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The Agony and the Ecstasy of Argentina’s World Cup Victory

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Why did we have to suffer like this? Argentina had scored twice. There seemed to be no doubt that Lionel Messi , a national hero and one of the greatest players in the history of the sport, would lift the Cup, completing an incredible journey started some three decades ago in Rosario, Argentina, when he played his first real game, at the age of four. This was to be the triumphant conclusion to the magical saga of his career. A doubt caught Argentineans on and off the field: What if the story ended badly? My family is Argentinean. We screamed so hard in our Harlem apartment that later we found our tortoise upside down in her cage. But, in the hundred-and-eighth minute, Messi lashed in a rebound from the French goalie. It was 3—2. Finally, glory was at hand—or so many believed. Argentines know better. The game was to be decided in a penalty shootout. By then, we were standing, pacing, shouting, praying, cursing, hoping that telepathic intervention would make the Argentinean penalty takers succeed and the French miss. It worked. Argentina won. Otherwise, how to make sense of the agony with which Argentina went through this Cup? By the time the team arrived in Qatar, it had gone thirty-six consecutive games without a defeat—and then, nonsensically, in the first game, lost to Saudi Arabia. The Netherlands match was nearly a replay, only this time the Dutch team actually equalized and the match went to penalties, as if in a rehearsal of what was going to happen in the final. Suffering is an essential part of an Argentinean narrative, shared by coaches, players, supporters—by the entire country. Every four years, it is ritually projected onto what is not just a game but a part of the story that we Argentines tell about ourselves. Argentines were once destined to greatness, the narrative goes, but we fell prey to recurrent, cyclical crises from which only magic can save us. At the World Cup, that magic once carried the name of Diego Maradona , the legendary player who led Argentina to victory in Hence a country in which sarcasm and street smarts are considered national trademarks suddenly becomes superstitious. Some people wear the same clothes during every match; others watch each game in the same exact spot, or are not allowed to watch at all, like the father of an old colleague of mine, who is sent by his family to walk in the park for the duration of the match. The smallest event acquires extraordinary meaning. Each player drew ten cards from a Spanish deck. They had to guess the correct value and suit of at least one of them. If they all succeeded, it meant that they were going to win the tournament. One player guessed correctly on his last try; two did on their first. Messi had lost four tournament cups, so he tried the Five of Cups. Sure enough, it was one of the cards. They were crowned champions. Argentines want to believe in this magic, because they also believe that there will always be a new, more crushing crisis. Lately, there has been soaring inflation, economic recession, and the sentencing on corruption charges of the former President, and current Vice-President, Cristina Kirchner. And when magic happens, as it did on Sunday—now, finally, bearing the name of Lionel Messi—more than a million Argentines take to the streets in collective ecstasy, dancing and singing with friends and strangers late into the summer night, in one golden moment of bonding and hope. In order to function properly, Democracy needs the loser. What happens to all the stuff we return? When the piano world got played. The Vogue model who became a war photographer. The age of Instagram face. 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