19/05
2010

After strong complaints from bus passengers and members of my family, I’ve put the Argentinos Juniors shirt I was wearing at Sunday’s championship-clinching game in the wash. It’s a symbolic sign that the season is well and truly over and the time for reflection is upon us.

Much has been written about this Clausura 2010 championship since pretty much every Argentine is a football expert and some of the lucky ones even manage to earn a living by adding a tinge of authority to their rantings and ravings.

The Moment

The Moment

Nearly all seem to agree that the Red Bugs were worthy winners – not for their money because they ain’t got much, not for their sturdy defence for they shipped a fair few and not for their power and influence in the Argentine game since this is a small neighbourhood club with a ramshackle but often intimidating ground.

The word I’ve seen more than any other is ‘dignified.’ They were dignified champions who brought dignity to the Argentine league.

The manager, Claudio Borghi, brought together a collection of strong personalities and melded them into a team. It was a team in which the first priority was always to play attractive, attacking football. They held their shape, the midfield created options and, what always struck me, was that the whole team seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The player who perhaps best symbolises this team is 39-year-old Jose Luis Calderon. A fine physical specimen, he ran as much as the youngsters. “With his experience, he calmed us in moments of madness,” said teammate, Nicolas Pavlovich.

Borghi brought him out of retirement, convinced he still had much to give. Calderon played seven-hundred and forty-three games in his long career, after making his debut for Estudiantes in 1992. He played for Napoli in Italy, America and Atlas in Mexico, won the Argentine league and the Libertadores cup with Estudiantes and the Copa Sudamericana with Arsenal.

Borghi substituted him ten minutes before the end of the Huracan game and the crowd erupted. His teammates crowded around him and tears were no doubt shed. “It was a dignified way to end my career,” said Mr Calderon.

But he wasn’t alone. There was also that magical midfield partnership between Nestor Ortigoza and Juan Mercier. “It’s like a marriage,” they said. I think I know what they meant but I’d rather not pry into their private lives.

In attack, there was Ismael Sosa, uncomfortable at Independiente, he was borrowed by Borghi who knew how to bring out the best in him. He’s fast, wears bright yellow boots and was the club’s top scorer with nine goals.

The names will be remembered by the young Argentinos Juniors fans when they’re in their nineties and have forgotten where they left their false teeth. The slightly eccentric goalkeeper, Nicolas Peric, that defensive rock, Matias Caruzzo, the tireless running of Gustavo Oberman and the personality of Ignacio Canuto.

And then, of course, the man at the helm – Claudio ‘Bichi’ Borghi – a fine player in his day and Argentinos Juniors lynchpin the last time they won the championship twenty-five years ago. Whether the team was winning or losing, playing well or not, he sat like a frozen Buddha in his dugout, calm, collected and confident that the team was on the right track and that eventually they’d win through. They usually did, losing only two games all season and often leaving it until the final five minutes to plop the ball in the net.

So a great team but a one off, frozen in time. No sooner had those millions of scraps of paper thrown by the fans washed into the gutter to block the drains the next time it rains, than the talk of dismantling had begun.

Borghi is hot favourite to take over at slumbering giants, Boca Juniors. The thinking is: “If he can produce a championship-winning team with everyone else’s flotsam and jetsam, just think what he’ll do with Boca’s money and influence!” Mercier and Caruzzo may well follow him.

The Celebration

The Celebration

Now that Independiente know what Sosa can do, they’ll want him back and I doubt they’ll even say ‘thank-you.’ Calderon has already swapped his boots for carpet slippers and Ortigoza – my own favourite – would grace any team in the world with his effective tackling, pinpoint passing and inability to give up.

So what now? Well, let’s enjoy the moment for a little longer. The rump of a good team remains and the spirit and tradition are still there. So much depends on who takes over from Borghi and how many players the club manages to hold onto. They will be playing in the Sudamericana and the Libertadores cups which should bring in cash to bolster the squad.

