I had promised that I would return the morning after the final. Well, things didn’t turn out for me (and many other fans like me) as expected. Spain completely caught Argentina off guard — so much that Leo didn’t get more than a couple of touches for a fraction of a second during the entire match. Spain 1 – Argentina 0.
From the outset of the match, I sensed the overarching internet narrative being projected onto the teams: Argentina, the thugs and beat-masters against the ever-so-ethical and politically correct Spain. The referee was quick to dish out yellow cards on the blue-and-white-jerseyed men. With Lisandro Martinez going out due to injury before halftime, nerves began wracking up and Argentina team may have felt the game was slipping out of their hands. The only way they could’ve won it was through penalties. They kept holding on until the last minute, even with one man down (Enzo was sent off) but in the end Emiliano could’ve only held up so far. He was the man of the match — an impregnable wall that kept saving the team through his astute saves. It is a shame that he wasn’t handed the Golden Glove. It is even worse that Messi, who led one of the most historical World Cup campaigns at an overripe age of 39, was omitted for the Golden Ball. It is impossible to ignore that this may well have been an attempt by FIFA to launder their reputation.
Argentina is a team that plays with their heart on their sleeves. I love Argentinian football culture, and hailing from Kerala, where the fervour for the team is only second to the most passionate Buenos Aires neighbourhoods, my loyalties are lifelong and cast in stone. I admire the physical, aggressive, direct style of play with a tinge of creative flair, that the team has come to embody over the last couple of years. The night of the final was the night I realised I despise the Spanish — or rather Barcelona-esque— possession-heavy Tiki Taka game. It almost put me to sleep and was dreadful to watch. Argentina, for all its flaws, gives us last-minute dopamine-inducing thrilling goals that completely rewrites the script of the game.
As a long-time supporter of FC Barcelona, one would’ve expected me to be happy for the many boys who won the trophy in La Roja. In fact, the team Spain consists of mostly Barcelona players, with just one Real Madrid-bound player, Cucurella (a match made in heaven — but that’s a topic for another day). But I wasn’t one teeny-weeny bit happy for the Barcelona players. When the most important night of my life approached, my heart inevitably, without hesitation, chose Messi. It was a profound revelation of where my loyalties lay all along. At that point, Barcelona was just a team Messi had once played for, albeit for many years, and loved dearly. Suffice it to say that I’ll love Barcelona only as long as it honours Messi. It is a conditional affection for a club that I had considered my own since childhood. I never thought I would say this. On Sunday night, I was confronted with the painful choice, and my emotions answered. I was always a player-first fan. But this realisation also gives me the opportunity to now venture out, watch matches without taking sides and adopt a club, a team that kindles a spark in me. That will be exciting. In a month’s time, I can’t wait to start watching the premier league.
Barney Ronay didn’t miss a beat when he said Spain’s collective glory that hinges on players oiling a perfect system, subdued “a team built on the irrational magic of Messi’s lone genius.” Perhaps he’s been one of the very few Guardian writers who has been honest in his portrayal of Messi.
There’s been much clamour about Paredes’ actions after the end of the match. There’s no need to create a ruckus about it. Fights are common in football matches, and when the emotions are running high it can spill over into physical attacks.
And the last of all, and the worst of all, the match between Argentina and Spain morphed into a proto-war between the righteous left (read Palestine sympathisers) and the angry right (read Zionists) with the likes of Mehdi Hasan jumping into the bandwagon, donning an English shirt. This also tells us that in precipitous moments, the Big West likes to gang up against the ‘uncivilised’, ‘brutish’ third world country. Ishaan Tharoor clowned himself by writing a full article on New Yorker saying that he no longer identifies with the Argentina team that has now become ‘the establishment.’ We must rephrase his sentiment this way: Ishaan only likes to support the little, talented third world country team only so long as it remains at the bottom, trying against all odds to reach the top, always within reach but never really there. Once it reaches there he has to pick another side to parade; and this time he has interestingly chosen, of all underdogs, Spain. What an irony.
Leo, do not give heed to anything that these naysayers and doomsday prophets say. Rodrigo de Paul perfectly summed up the larger Western and Arab narrative in the run up to the final when he said in his post-final statement that the whole world wanted this team, who reached a consecutive final despite being flawed and tactically and technically inferior, to not smile again. La Albiceleste only owes to the millions of Argentines and the millions of fans who support them outside their country — in Kerala that bleeds blue and white every four years, Bangladesh that gets drunk in Messi-madness every time he graces the pitch, and most of all in the virtual space (a shout out to FCBJimmy, BCNOgi and the impeccable Twitter legends who took us on a ride this World Cup) — who have been standing by this family through thick and thin.
Onwards we go, Vamos! Uno perfecto, Argentino!
Notes
*The title of the post translates into English as ‘Not a legend, but God.’
The Unsaturated Reader 
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