After the near-perfection of the All Blacks on Saturday came uncertainty, barely sustainable tension and, ultimately, crushing disappointment for Ireland and joy unconfined for the Pumas, through to the World Cup semi-finals and damn well worth it.
They began in a scoring blur, soaked up the counter-punches and finished with a level of composure that New Zealand would have been proud of in dispatching France the evening before.
This was a big stage for a big occasion and, in their different ways, both combatants contributed equally to one of the tournament’s most enthralling encounters, a match that both detached and quietly committed observers expected Ireland to win – with reservations. No one, even the most ardent of the smattering of Argentinian supporters jostling with Irish fans among the 73,316 present, dreamed they would win 43-20.
Still, beforehand there were murmurs in the labyrinth running round the bowels of this huge stadium, echoes of apprehension among the supposedly impartial: could Argentina prove difficult to the point of embarrassment?
Well, of course they were capable of doing so, nodded the sage and the cynical, even if they had finished second in their previous five meetings with Ireland – although Argentina had won two of three World Cup matches. No, these were no ingénus from the pampas; these were dangerous hombres, ranked sixth in the world, only three places behind Ireland. They arrived skilled and motivated, ignored maybe – but here on merit, no question.
After a mere three minutes Irish apprehension curdled into outright concern when Matías Moroni – a seven-cap baby – skittered over on the right.
When Santiago Cordero’s kick found Juan Imhoff (marginally onside, according to the TMO) on the ball over the line, a huge swath of green around the roofed-in stadium fell silent. It was one of at least three key calls in the match.
“It’s going to be very difficult for Ireland now,” their former captain Keith Wood uttered incredulously into a TV microphone after 10 minutes. That is 10 minutes of the first half, with the Irish 14 points down and rattled to the point of confusion.
In that don’t-blink opening, their pack, robbed of their captain, Paul O’Connell, and best player, Sean O’Brien, not to mention Peter O’Mahony, lost only their second scrummage of the tournament. Their backs, without the guiding hand of Johnny Sexton, could only watch as Argentina teased and taunted them. The old hooker was not wrong; this was a nightmare unfolding like a bad novel.
Argentina’s challenge was at the opposite end of the spectrum of expectations: were they capable of resisting the inevitable backlash, even with a 17-point cushion after only a quarter of an hour? They were playing like France – not the current model but the team of old, of daring and self-belief, although there were cracks in the facade.
Ian Madigan struck the first counter, a penalty while Ramiro Herrera looked on from the sin-bin – and Chris Henry handed it back at a ruck in front of the posts soon afterwards. The gap was three scores again inside 20 minutes and Ireland seemed powerless to control the pace of the contest. How they missed the calm and experience of O’Connell and Sexton – although Jamie Heaslip did well to marshall resistance.
However, it took a rousing left-field burst and score from Luke Fitzgerald, on for Tommy Bowe, to restore heart where had resided panic – a turning point perhaps, the awakening of the real Ireland who had come to this World Cup with justified ambitions of going deep? A 10-point deficit at half-time seemed like a benediction compared with the hellish start.
Within five minutes of resuming it was three, Jordi Murphy’s angled charge inside the 22 irresistible. Now the pack stood firm. The ball moved smoothly from hand to hand. When the whistle blew, it blew for Ireland.
Tackles were broken, rucks won and retained. The sting had been drawn. For the moment at least the insurrection had been put down.
Then came a momentous call: Herrera charged into a static ruck with a pile-driver of a shoulder, unattached to the action, and inexplicably escaped dismissal after his earlier yellow.
Still, buoyed now and responding to the ritual, on-the-hour rendering of Fields Of Athenry, Ireland pressed on with way more coherence.
Then came another crucial call: Devon Toner pinged when caught wrapping a big right arm round Nicolás Sánchez in front of the referee and within kicking range of the felled fly-half. It was line-ball – but Argentina led by six points inside the final quarter and remained in sight of wrecking preconceived wisdom.
With Moroni, who dealt the first dagger, withdrawn, Joaquín Tuculet (once of the Cardiff Blues next door) arrived from full-back to land the killer blow in the corner. It was no less than Argentina deserved.
There were as many minutes left as there were points to make up: 13. But the underdogs – if that is what they ever were – had not finished. Imhoff struck again. The job was complete, the Irish desolation beyond repair.
