by Simon Kuper
On the other side is colonial Anglophilia. I met one woman who had briefly lived in Rickmansworth in the 1970s, and who had spent the years since thinking about it. What she missed most, she said, were the gentle people and the nice English weather. Had she ever been back to visit? She sighed: “I cannot go back and visit, because then I would never be able to come back and live here.”
Once there were tens of thousands of Britons here. Many stayed and became Anglo-Argentinians. The past is preserved in the names of soccer players like José-Luis Brown, and possibly of Daniel Killer, while at Argentinos Juniors I saw one Carlos Patricio McAllister, the red-haired grandson of an Irishman, playing poorly on the wing.
That is one end of the social scale. At the other, in shabby, smoggy Buenos Aires, Edwardian Britain lives on. The smartest club in town is the Jockey Club; the tearoom in the Calle Florida is the Richmond; and you can find the Anglo-Argentinians and their out-of-date accents in the Club Inglés. They play polo, rugby, cricket and lawn tennis (on South America’s only grass courts) in the suburb of Hurlingham.
The British ambassador’s residence, steaming in the February heat, is part of Anglo-Argentina. The entrance hall is one of those British rooms that are so grand they have no seats, and for 15 minutes I stood there waiting with a British diplomat. Apart from me there was only one thing in the hall that jarred: the last entry in the ambassador’s guestbook, open on the table, which read, “Charlton, Bobby and Norma, Manchester.” We were waiting for Bobby Charlton to arrive.
Charlton had come to Argentina to promote Manchester’s Olympic bid, and the night before, at a country house just outside Buenos Aires, a Bobby Charlton XI, in “Manchester 2000” T-shirts, had taken on a team captained by President Menem. In the Yorkshire Television series The Greatest Game, there is a scene in which the YTV film crew catches up with Menem, who is waiting at Ezeiza airport for the president of Israel to arrive. As the plane lands he tells YTV: “Soccer is the thing that formed me physically and it has given me a great deal of spirituality.” He is asked whether he had dreamed of playing for Argentina. “All children have a dream. That was my dream when I was a child.” Only as president had he realized the dream, captaining Argentina in a charity match in front of 55,000 fans.
My diplomatic source had played for Charlton against Menem. He told me about it gleefully. The president, resolved not to lose, had roped in a couple of ex-professionals. “And we were just a few beery guys who hadn’t played soccer in years!” I wished I had heard of the game in time to wangle a place in the team. At first Menem’s XI had walked all over Charlton’s, but in the second half they had given the Englishmen their best player, who began to score lots of goals. “This guy who had no connection with the embassy and spoke not a word of English,” lamented the diplomat. “When we started catching up with them, Menem got very worried and began shouting at everyone. He took it very seriously.” Who won? “They won, about 14-7.” What was Menem like as a player? “Hopeless. Actually, I suppose that for a 62-year-old he wasn’t that bad. He doesn’t move at all. He just stands in the center of the field and his teammates bring him the ball and he gives these really easy safe passes to the guys standing next to him.”
While we were waiting Charlton was dashing around town, giving interviews and meeting Menem again. The diplomat complained, “It’s madness. Douglas Hurd, the foreign secretary, was here a few weeks ago and he got 40 minutes with Menem. Then Bobby Charlton turns up and he gets a soccer match, a dinner afterwards, and then another hour this morning. It shows you where priorities lie in this town.” Perhaps we should appoint Charlton foreign secretary, or maybe Gazza.
The Argentine soccer press had been almost as keen as the president to meet Charlton. The day after Argentina vs. Brazil, Charlton had given a press conference at which he had complained about players talking to the referee. “I’ve been playing soccer since before Maradona was born,” he said, “and I’ve yet to see a referee change his decision because of protests.” The papers ignored this attack on local custom, but they all carried Charlton’s line on the player of the century question: he thought Di Stefano was better than Maradona. It was an inane debate.
Charlton arrived, exhausted, but prepared to chat on the veranda. He jogged up the stairs in his sports jacket and flannels, a stocky man, a soccer player in civvies. A steward brought us drinks. Out of courtesy, I first asked Charlton about Manchester’s Olympic bid, but he was too tired and bored to put together sentences, and instead answered with a string of phrases: “My home for forty years . . . Weather is very nice in summer . . . Airport . . . Forefront in railways, computers.”
