literature won. Nobody writes about football like the Argentines. And if Roberto Fontanarrosa made something as sublime as the Old Casale story out of a simple cup final between Central and Ñuls (okay, it wasn’t a simple final), what will one of football’s great writers from that far-off land get now? and so close to Europe? Surely the writer will have to wait for the handshakes to subside. Because the drama was tricky. which end. what torment
It is clear that Kylian Mbappé can become Pelé. It is even clearer that Lionel Messi is Lionel Messi and is forever safe from comparisons with the great Maradona: each his character, each his World Cup, each his time. And it’s very clear that Argentina was destined to win its third star, because nobody struggled, suffered and wished like this group of white-blues, led by a little gentleman who walked absently among his team-mates, anticipating many seconds ahead in the Ahead when it was necessary for him to cramp and move at breakneck speed like this amazing kid he was.
French President Emmanuel Macron comforts Kylian Mbappe after the final against Argentina. Friedemann Vogel (EFE)
There is no justice in football. Yes, sometimes there is poetry. France, despite the injuries, had a bench better than any other and a player as wonderful as Mbappé; France were almost casually confident of maintaining their quality and lifting a second straight trophy; France, ever since ex-president Nicolas Sarkozy arranged UEFA votes for Qatar (in exchange for the Qataris buying him fighter jets and PSG), has almost been a co-sponsor of the 2022 World Cup. And France ended up losing in the most poetic way and less fair, on penalties.
Perhaps in addition to trembling fingers, the writer has also changed sensibilities, but Emmanuel Macron’s small appearance in the box, waving with his presence legitimizing a despicable regime (would he have gone to Argentina in 1978 too?) and bare-chested as if at a rally, it seemed being quite a poem to this editor.
The omens were numerous. Argentina had a coach who had never coached anyone, and Argentina is known for only performing at its best under unusual circumstances. Argentina won the Copa America against Brazil at the Maracana a year ago: nothing could impress their players more. The final was played on December 18, Keith Richards’ birthday. How could fate not favor the old rocker who offered his last concert?
The game ended and for at least one night the prettiest corners of Paris were in Buenos Aires. For at least one night (which will last several days), the most complicated and troubled country on earth will forget about inflation, poverty, social and political upheaval, and gorillas and peronchos will dance around the obelisk. From Juan, a very young basketball player from Buenos Aires, to Pablo in Patagonia, Argentines melted into a crazy, breezy and therapeutic euphoria. Those of us who are assimilated, those of us who aren’t Argentines but one day fell under the spell of a football-sick society, had to enjoy vicariously. It’s not little.
Between the joy of Argentina and the sadness of France (which is still young and will still be there in four years), a shadow crossed the pitch at the end of the game. He was the shadow of Amir Nazr-Azadani, the Iranian soccer player sentenced to death for supporting his country’s women. Argentina took the trophy with flying colors. The shadows remain.
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