Argentinos Juniors 1 Velez Sarsfield 0

This was a tense game, a very tense game against tough opposition. The winning goal came six minutes from the end, a scrambled, confusing own goal by Velez defender, Marco Torsiglieri. Despite the home side’s dominance, their inability to tuck away their chances meant that it could have gone either way. The tension showed on the faces of the crowd and in the ear-splitting noise at the end as the relief at a much-needed win was expressed in exuberant rejoicing.

But is all this tension good for us? Is it necessary? I don’t know about the history of the Velez number 5, whether he was an ex-Argentinos player who somehow betrayed his former club or carried out a particularly nasty tackle in a game in 2005. Memories are long and grudges are rarely forgotten. But he took a tremendous amount of abuse every time he had the ball and whenever he came close to the touchline, some fans would hurl themselves at the fence that keeps us caged in and expertly lob balls of phlegm in his direction.

Referees everywhere take constant abuse, it’s in the job description. I thought Saul Laverni had a good match, authoritative without getting in the way of a game that always threatened to boil over. Yet he must have been aware of the constant, none-too-kind references to his mother’s, his sister’s and, rather unnecessarily I thought, his grandmother’s private parts.

However well he performs, he’s going to go home thinking: “No-one loves me.” It must get to you, eventually. There’s no doubt in my mind that a Sunday night game, and especially a Sunday night victory, is hugely therapeutic. If you’ve spent all week driving through Buenos Aires traffic or selling kitchen worktops or dealing with complaints from cable television customers then you probably save all that pent up fury for Sunday night to spew in the direction of the referee or that opposing number 5.

No city in the world is better prepared than Buenos Aires to deal with its psychological problems. It’s got more therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists and other assorted brain specialists per head of population than any other city in the world, including New York.

There’s a neighbourhood that’s unofficially been dubbed Villa Freud since so many of the above mentioned specialists work there. It’s got bookshops that deal in the art, newspaper kiosks display magazines on the subject and there are ample coffee shops with sumptuous couches where customers can continue, after their session with their shrink, to analyse over a latte.

I’m from a land where the generally held view is that only ‘nutters’ need therapy and a good cup of tea will solve most problems. “Just pull your socks up and stop feeling sorry for yourself,” is considered sound advice if you’ve just discovered in the space of a day that your girlfriend’s left you for a female work colleague and your team has put your favourite striker up for sale.

In Buenos Aires, there is no stigma attached to regular visits to a therapist. “Sorry, can’t join you for coffee since I’ve got an appointment with my therapist,” is no more embarrassing than saying: “I’m afraid I’ve got the dentist at four o’clock.” My initial reaction was: “But there’s nothing wrong with you. You seem perfectly sane to me.”

And the response was: “That’s because I see a therapist.” It starts from an early age. Trouble at school is not met with 100 lines, detention or a smack over the knuckles with a ruler. Oh no! There are therapists who talk to parents about parenting and therapists who talk to children about who knows what since the sessions are confidential.

There are even therapists who deal with people who are addicted to therapy. I understand the attraction. For a mere 150pesos you can ramble incoherently, divulge your intricate theories on the subject that fascinates us all more than any other – ourselves.

“Everybody hates me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Why do you say that?”
“Well, just yesterday I had twenty thousand people spitting at me and saying horribly unpleasant things about my mother’s and my sister’s private parts. Someone was even rude about my grandmother.”
“I’m sure you’re imagining things. Now let’s talk about your childhood. What were your ambitions? Football referee? Hold on a minute. It was you, wasn’t it? Last night at the Velez game? That was never a free-kick! What are you, blind as well as stupid?! Your grandmother’s a whore and … get out of here, and pay my receptionist on your way out.”

One of the most pleasant afternoons I ever spent in Buenos Aires was at the Jose T Borda psychiatric hospital. The patients run their own radio station, Radio Colifata, broadcast to the neighbourhood and beyond. Colifata is the local slang, or lunfardo, for ‘loveable fool.’

They sing and recite poetry, talk politics and discuss their condition. The show attracts an audience of family and friends of the patients as well as medical experts from around the world interested in this voice which is available to people who are so often pushed out of sight and not listened to.

The French singer, Manu Chao, has recorded at the hospital, incorporating the musings and music of some of the patients into an album full of wit and intelligence.

It’s not all easy listening. While I was there, one patient told me repeatedly that he was going on a trip to Uruguay. The nurses gently removed him. Then the show was interrupted when a man in pyjamas lay down in the middle of the patio where the makeshift studio had been set up and ate a banana.

Argentines, with their recent history of military terror and economic madness, have plenty to be disturbed about – as well as the routine problems that the rest of the world also endures, like getting to work, wayward children, obnoxious bosses and centre-forwards that can’t seem to put the ball in the net.

The Argentine mental health system is private and not cheap so is pretty much only available to the affluent middle classes. But thanks to referees who can take a bit of abuse, everyone else has got football.