🇬🇮 nutmeg fc #4
Today: Gibraltar to the World Cup, chapter 1
The World Cup title Argentina won on 18 December 2022 had an impact never seen before in the country's history: it united it.
"We are all Montiel", the phrase with which the commentator (and also coach) Rodolfo De Paoli described the moment before Gonzalo Montiel scored the final penalty turned out to be prophetic. All Argentines became one, with the same joy, the same love, the same respect. We all melted into a single embrace. Rich and poor, Peronists and Radicals, River and Boca fans, those who put pineapple on their pizza and those who have good taste. We were all Montiel.
But in no one did I see the third star have such a big impact as in Miguel Perrone, a friend I made in the years when we worked in a call centre, and with whom I met again many years later, when we were both in our thirties and living in Spain.
We always got on well, but we connected on the subject of football. I didn't take his opinions seriously because, despite having been born and lived in Argentina until he was twenty-nine, he always defined himself as a Barça (or Barsa, as we call it over there) fan. He accused me of being authoritarian and, at the same time, a snob, for being able to say who my favourite Crystal Palace player is.
Another reason why I always found it hard to take his football opinions seriously is because he is a leap fan. One of those fans who don't watch any football for four years and during the World Cup they become experts. He denies it. Maybe I don't watch every game, he says, but I follow it. Besides, football hasn't changed that much since I used to go to the stadium, even the ginger Mac Allister is still playing.
Although his recent past as a supporter causes me a mixture of disinterest and dislike, his future makes me envious. Even more so when I hear the full story in his own words.
I was born in March 1987, nine months after winning the '86 World Cup. I'm one of those babies who should have been called Diego Armando, but my mum put her foot down like she was killing a cockroach and named me Miguel. When I was very little I was always with my dad, we were very close, but after Diego's doping in '94 he distanced himself a bit, as if he had realised that Argentina hadn't won a World Cup since I was born. I'm not saying that he thought that I had brought bad luck to Argentina, but sometimes it seemed a bit like it, you know? One time I was having a fancy dress party and he bought me a grey afro wig, thick glasses and a gold sequined bag.
Another time, when Racing did the exorcism of their stadium to become champions after more than thirty years, my dad turned up with a priest at my house for dinner. At a moment when I was distracted, the priest threw holy water on me. I started screaming like a man possessed and my clothes started to disintegrate. Even my mother was convinced that my body was inhabited by some bad luck demon, but in the end it turned out that the priest hadn't had time to go to the church to get the holy water and had filled his canteen in the Riachuelo.
And Qatar was magical, you know what I mean? I started there with a drink for my nerves and then another one to celebrate each goal, and then another one for my anguish when France equalised, and in the end I ended up hugging a German who had a duck. Germans are cold, but RESPECT.
When he woke up the next afternoon, Miguel had a revelation. He was never again going to feel the happiness that the Argentinean world title had brought him. Even if we become champions again, it won't be the same, because it no longer feels impossible.
So he went out to find a new impossible. He dived to the bottom of the FIFA ranking and decided that, from now on, he was going to be a fan of the San Marino national team, cheering them on and transferring his good energies to them so that they would qualify for the 2026 World Cup. I loved the idea. I've never been to San Marino, but I'm sure that if they qualify they are capable of leaving the country empty and all 33,745 of them will go to watch the World Cup.
However, although it breaks the poetry of the idea, I suggested to Miguel that he follow the Gibraltar national team, which is also at the bottom of the FIFA ranking (202nd place) and which, living in Malaga, is closer for him to go and watch matches and connect with the local public. The proximity helped convince him, but what Miguel liked most was the idea of following a country built around a big stone.
And so, with a fan in search of his new impossible, this Gibraltar adventure to the World Cup begins.