Photo by Samantha Demangate
Since 1986, Argentines have hung onto the hope of once again becoming the football world champions—a sport for which their passion knows no end. In the 1986 World Cup, their Messiah-like champion of the working class, Diego Maradona, brought them their coveted trophy. The match imprinted Maradona in the psyche of the nation and became, to many Argentines, a defining moment of their lives.
In 2022, after decades of close calls, failed plays, and the hopes and dreams of a nation hanging by a thread, the Argentine team once again looked poised to dominate the world’s stage, this time with their hopes pinned on Lionel Messi.
On the morning of the World Cup Final—held on a scorching December day—the Argentine and French teams shook off the inevitable nerves and pre-game sleep deprivation, and people began gearing up for the long-fought battle. Fernet and Coke, liters of Quilmes, grilled morcilla, local craft beer, and other necessities were hurriedly carted home by nervous fans, sweating through their baby-blue-and-white jerseys. At kick-off, the streets of one of the world’s largest cities grew eerily quiet.
Then, the first goal.
Chants of “Vamos Argentina!” and foghorns rang through the streets, followed by silence. Then another goal, more celebrations, followed by the cruel second half. France caught up, and the two juggernauts fought it out until the last second of extra time elapsed.
The city once again came to a screeching halt. Everything went silent before Gonzalo Montiel sank in the winning penalty. With that, the entire nation of Argentina welled up with an emotion that enveloped the streets and migrated to the central plazas of every city, town, and village—even the tiny settlement of Esperanza Base in Antarctica.
In Buenos Aires, we fled into the streets to join the jubilant crowds, who marched with beers in hand, chanting songs like La Mosca Tse’s “Muchachos, Ahora no Volvimos a Ilusionar” and the viral “Abuela, la la la la la.”
After a while, we paused on the side of Avenida Santa Fe to take it all in. People passed by crying happy tears, and smiling from ear to ear. I held up my can of Samsa Enamorado IPA from Strange Brewing and gave a toast to the groups walking by. For everyone in the city, the moment stood still—every impermanent tear, beer stain, and smudge of blue-and-white face paint turned into a lasting symbol of triumph.
