December 19 and 20 are not just two more dates in recent Argentine history. A little more than 20 years ago, a government was swept away by a gale of violence. December has always been a complex month for this blessed country. But this early morning of December 20 we were also moved. But for a completely different reason.
The night of the 19th can only begin to be explained in the afternoon of the 18th: after winning a heart-stopping match, the National Team was World Champion. That same afternoon an invitation message arrived: the plane carrying the players, the coaching staff and the cup arrived on Monday afternoon.
I received that message in Bogota, where I had been for the last four days and where I watched the final. I sent my data for accreditation and once I arrived in the country, all what was there to do was wait. And to wait a little longer, after knowing that the plane departed late and would not arrive before 2 am on Tuesday morning.
I arrived at Ezeiza’s FBO -the VIP operations sector of Ministro Pistarini- at around 9:15 pm. There were people from much earlier. I didn’t have much trouble getting there but that would change a few minutes later and it would be absolute chaos. At about 23:30, we were able to access the area where the event would take place.
The stage was empty, the red carpet was laid out and later the buses would arrive to take the team to Ezeiza. Valeria Lynch with her “Me Das Cada Día Más” was playing right after “Un’estate Italiana” and little by little our hearts were getting ready.
We followed flight AR1915 and watched it fly over Aeroparque, then pass over the Obelisk and finally head for Ezeiza. From the moment we knew it had landed until we saw the nose of the Airbus A330 it seemed like an eternity. But at 3:05 on December 20, we saw it appear in front of Hangar 5 of Aerolineas Argentinas.
The aircraft approached slowly, as if she knew she was the center of attention, and gracefully came to a stop at the designated spot. The ladder approached and an operator became a hero climbing up to open the door.
Some collaborators came down, there was a pause and he appeared. Lionel Messi and Lionel Scaloni peeked out the door. Messi with something shiny in his hand. She. The World Cup.
La Mosca sonaba de fondo con el hit del Mundial, creo que la tocaron tres veces. Los jugadores fueron bajando detrás del capitán: Lautaro, Julián, Montiel, Paredes, el resto. Más atrás apareció Emiliano Martinez, cerró la fila Di María. Recorrieron la alfombra roja, subieron a los micros y empezaron el recorrido por tierra que los llevaría al complejo de AFA.
Crowd logistics and return home was complicated but here I am, at a gas station a couple of miles close to my house because I’m not going to get there, start writing and risking to wake everyone up, but this can’t wait. The moment when the Cup that we waited so long for was just a few meters away from me is unrepeatable.
The same cup that I saw on TV just a day and a half before in tears because my dad died eight years ago but yesterday I missed him like never before, was there in the hands of the one who deserved it the most.
The bus left slowly, with the players jumping and chanting. We stayed a while longer, trying to understand those five minutes in which the players passed in front of us.
I’d like this to last forever, say Los Ratones Paranoicos. Normally I would say nothing is. But if there are timeless moments, the afternoon of December 18 and its ensuing moments, like this early morning of the 20th, are as close to eternity as we can get.
