The 20th anniversary of Maradona's superlative performance in 1986 has understandably been given a prominent place in the press, both in England and Argentina. Other important anniversaries marked with special supplements and guest writers in Argentina this month include the 10th anniversary of Jorge Luis Borges's death and the 200th anniversary of what is locally known as the "English Invasions" - attempted military incursions by British troops which, uncharacteristically for the period, were unsuccessful.
These topics have been discussed at length in recent days elsewhere on this blog. Borges is relevant here on two counts: he was Argentina's most overt anglophile and he absolutely despised football.
Borges and Maradona are crucial emblems for any Argentinian notion of national identity - although I want to be careful here, because it's all too easy for the World Cup to serve as an excuse for nationalistic prejudices masquerading as "love of the beautiful game". There must be a distinction between wanting one's team to win - whether or not "by means fair or foul" - and believing that the defence of this desire justifies hatred and violence towards others. Military activities, whether fair or foul, shouldn't be confused with the game.
I am reminded of Fernando Redondo, an exceptional Argentinian player who enjoyed a prosperous career in Europe. When Daniel Passarella managed the national squad he wanted to play Redondo, but in a different position from his usual No 5. Redondo refused, saying playing for his country wasn't an obligation. "It's not like it's military service or something".
Sometimes it feels like a very fine line ...
The No 5 shirt denotes a central midfield role in Argentina, where shirt numbers are widely used to convey positions and style of play. I hear fans shouting out: "Fuck off Burdisso, you're not a 4!". I guess this means they're not happy with the notion of Burdisso being played on the left because he's usually in central defence. Like Ayala - but that's the No 2 role. That Ayala is Argentina's No 2 is written in stone.
The numbers 2-11 are not the only significant ones; players can also become attached to reserve numbers. Johan Cruyff was awarded the No 14 shirt by chance, after injury had kept him out for some time and his usual No 9 had been allocated to someone else. He had a good first game and when the 9 was offered to him again he said 14 had become his lucky number. Now, it's practically impossible to think of Cruyff as anything but. And Brazil's Mario Zagallo is said to have chosen the number 13 because of his wife's devotion to San Antonio, whose saint's day is July 13. He has said he feels confident of Brazil's fortunes this tournament - his seventh! - because Carlos Alberto has 13 letters in his name and Brazil played their first match on June 13.
Interestingly, Argentina played their first match on June 10. This has been the date of Argentina's first World Cup game twice before: in 1978 and in 1986, the two years we won it. The symbolic impact of the number 10 doesn't stop there - the man blessed with the task of being the team's thinker this summer is Riquelme, who wears the No 10 shirt. This is no accident.
Superstition or tactical tradition? Clearly, numbers and dates mean something to humans. That's why we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. It's something to do with trying to understand time and space. I've heard that Raymond Domenech consults the players' star charts when selecting his squad. More players have superstitious habits than not, and I venture to suggest that might be true of most fans as well. Who hasn't at some stage sought out the same seat they sat in last time their team won the title, or worn a "lucky" pair of socks?
When Carlos Menem, an ardent football fan, was president of Argentina he was widely believed to be a bad omen and he stopped going to live games. At the moment there is some fear that the main obstacle between the squad and the 2006 Cup is an unfulfilled promise made ahead of the 1986 Mexico World Cup by that year's winning squad to return to thank a statue of the Virgin in Tilcara if they won. Fortunately, the Argentinian Football Association has now set the record straight, and I am grateful to Viltipoco who alerted me to the good news in an earlier posting on this blog.
Would casting a spell over the opponents count as cheating? Would it have to be proved that the spell worked? Or could it be argued that the mere intention of bewitching the other constituted foul play? Surely, when it comes to football, we can indulge some forms of harmless rule breaking. Dare I say it - it is only a game.
It can be argued - and I've no doubt it will be - that such stuff has no bearing on what happens on the pitch. I have come across persuasive arguments as to why it is in fact counterproductive for athletes to indulge in superstitious rituals. But I prefer to suspend disbelief and chance it: part of me still thinks that the second goal against England in 1986 was a miracle of sorts. And I'm even willing to entertain the idea that some kind of divine intervention took place in the first as well.
"Magic is sometimes very close to nothing ... nothing at all," says Zinedine Zidane (who wears the France No 10 shirt) in a documentary depicting a day in his life.
But what is nothing? The mighty symbol, of course, the ball. It is the moon and the sun. It spins, and our dreams orbit around it. It is the circle. At once 0 and infinity.