I asked him about Menem and he became more animated. “He’s a very intelligent soccer player. You play a lot with players who maybe haven’t got the quality of professionals and they try to do things they can’t do. Menem wasn’t like that—he kept it simple. He never got caught in possession, and he laid the ball off when he needed to. In context—taking into account that he’s president of a country with probably a lot of other things to do besides play soccer—I was very impressed.” He denied that this was a diplomatic answer, and I believed him: Charlton takes soccer too seriously for that.
Had he met other heads of state who liked soccer? “A lot of the African heads of state love their soccer—in many cases it’s the only sport that goes on in those countries. The president of Ghana did, the president of Kenya, the heads of state of some of the North African states, the Pope . . .” “Your brother Jack met the Pope,” I giggled, “and said he was smaller than he had expected.” Charlton nodded solemn confirmation—I had got the facts right.
I asked him about the tour he had led to South Africa during the apartheid era. “We played Kaizer Chiefs in Soweto, and it was one of the nicest days I’ve ever had. They beat us 2-1, but it was a very close game and we nearly drew it. We were just made to feel so welcome! There were only, say, 20 white people in Soweto that day, and the people were so pleased to see us. In fact, at the end they took us on their shoulders and tried to carry us off home with them. We had to fight to get our lot back on the bus.”
What had he and Menem discussed that morning? “Sport generally, and he asked me who was the best of Maradona and Di Stefano.” In the sight of God, even the leader of men is a mere soccer fan. And Charlton had nominated Di Stefano? “For his brain. He was the brainiest player I ever saw.” Menem had shown knowledge of British sport, and Charlton had invited him to Manchester, “to play golf and do the other things he likes to do. Time went very quickly. I feel we overstepped our allotted time.” In Whitehall they were green with envy.
Menem is a fan, but he is also a politician. In matters of sport he follows the lead of Chairman Mao.
One day in 1966, the China News Agency reported that Chairman Mao Tse Tung “was relaxed and easy after a swim in the Yangtse River on July 16th when he covered a distance of nine miles.” This suggested that Mao, contrary to rumor, was neither paralysed nor dead. Also, the times given implied that at the age of 75 he had broken the world record for the distance. Even while breaking it Mao had helped the Chinese people. “As he advanced through the waves,” the agency reported, “he chatted with those around and when he discovered that a young woman close to him knew only one swimming stroke he taught her the backstroke.”
This is a case of a ruler acting as a sportsman to prove that he was not dead. Normally, rulers play sport in public for another reason: to prove that they are regular guys. Campaigning for the American presidency, Bill Clinton and Al Gore had themselves photographed tossing an American football back and forth. In Brazil, politicians have been known to campaign in the shirts of popular soccer teams.
British prime minister John Major was often shown spectating at Lords or Stamford Bridge. One theory is that he only pretended to support Chelsea, but is in fact an Arsenal supporter. He certainly fits the Arsenal profile—Major is lower-middle class, lives in Hertfordshire, and seems to enjoy dullness—but no politician can be seen to sup
port Arsenal. In England, as long as a man supports a soccer club he is accepted as one of the lads—unless he supports Arsenal. According to this theory, Major’s advisors therefore told him to find another club. Chelsea was the obvious choice, David Mellor being a fan already (and the proud owner of a Chelsea kit) and prepared to take Major to matches.
It could just be that the pictures of Major at the bridge have made him more popular than he might otherwise have been, but it hardly won him the 1992 election. British voters vote on other issues (namely income tax). In Argentina, however, soccer matters more, and when General Videla revealed that he did not like the game he was showing his lack of political savvy. By popular demand, Argentine politicians are machos of the people, and the great name in this tradition is Juan Domingo Perón, president of Argentina from 1946 to 1955, and again from 1973 to 1974, and founder of a political movement called Peronism.
A big, strong man, Perón was champion fencer of the army and a respected boxer and skier. As president, he restricted freedom and tried to help the poor, but Peronism is a style rather than a set of policies. Both the far left Montoneros and the Thatcherite Menem called themselves Peronists. Peronism is a popular, manly style, whose focus is the leader—Perón was known simply as El Líder. Perón, says Bayer, was “the absolute demagogue about soccer,” and he often went to matches. He had no team: considering himself leader of all the people, he claimed to support all the teams equally.
