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The smell of gunpowder filled the Buenos Aires sky. That whiff of sulphur from the fireworks that were let off in parks and streets as this hotbed of a city erupted.
There were tears for Lionel Messi. Tears for their team who put them through hell. Tears for their heroes who, once again, sent them to into the depths of darkness before this proud footballing nation burst into life.
Outside the Casa Rosada, where Argentina’s first lady, Eva Peron, famously addressed her supporters in the 1950s, anti-English banners were unfurled long before kick-off.
The largest roughly translated to ‘Inglaterra… go f*** yourself.’ Political tensions around this match had been fuelled all week. It felt more like a state occasion than a football match.
In La Perensa newspaper, the spokesman for the president, Javier Milei, issued a clarification statement after his recent comments about Margaret Thatcher had been misinterpreted as admiration for the former Prime Minister. In 1982, Thatcher authorised a naval task force to liberate the Falkland Islands from Argentina and this nation has never forgiven her.
‘Por Malvinas, por el Diego, por la ultima de Leo,’ they chanted.
The shops closed early. Rush hour hit Buenos Aires at 2pm local time. The queue outside the popular bakery in Plaza de Mayo ran onto the street as locals stocked up on empanadas and alfajores biscuits to take home for the big game. It felt like the last shop before Christmas.
Lionel Messi is omnipresent here. The No10 is the nation’s ultimate commodity. A man with same footballing wizardry as Diego Maradona, but without the drink and the drugs. Every major company wants a piece of him. Banks, oil companies, fast food chains. It is hard to fathom how one individual can be so universally adored.
Argentina fans support their team in a Buenos Aires restaurant
Adidas plastered huge adverts on multi-storey buildings around the city. ‘YOU GOT THIS,’ they read, alongside a hero sized image of Argentina’s star man. One such banner was planted outside a hotel in Plaza de la República, where the England rugby team are staying ahead of their Test match here on Saturday.
‘Bearing in mind where we are and who we’re playing with, we’ve been pretty sensible about not wearing our English shirts around too much,’ said lock Alex Coles.
Similar advice was issued by my own hotel before I set off to watch the game at the Buenos Aires fan zone in Palermo. ‘Don’t wear an England shirt, there could be trouble,’ warned one of the receptionists.
The fan zone felt like a mecca. A religious pilgrimage where fans painted themselves in sky blue and white. ‘MESSI! MESSI! MESSI!’ they shouted, collectively bouncing with every drop of South American passion.
The nation was crippled by a state of anxiety. Argentina’s run to the semi-final, they say, was unconvincing. Despite being defending champions, they had scraped through the rounds with a series of late victories, inspired by their 39-year-old messiah.
England’s national anthem was drowned out by boos and whistles and the screech of vuvuzelas. No love lost here. Watching the global feed, the locals cared little for the sight of Louis Tomlinson on Mick Jagger on the big screen.
They drank maté tea from wooden cups with metal straws and roared every big collision, as Argentina tried to rough up the English. Anthony Gordon’s goal left thousands in a shocked state of shock. But those final throws, like two late bolts of thunder, sent the nation spinning into delirium.
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