And Argentinos Juniors is not known as the seedbed of Argentine football for nothing. A healthy crop of youngsters is sprouting up through the ranks and there’s hope that we won’t have to wait another twenty-five years to reap a harvest like this one.

I’m off now to do a bit of research, scouting the backstreets and alleyways of Buenos Aires for the best bars and cafes in which to watch the World Cup. I may be gone for some time.

Huracan  1  Argentinos Juniors   2

The main reason I adopted Argentinos Juniors as the team to write this blog about was that they were crap. I watched them a couple of times a year or so ago and thought their ramshackle ground, their tubby players and their comical goalkeeper would give me plenty of amusing anecdotes to string together.  Their manager had the kind of mullet hair arrangement that didn’t look good when it was fashionable in the nineteen-seventies, let alone on a fifty-something year old man in 2009. They finished last that season and for some reason Nestor Gorosito was poached by River Plate.

Gorosito and mullet

Gorosito and mullet

Claudio Borghi, who played for Argentinos Juniors during their glory period in the mid-eighties, was lured to the club and has turned a team on a par with Accrington Stanley into one that could hold its own against Chelsea.

They finished sixth last season, losing very few but drawing far too many. But this season, those draws turned into victories, the team never lost its shape or its desire to attack or its character. Borghi sat in his dug-out, rarely expressing any emotion. Argentine football fans all seem to agree that this team are worthy champions — for their stylish football, for their refusal to accept defeat and for their humility.

Humility is not a quality that comes easily to most Argentines. But with the brash arrogance of the big clubs, River Plate and Boca Juniors, and the brash stupidity of the likes of the Diego Maradona infecting the game here, the feet firmly on the ground approach of Claudio Borghi was exactly what was needed.

Nearly twelve thousand of us squidged into the Huracan stadium, a beautiful, nineteen-thirties style structure on the other side of town. It was a crisp, cold winter’s day and we were in fine voice. I’ve always found it a bit of challenge to understand all the lyrics of the Argentine football songs. I’ve got some of the key words but tend to adopt the same practise as when singing Auld Lang Syne at New Year – a lot of enthusiastic but unintelligible burbling.

Like a Huracan

Like a Huracan

So I had the bright idea of printing some songs off the internet and trying to learn them. But my memory is not what it was. I can’t, for instance, remember all eleven members of the 1980 West Ham FA Cup winning team. So I hide the lyrics inside the match magazine and take sneaky peaks when I falter.

There’s a lot of ‘nobody loves us but we don’t care’ attitude reflected in the lyrics, loyalty in the face of adversity and downright fatalism.

“The day I die, I want my coffin painted red and white like my heart,” sung to a jaunty tune is one of my favourites.

Argentinos Junior’s big rivals, the brown and white-shirted Platense, are nicknamed the calamares or squid and feature a fair amount in the lyrics.

“I don’t care what they say, the squid whores, the journalists, the police – wherever you go, your fans will always be with you, breathing life with lots of alcohol and marijuana.”

Squid whores!!! Try that one as an insult the next time you get really angry and see where it gets you.

The anti-squid taunting has lost a little of its potency since, while Argentinos Juniors bathed themselves in glory, Platense were tumbling into third division obscurity.

“Reds – my great friend, this season we’re back again with you. We’ll support you with our hearts, we’re your fans and want you to be champions.”

Reasons to be Cheerful

Reasons to be Cheerful

And champions we are. Argentinos started brightly against Huracan and mounted several attacks that came to nothing before Juan Mercier got his bald head to a cross and tucked it into the net. This was a game the Red Bugs had to win to clinch the title since Estudiantes, just a point behind, were wiping the floor with Colon up in the north-east of Argentina.

But we were made to sweat. Facundo Coria put us two up ten minutes from the end by tapping in a rebound after Ismael Sosa had blasted against the post. Then three minutes from the end, Alan Sanchez pulled one back for Huracan and we were subjected to several  of those elongated minutes that leave you biting nails, clenching buttocks and glancing at your watch every ten seconds. And in situations like these, the referee will always add about a year of extra time.

