Miguel Perrone is an Argentinean who has become addicted to the emotions the last World Cup gave him and wants to repeat them in 2026. With that in mind, he has become a fan of one of the worst national teams in the world: Gibraltar.
After watching two defeats from a distance (against Greece and the Netherlands), he decides to travel to Portugal to watch the match against France in the third match day of the World Cup qualifiers from the stadium and he ends up sharing a bus with the Gibraltar national team.
Legend has it that on October 20, 1976, the stadium attendance record in Argentine footbal was broken. It was, coincidentally, the day of Diego Armando Maradona's debut and there are thousands, (millions!), of fans who claim to have been at the Argentinos Juniors stadium that day. Well, not millions, but many more than the 7,736 spectators recorded in the official registry.
Football is a foundational part of the character of every Argentinean. And if you were at Diego's debut, you must have a great character. You instantly become more interesting, more attractive, more intelligent. Even taller. You become a visionary.
Obviously, Gibraltar-France is not Maradona's debut. But perhaps for Miguel it was. There was a twinkle in his eye, an almost imperceptible smile, like Mona Lisa's, that hinted that Miguel had a secret. It had not been just another match. Something had happened. Something big. Bigger than suffering cracked phalanges from Roy Chipolina's handshake.
What if Gibraltar had won?
―How was the match? ―I asked, feigning disinterest.
To have a secret that others want to know is to have power. And Miguel is not the kind of person you want to give power to. Or a lawnmower, if my personal experience is anything to go by.
But my performance didn't work. Miguel recognized my desperation to know what had happened. His eyes lit up, like a tiger's in front of a distracted gazelle, like Neymar's in front of a cruiser, like Haaland's in front of an opposing goal, or like Roy Keane's in front of Haaland's father.
―Guess.
That was all he said and he sat there savouring the moment. And a cannoli he had ordered himself.
I was desperate to know what had happened, but I was more interested in taking away my friend's sense of power.
―You know I can look up the result in two seconds, don't you? ―I yelled at him. I wasn't angry, but a street flute player had stopped next to us to play the Cinema Paradiso song.
―It doesn't matter. What happened is not in the result. It is something that only those of us who were there experienced. It was an instant, but it was an eternity.
And he said nothing more. He got up from his chair and left without saying goodbye or paying what he ordered. Perhaps inspired by Ennio Morricone's song, perhaps hurried by the Neapolitan. I don't know. But that's how he left, leaving me alone with the uncertainty and the flute player.
As soon as I saw him disappear around the corner I pulled out my phone and looked up the score of the match. Gibraltar had lost 0-3. A goal from Giroud, one from Mbappé on a penalty for a dubious VAR handball and an own goal. But it wasn't the result that Miguel was referring to.
It happened in the 33rd minute. France was only leading by one goal. There was a disputed ball in the middle of the pitch. One of dozens in a match. This time the Gibraltarian El Hmidi, won. And, as if possessed by David Beckham, he decided to kick at goal from more than 50 meters.
It was not a goal. But, for an instant, just an instant, as the ball flew through the Portuguese skies and the French goalkeeper retreated in despair, magic was real.
Even if Gibraltar had managed to equalize with this attempt, it is very likely that they would have lost the game anyway. However, the goal would have given them something far more important than a win: a story.
The goal would have become part of Gibraltar's folklore.
It could have given rise to songs, to traditions, to slang, to tattoos, to El Hmidi never having to pay for a coffee again in his life.
It could have been magic.
It almost was.