinos Juniors and was emphasised at the museum is that this is a neighbourhood club. It’s riddled with nostalgia. Nearly all the fans live in, or used to live in, or their grandparents lived in La Paternal. Grandads salute grandsons on the terraces on a Sunday afternoon. Boys and girls met here, relationships were formed and babies carried on shoulders, forced to watch another 0-0 draw against Newell’s Old Boys.

This is the kind of club where you feel like tossing your hat into the air when they score. And the museum reflects all of that. The guides were flattered, possibly flabbergasted, that a foreigner should support and become a season-ticket holder of their modest club. Alberto kept calling his mates over and saying: “He’s English, his oldest son was born in London, the youngest one in Spain…..AND THEY SUPPORT ARGENTINOS JUNIORS!!!”

If I was just an enthusiastic observer when I went to the museum, I was a fan by the time I came out. My nine-year-old son, Lucas, who had until then called himself a Boca supporter like his mum, confided that he was switching his allegiance. He’d found his team, the club that fitted his character and personality, where he felt he belonged. His mother is in shock but Boca, surely, have got enough fans already?

Photos by Benja and Lucas

Argentinos Juniors 1 Estudiantes 0

If it keeps on like this, we’re going to have to start mumbling about perhaps winning the championship. Don’t forget, Argentinos Juniors is the team that finished in last place last season. Estudiantes, from the city of La Plata, were not only top of the table and unbeaten this season, they’re the South American champions, the holders of the Libertadores Cup. This was a big test and a huge scalp.

For no other reason than that they make up fifty percent of the population, women in Argentine football is a subject that must be covered. And since I’m neither a woman nor an Argentine and couldn’t make the game, I don’t feel worthy. So I’ve contracted my wife Claudia to do this piece. I, in return, will do some quality dish washing and perhaps some top of the range ironing in return.   Over to you, Claudia:

I love football.  I am a Boca Juniors fan and always have been – thanks to my mum being one (albeit in name only, since she never went to a game in her life.) I love an exciting game of live football but most of those I have seen haven’t been that good since all I’ve been to is about a dozen West Ham matches and one or two at Boca.

A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to land a job as a producer for a TV company covering the quarter-finals and one semi-final at the Copa America, the South American national championships, in Venezuela. I was supposed to be neutral but couldn’t restrain a cheer when Leo Messi scored a fantastic goal against Mexico.

I listen to football matches on the radio while I cook, no matter who’s playing – the commentators always giving away their preferences when they scream their team’s goals.

The only other game I had seen at the Diego Maradona Stadium was last April, when Argentinos Juniors met Independiente in a disappointing game of two very mediocre halves which ended in a 1-1 draw.  The result didn’t matter too much because the sun shone, the atmosphere was good and we had gone as a gang with some family friends.

Daniel couldn’t make this game and I thought I might be a bit conspicuous as a single female. So I took our twelve-year-old son, Benjamin, along with me. But there were, I was pleased to see, quite a few women in the crowd.

The game got off to a good start, even though the fans around us didn’t seem to think so. It’s just that maybe I’m not used to that amount of swearing at people you’re supposed to be supporting.   Fifteen minutes into the first half, the Estudiantes goalie had to be replaced after a bad collision with an Argentinos Juniors forward and ten minutes after that the bichos went one up.  A tall, muscular player managed to head the ball into the net after a scramble near the post.

See them? One, perhaps two, women in the crowd?

See them? One, perhaps two, women in the crowd?

The Estudiantes players claimed it was offside, but the score remained 1-0 for Argentinos.  – “So,” I asked the man sitting next to me, “who scored?” –  “No idea” he replied.  Aren’t the men  supposed to know that kind of thing, able to answer the women’s questions?

Football in Argentina is all testosterone with little room for anything else.  There are very few women’s teams and a smattering of women referees.

It was big news when last June Estela Maris Álvarez de Oliveira was appointed as the main referee at the match between San Martín de San Juan and CAI in the Nacional B (the Argentine second division).  I’m not sure if she ever appeared again after all the abuse she took.

There are no women sports commentators on radio or television, something we share with the rest of Latin America.  At the Copa America in Venezuela, there were maybe two or three female producers in a sea of male journalists and photographers.  In most people’s imagination, women in football can only mean one thing – botineras. These are the invariably blond leggy starlets seeking fame and fortune by hanging on to the arms of Argentina’s  well-heeled and well-oiled footballers, preferably those playing abroad.  They’re the local equivalent of footballers’ wives.  And they’re so popular in our gossip magazines that there is going to be an Argentine version of that TV soap, called, well, Botineras, what else?

He's got nice legs...

He's got nice legs...

However, what I saw today is simply women who like going to watch football, especially as the atmosphere was relaxed and they didn’t feel threatened.  So maybe I was the only crazy one shouting at Hauche and Ortigoza to get a move on and clapping and chanting ORTIGOOOO, ORTIGOOOO, But I believe the others were grateful, in their own quiet way, for the opportunity to see the beautiful game, and some not bad looking men to boot.

While we waited for the hordes of disappointed Estudiantes fans to leave the stadium, I watched some of the other women and girls standing around.  One pair struck me as different from the rest – they were about 20 years’ old, well groomed and carefully dressed, in a sort of casual but showy way.  There were no dads, brothers or boyfriends lurking around, so I can only assume they were on a fishing trip to see what could be had from among the crowd.  As we filed out of the stadium, I saw them again, standing near some fans who were looking at them like they were a couple of juicy steaks. The girls’ attention however was directed towards another group of better looking males.  So this, I realised, was like a prelude to tonight’s club scene.

More and more women these days are going to football.  We all want to share in our team’s successes and in some stadiums the atmosphere and other women help us to feel secure. Although I wouldn’t go to Boca Juniors since it’s too intimidating (even though I’ll always be a bostera).

But I enjoyed being at Argentinos Juniors and soaking in the enthusiasm of a crowd that just loves the game.  For ninety minutes it was great being part of that today.

[Ah, you want to know who scored... Matias Caruzzo, at 27’ in the 1st half, apparently off-side.  The referee, who at moments seemed to have little control of the game, showed seven yellow cards, six to Estudiantes players.  Veron, despised by Argentinos fans, had a few chances on goal, but Argentinos managed to hang on for their fourth consecutive win this season.  They have now moved second in the table.]