A Saint in South America

Tonight is special. Of all the football fan experiences I've ever had, tonight is very special indeed. The South American football press call this the derby of derbies. In fact the prospect of an Argentina/Brazil clash would excite any fan, anywhere, particularly if you are lucky enough to be there on the only occasion these bitter rivals have ever clashed in a World Cup qualifier in this beautiful city.

The three tier Monumental, the bowl- shaped amphitheatre normally home to Argentina's River Plate club is full to its fifty thousand capacity as kick-off time approaches. Perched in the middle section away to my left the Brazilian contingent volunteer a samba and the familiar chant of B-R-A-Z-I-L-!! B-R-A-Z-I-L!! rings out on the cold night air. The Argentinian response is immediate, thousands hoot their derision, gradually turning the stadium into a bobbing, seething, light blue and white ocean awash with the sound of their anthems as seemingly every Argentinian voice in the ground is raised in celebration of their country and its football team.

At last the stadium sound system kicks into the Fifa. fanfare and as the two sides march onto the field the roar of approval that greets them needs to be heard to be believed. Under the floodlights that squat like illuminated gargoyles along the stadiums rim, pink coloured flairs ignite and the vast crowd becomes obscured by a mist of smoke and ticker tape as a multitude of balloons rise up in front of the many huge banners that are draped from every front row. It's a truly incredible sight.

Rewind. Some months ago Aidan Hamilton, author of the book on the early pioneers of Brazilian football, An Entirely Different Game and now working out of Rio, casually mentioned to me that I might like to pay a visit. Well it's not quite like a relatively short journey to a domestic away game or even your average package holiday and after the initial adrenaline rush that such a suggestion brings, the idea continued to buzz around in my head.

A year later I'm stepping off a plane and greeted in the arrivals lounge at Rio International by a familiar cheery West Country brogue. "Allo Chris, how y'doin'?" "Good to see you... can't believe you're here" etc.

Well neither can I and as a matter of fact Aidan, "Do you live anywhere near the Maracana stadium?", I tentatively ask. "Funny you should say that", says Aidan and by five o'clock that same afternoon I'm sat sipping Guarana and munching hot salted popcorn in this world famous ground watching Flamengo the popular club in Brazil, slump 1-0at home to Coritiba in the Brazilian Championship. A few nights later at the same venue Botafogo, the one time club of Brazilian legend Garrincha, fair no better and despite the enthusiastic backing of almost thirty thousand, including a marvellous samba band, the black and white army are bitten by "Parana".... The away side nipping in twice for a two-goal victory.

In between these two games we visit the headquarters of the Fluminense club, (once graced by Rivelino), where curator Zezinho, trots out the very pennant that Saints skipper Bill Rochford presented to his opposite number Orlando, when Saints toured Brazil in 1948. As I hold this beautiful artefact with its familiar Southampton City crest, I confess to shedding a small tear, for this is an emotional moment.

My tears of joy then almost turn to tears of heartbreak. Our tickets for the Argentina/Brazil clash, arranged through a local travel agent, have fallen through. The Rio skyline is dominated by the Corcovado, atop which the huge statue of Jesus stands, arms spread wide. I'm not a deeply religious person.... Although I have my beliefs.... But as we look into the chapel beneath Christ, we both make to our Lord a simple request.

Our prayers are answered, for after carrying on through with our already arranged trip down to Buenos Aires, a ticket agency a few blocks from our hotel provides us with the Holy Grail. It costs a bit. However as any football fan will tell you, sometimes to reach football heaven, there is a price to pay. Saints of course were also in Argentina way back in 1904 when as Southern League kings and the first English side to come to South America they brushed aside an Argentinian challenge then in its soccer infancy, defeating Alumni and Liga Rosarina, also sinking Belgrano 6-1, smashing Britanicos 10-0 and sticking another eight without reply past an Argentinian combined eleven. As Aidan and I make the short journey by train from Retiro to Nunez we are both filled with stomach butterflies and that quiet, tense mounting excitement . . . An infliction suffered by all fans when a big match approaches. As the train clickety clacks along its rails we pass many sporting facilities including we later learn, the Polo ground where Saints once played.

Fast forward. Brazil kick-off under a sky, which reflected in the lights, has darkened dramatically to the colour of dried blood. It's the blood of Argentina however that is drawn first as Brazil's yellow and greens snatch a shock lead after only three minutes. Brazilian long throw specialist Roberto Carlos hurls the ball in and it deflects past Argentine keeper Burgos off of his defender Ayala. The River Plate is stunned into silence. Brazil begin to show the confidence an early goal can bring and play through star man Rivaldo. For the rest of the period Argentina with some astute forward passing strive to get back into the game urged on by their zealot hordes. Half time.

I say to Mercedes, a delightful young Argentinian girl, there with her boyfriend, that I hope to see Ariel Ortega brought on second half for the home side. He's a very exciting attacker and my kind of player. As for the fans around us they have made us really welcome. They impress me. They seem lovely people the Argentinians. How on earth did we ever end up fighting them?

Ortega does indeed appear for the re-start and begins to change the game. Argentina dominate and finally after 75 minutes and after a little dribble that would have made Stan Matthews proud, Ortega arrows a cross on to the grateful head of Gallardo and the ball rockets past Marcos for the equaliser. The roar that greets this resembles a high-speed train through an amplified tunnel. The Brazilians are rattled and nine minutes later Brazil centre-back, my namesake "Cris" makes a complete cods of another cross, this time by Lopez. It's an own goal and enough to give Argentina victory 2-1 and perfect revenge for losing to Brazil in the away equivalent. The home side already assured of their World Cup finals place in Japan/Korea take a curtain call at the final whistle as they link arms and bow to the crowd. The Argentinians are in that ol mood and continue to celebrate for some time. For Brazil the bitter disappointment of defeat is enhanced further by knowing they face a dogfight in their remaining few qualifiers for the last automatic finals place. They could still yet face a play off situation with Australia.

Final Thoughts. As a precursor to the big game Aidan and I spent the previous day at Diego Maradona's old club Boca Juniors, where Sergio, who became our friend, was our tour guide. Their modern and inter-active soccer museum is amazing and their ground La Bombonera translates into "The Candy Jar." Strange that Saints before moving to St Mary's should have also played for over 100 years at a stadium with a confectionery reference. The Dell's "Chocolate Boxes" was where I spent a lot of my boyhood. My South American football adventures were not at all like The Dell though or even spanking new St Mary's. For this was a completely different experience entirely.