A week ago I was in a daze, like a teenager in love, reliving moments of the 6-0 goalfest that was Serbia & Montenegro, big grin on my face. As I'm sure I've already mentioned, it wasn't even the goals in particular that prompted me to emote so extremely. It was every minute of the entire beautiful game.
The carefully structured passing, the thoughtful use of every trick from the potrero (or vacant lot) brought to the world stage - not in some sort of spurious show-off way but properly, efficiently. It was stunning. And it commanded the respect of the free world. Suddenly, Argentina were the new Brazil and everyone agreed if we didn't win the World Cup it was because pigs fly.
Note my use of the word "we".
Last night was quite different. For starters, they were crap. They looked nervous, confused, and untidy. Not "we" anymore. They. Those overpaid, oversponsored, good for nothing superstars. At times it almost looked like they couldn't even tell which way the opponents goal was. Cretins.
The first time Jose Pekerman talked to me about the "resultist dictatorship", several years ago, he struck a cord. He successfully managed Argentina's youth squads to three World Cup titles, picking up fair play awards and boasting the lowest rates of bookings in Argentina's footballing history. He wished to defend traditional values - gambetas, tacos, caños and sombreritos. [That is: dribbling, back heel kicks, nutmegs, and flicking the ball over an opponent and then retrieving it on the other side. For an illustration of this last one see Crespo, minute 21, 1st half].
When he agreed to take the adult squad, although he enjoys respect back home, a lot of people wondered whether he'd be up to the challenge. Youth squads are more like a club, you have your players available (or most of them) and it's easier to dictate their diet and make sure they do their homework. How would his softly-softly approach go down with a bunch of the highest paid elite players in Europe - most of whom didn't even know each other, let alone get on with each other?
He picked a lot of his own crop. Experienced veterans were left out of the squad and young lads who probably think of Pekerman as a father figure, or at least a caring uncle, were selected instead. The national question was, naturally, would they and him be able to raise to the challenge of the world's toughest competition?
Last night we got a good flavour of how tough it's going to be. The knockout stages are all or nothing. "Kill or die" is the unfortunate analogy the men of football like to use. Mexico were ready for anything, their players were pressing at great speed, their timing was at odds with Riquelme's mellow pace, and after 90 minutes of non-stop agony: extra time. Is there no end to this suffering?
It was the arrival on the pitch of the small heirs to Maradona's crown - Aimar, Tevez and Messi - bringing with them fresh energy, that finally allowed us to breath normally. But, to my amazement, by then I had already spent time shouting demands for long hard hoofs away from Argentina's box. A little less rolling it around on the floor, please, just give it a good whack... my blood pressure is going up just from the memory.
And an explanation of what Scaloni is doing there instead of Zanetti would be timely. Plus, practically every Argentinian player has been booked now. Germany are going to have a field day with us. This is a disaster, and the whole thing is doomed. The World Cup isn't going to be fun anymore. From now on, all we have to look forward to is pain.
I will say, however, that my sentimental side is excited by the figure of Maxi Rodriguez - a Pekerboy through and through. It bodes well for the next match, and who knows, maybe the one after that as well, that the hero of the night is not one of the super hyped, logo bearing, global household names. A little ray of hope.
Yesterday ends with Lionel Messi celebrating his 19th birthday, Juan Roman Riquelme his 28th, and the entire Pekersquad savouring the prospect of facing the host nation at the end of this coming week.
La Volte, on the other hand, silent while the Mexican national anthem was sung before kick off, ended his evening hearing the songs of the Argentinian terraces - the same songs he once listened to from the Argentinian bench at the monumental stadium in the 1978 final - telling him this time round he has failed.
Well, hats off to you Señor La Volte, and your Mexican warriors who last night reminded the World that on a green pitch with two goals at either end anything is possible. You bravely took your chance and for 120 minutes relentlessly staked your claim and fought for your fair share of the limelight.
Sadly, at the end of the day, it's the result that counts.
