It had to happen sooner or later and Godoy Cruz were always likely contenders to take the unbeaten tag from Argentinos Juniors. They scored in the second minute and played solidly and effectively to hold on to the lead.

Funnily enough, in that parallel universe over the ocean, West Ham’s Robbie Keane also scored in the second minute at home to Aston Villa. A good thing, you might have thought. Not for West Ham, it isn’t. They don’t do very well when they’re ahead and the earlier they take the lead, the more time they have to screw things up.

Last week a 2-0 half-time lead against Manchester United wasn’t enough. This time, Villa equalised before halftime then, always threatening, punched home the winner in injury time. Godoy Cruz showed West Ham how to hold on to an early lead, with solid defending and threatening counter-attacks.

That double dose of footballing misery simply topped off a week of irritation for me.  I’ve spoken before about the dog shit that decorates the pavements of Buenos Aires, ranted and raved about the irresponsible owners who soil this fair city. But never before, being nimble of foot and sharp of eye, had I trodden in the aforementioned offending article. Until this week, that is, when I managed it twice in the space of a couple of days.

The first time I was with company in someone else’s house when the offending smell reached my nostrils. It was a gradual realisation, provoked by the uncomfortable shifting and twitching of those, with sharper olfactory sensibilities, seated near me.  What can you do? Blame the dog owners and make a polite exit. There is no subtle or face-saving way to do it.

Then, a couple of days later, I returned from a run and, in that moment of self-satisfied jubilation at completing the distance without heart failure, I noticed the offending shoe. Autumn is making a hesitant appearance in the southern hemisphere, leaves carpeting the pavements and obscuring the foul, offending brown stuff.

The following day I left my house just as a big, fat Labrador was dumping his load not a tail’s length from my front door. The anger and indignation emanating from my person must have been palpable since that dog’s owner whipped a plastic bag from his pocket and scooped up his dog’s mess in a move as swift and graceful as a Barcelona counter-attack.

Normally you’ll get an Arsene Wenger-style: “I didn’t see it. It might have been my dog, but I’m not sure. I’d like to see the action replay.”

Stress only exists if you allow it the space and provide the conditions for it to prosper. It’s a question of attitude. I don’t need to get angry about the irresponsibility of Buenos Aires dog owners or the time wasted in badly run banks or the senseless lack of courtesy on the roads. That’s what I tell myself and sometimes I listen and sometimes I don’t.

I understand why the banks here, like in much of the rest of the world, have now put their tellers behind bullet-proof glass screens. Crime is on the rise, people are frightened and it’s a big issue in campaigning for October’s elections. But you would have thought it obvious that if you put a teller behind a thick glass screen then they’ll need some way of communicating with customers on the other side of the thick glass screen.

“I’ll call you,” the teller told me, “when the cheque has been authorised.” I waited. That’s what you do in Argentine banks, you wait. I never leave the house without a book in my pocket because you never know where you’ll be waiting or for how long. So Junot Diaz’s collection of short stories, Drown, kept me entertained. I glanced up every now and then and after about fifteen minutes noticed my teller gesticulating wildly, his mouth moving like an exasperated goldfish. I couldn’t hear a thing.

I walked closer to investigate, provoking a ripple of consternation in the queue and a barely discernable twitch from the security guard. “What me?” I mouthed back, also goldfish-style. I always think you should at least try to communicate with the locals in their own tongue.

He couldn’t see me and beckoned forth the next customer. I placed myself in the teller’s line of vision but far enough away from the queue not to incite a riot then jigged up and down on the spot to attract his attention. “Me?” I signalled, when he’d finished with the customer. “Dnngal-Schwogllllr-srish-ogglam,” he said. I took a chance and lurched forward. It was indeed me, my cheque had been authorised and he counted out my cash. I left the bank, laughing. You’ve got to really. Life is short, we’re often told. Mine was one hour and fifteen minutes shorter.

I crossed the road, smiling ironic thanks at motorists who did not smash into me even though I had the light. I sympathised with bus drivers over the new magnetic card machines installed just a few weeks ago that are already pretty much all busted. I shrugged my shoulders in resignation as I noticed that basic foodstuff, like milk, had gone up again and I arrived home delighted that the soles of my shoes were clean and smelling as fragrantly as when I’d left the house.

That’s me, looking on the bright side. But two defeats over the weekend is much harder to cope with. Argentinos Juniors have the crucial Copa Libertadores game against Brazil’s Fluminense this Wednesday which we hope will provide something to cheer about.

Meanwhile, we’ve sunk to ninth place in the league, but still only four points behind the leaders, River Plate. They played out a dull 0-0 away at Gimnasia. Velez couldn’t take advantage, also drawing, 1-1 at Colon. Boca also drew – in a thrilling 3-3 at home to lowly Tigre. San Lorenzo and Lanus were level at 1-1 and Olimpo and Estudiantes at 2-2. Quilmes won their first game of the season – 3-1 against fellow strugglers Newell’s, All Boys beat Huracan 3-1 and Racing thumped their local rivals Independiente 2-0. That’s all folks. Watch where you tread!

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

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

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!

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