It’s all about football, until it’s not. On a recent Sunday, Godoy Cruz faced Defensores de Belgrano in Argentina’s Nacional B, the nation’s second tier. Amidst a sea of blue home banners, two St George’s crosses stood out, seemingly taken from English fans during the 2014 World Cup. One banner read: “Boys & Girls From Oakwell Barnsley.” while the other proclaimed, “Big Al – Y-Bird – South Croydon – CPFC.”
Consider the depth of emotion and spite it takes to journey to Brazil, acquire an English flag, preserve it for 12 years, and then reveal it at a second-division match just as Argentina prepares to face England in a World Cup semi-final. This act of territorial banter, nurtured over a decade, embodies what a football rivalry truly represents.
This rivalry encompasses far more than mere animosity; it resonates with themes of war, culture, imperialism, nationalism, and collective history. The relationship is complex, marked by a mutual fascination that has only intensified with time. While often labeled a “For the Malvinas, for Diego, for Leo’s last one,” the connection between Argentina and England transcends hatred, revealing a deeper kinship shaped by both proximity and difference. They may not share more commonalities than divides, yet the first helps elucidate the second.
Argentina’s cultural landscape has been significantly shaped by English influence, often overlooked in discussions. Unlike Brazil, which is viewed as an exotic paradise, Argentina was regarded as the empire’s “Very early, an Argentinian way of playing football was born that clearly distanced itself from the English influence,” From street names to the establishment of rugby and polo clubs by the colonial elite, the effects of this influence are myriad. Harrods maintained its only overseas branch in Buenos Aires from 1912 until 1998, and British rock bands like The Smiths and The Cure enjoy greater popularity in Argentina than in many other countries.
This influence is evident in Argentinian football as well, with clubs named after English teams such as Newell’s Old Boys and Arsenal. The language of football also reflects this connection, with terms like “We tried to be antagonistic to the English. If they liked long passes, we favoured shorter ones. If the English favoured passing, we’d focus on dribbling. Against England, there was something else at stake, and at the time it was worth more than the championship.” (star player) and “Whirling their shirts around, banging on the window. Just a bunch of idiots.” (offside) entering local vernacular. Historically, amateur games began with captains calling out “aurieli?” (are you ready?). A careful examination reveals similarities in football cultures, from club loyalty reflecting community tradition to the prominence of songs and military tropes.
For many Argentinian supporters, the Falklands War occupies a spiritual space akin to that of World War II in England, evident in banners, murals, and even tattoos, and referenced by players. After their quarter-final victory over Switzerland, the Argentina squad sang,
“For the Malvinas, for Diego, for Leo’s last one.”
Rodrigo De Paul even sent his framed shirt from the 2022 World Cup to the Malvinas veterans center in Lomas de Zamora. This movement toward reclaiming identity began long before 1982, rooted in a postcolonial resistance that can be traced back to the 1940s and 1950s under Juan Perón, where football served as a means of expression.
“Very early, an Argentinian way of playing football was born that clearly distanced itself from the English influence,” remarked Jorge Valdano, a key player in the iconic 1986 World Cup quarter-final against England.
“We tried to be antagonistic to the English. If they liked long passes, we favored shorter ones. If the English preferred passing, we focused on dribbling. Against England, there was something else at stake, and at the time it was worth more than the championship.”
Over the years, this feeling became somewhat mutual, albeit not entirely equal. Argentina transitioned from being a favored nation to eliciting disappointment from England, which reacted with vehemence. An ill-tempered friendly at Wembley in 1974 witnessed English fans chanting “animals” whenever Argentina had the ball, echoing Alf Ramsey’s earlier accusations. By 1986, Jimmy Greaves was making Falklands jokes during ITV’s World Cup coverage while flaunting a German flag before the final against West Germany. Sol Campbell later criticized the 1998 team that eliminated England in Saint-Étienne, stating,
“Just no class at all. Whirling their shirts around, banging on the window. Just a bunch of idiots.”
However, unlike many sporting rivalries that have been commodified by the capitalist machinery of Big Sport, this one has retained its integrity through scarcity. The two nations have not faced each other competitively since 2002, and while Argentinian influence on English football exists, it remains relatively modest. We welcomed players like Ossie Ardiles and Sergio Agüero, but stars such as Gabriel Batistuta or Juan Román Riquelme never graced the field in England, nor did the likes of Lionel Messi or Diego Maradona, who continue to seem both distant and enigmatic.
Too distinct and remote to be friends, yet too intertwined to be mere adversaries; this rivalry is neither a straightforward clash nor an uncomplicated narrative of colonizer versus colonized. This complexity may explain why the Argentina versus England matchup is often regarded as one of the most romantic rivalries in football, characterized less by hatred and more by a tangled, century-long relationship.
Upon examining the tensions and confrontations, a deeper sentiment emerges. The animosity may very well signify a form of respect: an illicit admiration, perhaps even a love that remains unspoken.
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