A United States citizen´s perspective of an Argentine World Cup match.

The Perfect Cross-Culture

It was a lazy Tuesday in the Previgliano household as I dropped my stuff at the entrance of the duplex in Belgrano.  My host brother Marco had been let off work for the Argentina vs. Greece World Cup matchup and was already busy in the kitchen – read that as Marco was already yelling wildly in celebration after every successful Argentine pass.  Clearly I was late for the action, but I hurried into the kitchen to cheer on my second home. The game was already thirty minutes in, yet no one had scored yet.  Of course, I already knew that since I did not hear any honking or see any 65-year-olds parading around outside when I got off the bus.  I took a seat at the table and picked up a factura – although Ms. Previgliano, Marco, and his sister all had something on their plates, they were too firmly glued to the television to have taken a bite yet.  I was going to ask if there was any marmalade left, but I figured I had better wait until halftime. "Ma!  Como no fue adelantado!?"  Marco was wrong, the Greek player was definitely onsides, but I was not going to be the one to tell him.  "Siempre dicen que Messi esta adelantado!  No es justo."  I guess I can’t blame him for being so tense.  After all, if the United States had the perfect team I would be disappointed by anything less than perfection as well. The halftime whistle sounded and was accompanied by a round of coordinated audible sighs from the Previgliano family.  "Parris, vamos a sacar Indio."  A quick walk around the block with Indio, the family dog that has to be AT LEAST as old as Maradona, would certainly help to calm the nerves.  Marco slipped the dog-sized Argentina jersey over Indio and we were off.  We couldn’t pass a single person without either hearing or initiating a conversation on the game.  From what I heard, the reason Argentina had not scored was a mix of bad refereeing, Greeks fouling Messi, and a conspiracy against Maradona.  I must say that I was not aware of all the forces working against the Argentine soccer squad. Whipping out his cell phone as the ring tone went off, Marco let me know that the second half was about to start.  Whether Indio was done going to the bathroom or not, we had to hurry up and get back in the apartment.  We plopped down in front of the television just in time to see the kickoff – and to see Maradona cross himself approximately 14 times (I may or may not have actually counted.)  If quantity of blessings had anything to do with it, Argentina was definitely going to come out on top. Thirty minutes later, the score was still tied at 2-2.  Even with the windows open, I could tell that the neighborhood was uncharacteristically silent.  I did not even hear the sound of a colectivo honking at a taxi driver.  Another corner kick for Argentina.  The ball comes swinging in on a perfect cross and… Demichelis gets a foot on it… but a teammate is in the way.  I smiled at the bad luck while the Previglianos let out a string of delicately chosen Spanish profanities, but the play had not ended.  As Marco stood up in excitement and disgust at the missed opportunity, I watched as Demichelis collected his own rebound and slammed it into the net.  I was trying to get Marco’s attention, but it was not necessary.  Through the windows rushed the sounds of air horns, car horns, adults screaming, children screeching, and Coto employees abandoning their posts at cash registers to celebrate in the streets.  I followed Marco onto the balcony – read that as Marco yanked me by the arm out onto the balcony – to wave the Argentine flag and sing “Vamos vamos Argentina!”  I turned back to the television in time to see Maradona crossing himself a few more times. With two minutes left, it looked as if victory was sure for the Argentine team, but I would not dare say anything to jinx it.  Silence pervaded once again as we all anticipated the final whistle.  Messi and the rest of the boys seemed to be playing keep-away now just to waste away the clock.  That must have been what Greece was thinking too, because they sure were not ready for the shot taken in the 89^th minute from just outside the box.  The ball rebounded off a Greek and, of all people, Palermo was just in the right place to send the ball right into the back of the net.  For this game, no final whistle would be needed to call the game.  The neighborhood erupted once more and Marco shrieked through the house shaking his mother, his sister, and me by the shoulders.  (He might have even shaken his sister’s baby, but I don’t think it was hard enough to cause shaken-baby syndrome.)  I caught a glimpse of the screen as Maradona jumped onto one of the assistant coaches.  Despite all of the doubts, he had coached his team through the group stage. The final whistle sounded after 92 minutes of play, and I took to the streets.  At first, it looked like a horrible traffic jam with everyone honking, but given then I realized that it was just a giant celebration.  People were leaning out of their cars and shouting “Palermoooogolllllll” or “ArgenTIna, ArgenTIna!” As an American, I can’t imagine such a celebration in the United States, especially for a soccer game.  I have played soccer all my life, but I realize that the rest of my country does not see it as a major sport.  This actually baffles me.  Americans are said to be some of the most patriotic people in the world, but have I ever walked outside of my house after an Olympic basketball game to hear my entire neighborhood cheering?  No.  Have I been dismissed from school because the United States had a World Cup match?  No.  Have I ever truly felt that the United States was ALTOGETHER “united” under one cause?  My honest answer would have to be “no.”  Sure, soccer is just a game, but shouldn’t that make it even easier for all of us to support it unilaterally?  We may be ahead of Argentina in some aspects of society, but we certainly can’t claim to be more patriotic.  After experiencing an Argentine World Cup match with a true Argentine family, I am beginning to rethink what we really mean when we say “The United States of America.”  I’ll let you know when we get the “United” part right.