“I watched the England game with hundreds of other Argentines. I pretended to be Scottish to avoid trouble.”

I once sat through the grueling 20 minutes of a root canal after the local anesthesia wore off, but it was nothing compared to the sheer torture of trying to stifle a roar as Anthony Gordon scored England’s first goal in front of hundreds of enthusiastic Argentina fans.

Standing in the middle of Centennial Olympic Park in downtown Atlanta, I was a man on a secret mission. When the Three Lions played Argentina in the World Cup semi-final, I was an Englishman deep in the opposition half. I wore a strategically neutral green shirt, desperately trying to blend in with the sea of ​​blue and white. But as a pale, rapidly blushing Brit, it already stuck out to me like a sore thumb.

The tension in the air was as thick as Georgia’s humidity. I was effectively working undercover, surrounded by a rabid mob who would have considered my very presence a provocation. Things might get worse if they find out my true allegiance. And they almost did.

Pre-game: the calm before the storm

It all started innocently enough. As the players took to the pitch, images of their teams were projected on a giant screen. Jude Bellingham was greeted with a merry pantomime of boos, and the first glimpse of Lionel Messi caused an earth-shaking roar.

But the truly spine-chilling moment came during the national anthem. When the Argentine sang, the volume was truly deafening, a wall of noise that vibrated through the concrete of Atlanta.

Interestingly, there was a huge booing when FIFA president Gianni Infantino appeared on screen. It is clear that the internet buzz about Argentina’s FIFA match-fixing tournament has not fully reached supporters.

When the whistle blew, the hostility changed. Bellingham was heckled every time he touched the ball. Looking around at the absolute venom in their eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is it hatred, or are they just completely afraid of him?

First half: Obsessed with Messi

After a relatively shaky first half, Messi exploded into action every time he received the ball. At one point he did his trademark slaloming into England’s half, causing the crowd to erupt in unison. The chants of “Messi, Messi” echoed throughout the park.

It was hypnotic. Every time this little magician got on the ball, you could see the adrenaline rush in the crowd. These fans are completely obsessed with Messi and consume his every move like a drug.

During the halftime break, I did a quick head count to distract myself from the boiling heat. Attachment can be quantified. Of the 85 Argentina uniforms I saw, 78 had “Messi 10” printed on the back.

Gordon’s Goal: Shock, Silence, and Upheaval

And then came the moment that I both dreaded and craved. England took the lead in the 55th minute when Anthony Gordon responded to Morgan Rodgers’ cross.

At that moment, the hundreds of fans around me suddenly fell into a deafening and painful silence. It was a physical shockwave. I bit my lip so hard I thought it would draw blood, doing my best to hide my pure, uncut pleasure.

Around me, shock quickly turned to intense frustration and palpable fear. They knew a rescue operation was needed. The moment a replay appeared on the big screen, the silence broke and was drowned out by a chorus of ferocious cries of “Puta!” It’s raining from all directions.

my cover starts to blow

By the 70th minute, the atmosphere had become decidedly darker and more aggressive. The scream was no longer a joke.

I started noticing a few sidelong glances, and at one point a group behind me muttered something that included the word “loha.” Were they making a gesture demanding England’s red card? Or maybe they measured my fiery ginger hair? I wasn’t going to ask anyway. I bowed my head tightly, sweating buckets, and prayed that my rapidly ripening lobster-like skin wouldn’t betray me as a deep-sea pasty Brit.

Just as the panic began, Argentina’s Alexis Mac Allister hit the post. It didn’t sink in, but it reinvigorated the crowd and sparked a wave of encouraging and challenging songs.

A light stab in the back with a dagger

The dam finally burst in the 85th minute. Enzo Fernandes smashed home the equalizer from outside the penalty area, causing an explosion of noise, limbs and flying plastic cups. What you need to know is that England fans aren’t the only ones who throw beer performance-wise when they score.

However, amidst the chaos, my lack of exercise became fatal. I stood still while others were floating in the air. I felt a sharp, deliberate poke in my back. I froze and refused to change direction and escalate the situation.

A few minutes later, a decisive dagger arrived in the hearts of the British. Lautaro Martinez scored a header to make it 2-1. England’s World Cup dreams have been dashed. I had to use every ounce of my acting ability to maintain a neutral poker face as a sea of ​​frenzied celebration erupted around me.

“English?”

The place was packed and the party was in full swing, but my ordeal wasn’t over yet. Two burly Argentinian fans stepped out of the crowd and approached me. He wasn’t overtly threatening, but his expression was grim.

“English?” one demanded, looking me in the eye.

“No,” I answered nervously, as calmly as I could. “Scottish”

I forced a big, friendly smile and quickly spoke about how much I absolutely loved Messi. It worked. Their faces softened, they gave a curt nod and headed back to the party. Crisis averted.

Hot, sweaty, mentally exhausted, and in need of some shade and a very stiff drink, I quickly fled to the streets of Atlanta. Reports of a post-match street brawl surfaced later that night, but I was already safe.

Back in my hotel room, I silently toast in my high-pitched, panicked Scottish accent. It was so bad that even Shrek cringed. England had intended to return home empty-handed, but thanks to a pair of brogues he bought at a bargain in Glasgow, he returned home with all his teeth intact.