With the Huracan fans setting fire to their own stadium, the referee cut short the added time and the celebrations began.

“C’mon Red Bugs, C’mon, Put your balls in place and let’s win this one, we’ll keep on da da de da da, we’ll be champions and not de do du da da, Come on Bugs.”

That might have lost a little something in translation but the spirit, I think, is clear. Argentinos Juniors are champions of Argentina for the first time in twenty five years. I certainly know how to pick a loser!

San Lorenzo  1  Argentinos Juniors  2

How joyous it must be to have the best player in the world pulling on your club shirt. They had that for a while at Argentinos Juniors when on the 20th October 1976 a stocky, young cherub ambled nervously onto the pitch. Diego Armando Maradona went on to play 166 games and score 115 goals for the club, before moving on to big city rivals, Boca Juniors.

I’ve never met him but by all accounts, Diego is what people here call a boludo. I’m not quite sure how this word translates into English, but it’s not nice. However, Maradona is a legendary boludo, a much-loved boludo, held dear to the hearts of millions of Argentines for the wonderful moments he gave them wearing the shirts of both Argentinos and Boca Juniors. Fans of a certain age talk with tears in their eyes about those golden days when they saw, or claim they saw, the Number 10 perform his magic. It’s something to tell the grandchildren.

Stan Bowles - Magic Moments

Stan Bowles - Magic Moments

I was never a QPR fan and can’t quite remember why I was at Loftus Road on a wet Wednesday night in November some time in the nineteen-seventies. I don’t remember the team they were playing or the score or, for that matter, where I’ve put my coffee cup. But firmly etched on my obviously soddled brain are a couple of moments of exquisite play by QPR’s Stan Bowles. I was close to the touchline, so was he. It’s moments like those that restore and maintain your faith in football, especially when you’re waiting at a bus-stop in the rain after a one-nil home defeat.

You tell yourself that you’re giving up football, that you’re not wasting your money on any more games, that next time you’ll stay at home and find spiritual enlightenment by baking bread, or something. Only you do go, always hoping for a Stan Bowles moment.

But you don’t get any of that with Lionel Messi, at least not in Argentina. He may turn out to be better than Diego, he may be the best the world has ever seen. He might even achieve legendary status if he can help Argentina to lift the World Cup. But he’ll never have the same place in Argentine hearts as the podgy, obnoxious Maradona.

And that’s because almost no-one here witnessed his early days. No-one can tell their grandchildren about the magic he weaved in the last minute against Independiente to clinch the title for Newell’s, or how he humiliated River Plate with three goals in ten minutes, leaving their defenders dizzy and bumping into one another. Because he was gone, out the door before his voice had broken, him and his family whisked away from the poor neighbourhood he’d grown up in in the city of Rosario and installed on the other side of the globe in Barcelona.

Sid Lowe, in an excellent article in The Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2010/mar/22/leo-messi-barcelona-la-liga-spain), recently wrote how they’d run out of superlatives in Spain to describe Messi’s awesome performances. We catch all of that second hand here in the newspapers and on the tele. But the real dilemma in Argentina is why young Leo can’t reproduce his club form at national level.

Best of Legends

Best of Legends

One theory is that the team coach, that very same Diego Maradona, the man with an ego bursting out of his belly, deliberately plays him out of position and ensures that he doesn’t get the service he requires so that, at international level at least, Messi will never overtake him on the road to footballing sainthood.

Another theory, recently explained in the newspaper, Pagina12, is that having gone to Spain so young, Leo doesn’t have any affinity for the sky blue and white of Argentina and can’t really be bothered to break sweat for the national cause. So he employs his unknown twin brother, Jose Messi, to play in his place. Only Jose is no good.

A far more plausible, but much less entertaining theory, suggests that Pep Guardiola simply understands how best to play Messi and ensures he gets adequate service from his teammates. And Diego doesn’t.

