By DAVID IZRAELEVITZ
Los Alamos
I had it all figured out. I could watch the World Cup final and we could still make it to Popejoy Hall in time to park and grab a quick bite before the matinee. Argentina was winning 2-0. Time was running out for France.
Somehow France didn’t agree that time was running out, so they scored two late goals, threw the game into extra time, and messed it all up for me. I jumped from the couch and ran to the computer to google “world cup final on the radio.” Making my way to a free SiriusXM 3-month introductory subscription, I performed the necessary credit card incantations and configured SiriusXM on the Camry. Off we were on our way to Albuquerque in time to hear that Messi had just scored. And then Mbappe’s last-minute equalizer as we were driving off the hill made it clear that I was in the audio presence of the best World Cup final ever. I guess audio presence is better than no presence at all.
Listening instead of watching those last minutes made the muffled crowd noises after Argentina won in penalty kicks both more poignant and more agonizing. I knew that video kept streaming through the airwaves, but at that moment, there was nothing the commentators could say, nothing they would say in solemn respect for the moment. Nevertheless, I sensed in my mind’s eye those post-game images passing through millions of screens. There was no need to describe closeups of Argentinian players and fans singing or crying. There was no need to comment on Mbappe, the future soccer god whose time had not yet arrived. While the beautiful mountains of northern New Mexico vied for my attention, I felt the overwhelming joy of Messi, whose journey to the pantheon of soccer was now complete, of future grandparents sharing their memories of this day with their grandchildren, of the privilege of bearing witness to a consecrated moment in a people’s history.
Think of an older sibling that you both love and hate, and that is the complex relationship between Uruguay, my country of birth, with Argentina. I never visited Buenos Aires except to change airports, so my perspective of that great city is still fundamentally that of an eleven-year-old fascinated by the other side of the Rio de la Plata. For me Argentina was Buenos Aires, where telenovelas and variety shows and famous stars came from; the exotic metropolis my father would travel to on overnight business trips; the idyllic place where my parents honeymooned. I imagined that Buenos Aires was like Montevideo but ten times louder, busier, brighter and dirtier, ten times more exciting but ten times more inscrutable.
On the other hand, Argentinians speak like us, with that distinctive “shhhh” for the double-L that distinguishes us from those exotic South Americans across the Andes or Amazon jungle. Argentinians are just like Uruguayans, just bigger, more imposing, maybe even more stuck-up. Just like your older brother.
And that is why, next to Uruguay winning the World Cup, I desperately wanted my older brothers to make it all the way. I wanted them to feel what my father felt when he spoke of the 1950 World Cup, one he could retell in meticulous detail.
Imagine how you might feel if your favorite team in your favorite sport, featuring your favorite player who had never won the ultimate championship, finally won it all. Now imagine if no matter where you went, no matter the relation or the sport or the hero, everyone had the same feeling of elation. That is what Argentina feels now. It is the ultimate anti-9/11.
In the middle of one of its worst economic depressions ever, the skies have opened and the most fervent wish of 46 million people was granted. It was a silent moment for me, but I could hear their singing, jumping arm-in-arm, loud and clear.