In the run-up to the World Cup, foreign film crews are flocking to Rosario to tell the world where this footballing prodigy came from. You may not know this, but the collective term for a pack of journalists is a ‘shitload,’ as in ‘there’s a shitload of journalists heading to Rosario to do the Messi story.’

They’re interviewing his former teachers, neighbours, distant relatives, football coaches, the owner of the shop where he bought his first football boots, pencil case, socks etc. in the search for something, anything, that might point to what made Messi Messi.

They won’t find much among the fans of Newell’s Old Boys, the club where he played his way through the junior ranks. Because they didn’t realise they’d had him until he’d gone.

Foreign scouts roam along the touchlines of pitches in the shanty-towns and clubs of Argentina, like paedophiles in the park, looking for the next Messi, their sweaty hands firmly grasping the binding contract that will whisk little Jorge or Claudio and his wide-eyed parents across the Atlantic in search of a dream.

Argentines will get behind their national team more passionately than most during the World Cup, they always do. And if Messi produces the goods, then he’ll be hailed as a hero. No-one doubts his nationalism.

But I suspect that in years to come, they won’t be naming football stadiums after him, or hanging his picture on the greasy walls of bars and cafes in the far-flung corners of Argentina, as they do with Maradona’s.

Messi - Gone too Soon!

Messi - Gone too Soon!

Because Argentines have never really seen him close up. He’s never given them stories to tell or dreams to dream.

And talking of dreams…ours is still well and truly alive after a 2-1 victory at San Lorenzo in a game that Argentinos Juniors didn’t really deserve to win. Thousands of Argentinos fans trekked across Buenos Aires to see San Lorenzo take the lead in the first half after some defensive chaos from the visitors.

The good players, especially Nestor Ortigoza, did not play their best, passes went astray and there was confusion in defence. But champions win the games in which they play badly. And if Argentinos Juniors do emerge as champions then they may look back on this game as a crucial one. Two goals from Ismael Sosa in the second half making the difference.

This is now a two-horse race. Godoy Cruz lost to Rosario Central and Independiente were beaten 3-2 at home by Boca Juniors. Estudiantes are still leaders after beating relegated Chacarita 2-1 and Argentinos sit just a point behind them with two games to go.

Argentinos Juniors  3  Gimnasia y Esgrima de la Plata  1

My voice is a little hoarse from all the shouting at this afternoon’s game so you’ll have lean closer to the screen. The Red Bugs were back on form and, but for a nimble visiting goalkeeper, would have won this game 6-1.

Nestor Ortigoza doesn’t miss from the penalty spot and put Argentinos Juniors on their way after Ismael Sosa was brought down in the area. Gimnasia, a big club with relegation worries, equalised in the second half but the home side, with fine goals from Sosa and Santiago Raymonda, clinched it to leave us in second place, just a point behind the leaders, Estudiantes, with three games to play.

World Cup fever is beginning to bite here in Buenos Aires and the reason I can tell is that twelve-year-old boys are huddled in groups swapping their World Cup stickers.

“I’ve got three Stephane Grichtings of Switzerland – I’ll swap you one for Australia’s Luke Wilkshire.” At no other time are players so obscure held in such high esteem across the world.

At the moment, we’ve only got one Mexican but a glut of Cristiano Ronaldos. He’s worth nothing. What we need are more North Koreans. Kim Kum-Il would do or a Pak Nam-Chol. We’ll give you a Dirk Kuyt in exchange. He’s easy.

Got Beckham

Got Beckham

I’ve long wondered whether David Beckham collects stickers of himself. He must be tempted, surely? “Ooh look,” he says, opening his packets over the breakfast table. “I’ve got me – again. I’ll give Giggsy a ring and see if he wants to swap me for Diego Forlan.”

“No you don’t,” shrieks Posh. “You’re keeping it. I want to stick you on the wall above my bed.”

“No,” scream the kids. “Beckhams are easy. Everyone’s got them. We want Carlos Costly of Honduras, number 618. He’s much better. Or Slovenia’s Nejc Pecnik. He’s worth three Beckhams.”

Closer to the World Cup, when our album is a little fuller, we’ll head to the Parque Centenario where boys and girls and those with them, otherwise known as ‘grown men who collect football stickers but pretend it’s their kids that are doing it because they’re too embarrassed to admit it,’ gather to trade.

We were there in 2006 when the scene at times resembled the floor of the Buenos Aires stock market just before one of the country’s many economic crashes.

Rumours were flashing around that the lad in the blue coat had a bucketful of spare Junichi Inamotos of Japan and West Bromwich Albion but he only needed a couple of Serb defenders to complete his album. Five-year-olds know that a hard-to-come-by Jermaine Defoe will fetch five easy to obtain Paraguayans. The rules of supply and demand are practised here in their most naked form.

This being Latin America, speculators have moved in. Men in dirty raincoats who have never really learned to shave properly, lurk on the outskirts of the park. They know the cash value of an Edison Cavani of Uruguay sticker. They know who’s rare and whether there’s a glut of Yacine Bezzaz’s of Algeria.

“Psst! I’ve got Chileans,” they’ll hiss through yellow teeth. “And the New Zealand goalkeeper.”

Do these guys have relations working at the sticker distribution plant? I don’t know, but you can guarantee that whenever and wherever there’s a demand, these fellows will come crawling out of the drains. They’re probably the same people who, within minutes of the first raindrop falling, are on every street corner selling umbrellas or before every Argentina game are at the traffic lights flogging sky-blue and white hats, shirts and horns.

I might see if they can come up with the Gerd Muller I need to complete my 1974 collection. And c’mon guys! Who’s hoarding all the Mexicans?

I don't know what this means.

I don't know what this means. Pic by Lucas

We’ve already got Martin Palermo of Argentina and Boca Juniors and so, probably, has his Boca teammate, Juan Roman Riquelme – pinned to his darts board. For the two men, who form the backbone of the Boca team, hate one another with a passion. Their petty squabbling may go a large way to explaining why this usually regal beauty of Argentine football looks at the moment like an overweight tart cadging smokes at her local pub on a Saturday night.

Normally, you’d expect their great city rival, River Plate, to be gloating over this demise. But  they too are slumped near the foot of the table with their own fishnet stockings torn and lipstick smudged across their pudgy cheeks.

Martin Palermo is all blood, guts and passion. He puts his life on the line in every game and even when he’s not wearing a head bandage seeping blood, you feel as though he should be.

Riquelme is a tortured soul, intelligent, independent and some say, just plain weird. The Boca fans are split on whether he’s good for the team. There are those who say he’s one of the best playmakers the club has ever had. Others complain he doesn’t run enough and sows discontent in the dressing room.

He supplied the pass in a recent match that enabled Martin Palermo to score his 219th Boca Juniors goal – a club record. But rather than join in the back-slapping and buttock groping, or whatever it is they get up to in those celebratory rucks, Juan Roman sauntered off in the other direction to file his nails, his nose stuck snootily in the air.

Claudio Borghi

Claudio 'Bichi' Borghi

Palermo accused Riquelme of a whole host of things from not passing the ball to him enough to saying nasty things about him behind his back to borrowing his soap without asking. Riquelme responded and the club authorities had to ask them to tone it down. It seems to have worked since Riquelme supplied the pass that enabled Palermo to score in today’s 2-0 victory over San Lorenzo and the two men then hugged, kissed and danced the tango together.

What concerns me most about all this turmoil at Boca is that rumours have begun circulating that they’re keen to poach the Argentinos Juniors manager, Claudio ‘Bichi’ Borghi. He’s done fine things in a very short with limited resources at this modest little club. What might he do, so the thinking goes, to revitalise a slumbering giant like Boca Juniors?

Don’t go Borghi! We wouldn’t swap you for a whole team of Mexican stickers, even with a Carlos Costly and the North Korean badge thrown in for good measure.