Menem is a Peronist of the right, but he tries to appeal to the poor much as Perón did. Meeting Bobby Charlton was probably a thrill, but it also made sound political sense. When I asked the doorman of the Club Inglés (an unrepresentative sample, no doubt) what he thought of Menem, he replied enthusiastically: “He plays tennis, he plays soccer.” At 63, he has recently had to give up boxing and motorcar racing. “Menem receives Sabatini, or some world boxing champion,” grumbled Pérez Esquivel. “He not only receives these people, but eats or goes out with them. But I have never been received by Menem!”
Unlike Perón, Menem has a team. River Plate (“Reeber,” the Argentinians say) are a risky choice as the so-called club of the rich. The masses support Boca Juniors. An Argentine saying has it that 50% of the population plus one supports Boca, or as Menotti once put it, the club’s fans are “semi-criminals.” They hate him too. (As I correct the manuscript, Menotti has just been made coach of Boca again.)
Bayer admits that Menem’s open support for River is principled. In fact, says Bayer, “it is the only thing in which Menem is not a demagogue.” However, Bayer suggests that to make up for his own folly, Menem has ordered his daughter to be a Boca fan. Certainly, everyone seems to know that she supports Boca.
The fact that a President likes soccer can have great consequences for a society. Marcelo Houseman knows. I spoke to him in Johannesburg, where he has a big house and a maid who calls him “Master.”
As a soccer player, Marcelo was the journeyman to end all journeymen. After growing up poor in Buenos Aires, he travelled the world with Augusto Palacios. Marcelo was a mediocre player, but his brother René was special. René “Hueso” Houseman, a winger with a big moustache and his socks round his ankles, came on as a substitute in the 1978 World Cup final and, some say, swung the match. Today, the two brothers are soccer agents. They run the grandly named World Sports International, and try to sell South American and South African soccer players to European clubs.
Marcelo took me around his mansion. His greatest treasure is a framed photograph in his front room that shows him with Carlos Menem. He got in with the Menem family by meeting Menem’s son at a party, and these days he goes to matches with Menem’s daughter.
Now, Marcelo grew up poor. When I told him, in Johannesburg, that I was going to Buenos Aires a month later, he said he would be in Argentina then too and would look after me. “You get anything stolen,” he assured me, “we’ll get it back for you. It’s no problem. We know all the crooks—we grew up with them.” No doubt he meant it, though when I arrived in Argentina I found that he was still in South Africa.
The point is that he grew up poor. Normally, the only way a poor boy would meet one of the plutocrat Menem family is as a valet. Marcelo met the Menems thanks to soccer, and he understands this perfectly well. He told me: “Thanks to soccer, I’ve met politicians, millionaires, pop stars. I’ve met Mick Jagger. When Rod Stewart came to Argentina for the World Cup, I showed him around.”
Marcel drove me home, at a hundred miles an hour, overtaking right and left, in Palacios’ Mercedes. I complimented him on his wealth. He was honest: “You’ve got to remember that in the last couple of years we’ve done a lot of deals with the Argentinian government. Menem came in in 1989, and since then we’ve done very well.” It was a glimpse of the way a country like Argentina—most of the world, in fact—operates. The way to get on is to be friends with politicians or big businessmen. The way to be their friend is either to be a politician or a big businessman yourself, or someone else they want to meet: a great soccer player, or failing that, the brother of one. “That’s the cousin economy of Menem,” nodded Bayer, when I told him.
With patrons like Menem, there is no need for bright soccer stars to finish in the gutter, and there are bonuses besides. The day I left Argentina, a minor scandal broke over a man named Hector “Bambino” Veira. He had been charged with raping a minor, but suddenly the charge was reduced and he was released. It happened that Veira had been manager of River Plate (and a great San Lorenzo player) and Menem had told the Supreme Court judges that his case should be reconsidered. “Under him,” the President argued, “we won everything.”
Amílcar Romero, whose works include Muerte en la Cancha—“Death in the Stadium”—is a specialist on Argentine soccer murders. A small, cheerful man, who looks no match for his subject, Romero took his little daughter along to our meeting, and let her draw pictures while he lectured me on violence.
In Argentina, he explained, there are two kinds of soccer crime. “Firstly, the most spectacular kind, the violence in the stadium on Sundays with flags, gangs, and knives.” The second type of crime is unique to Argentina and happens during the week: violence and blackmail, ordered by the club directors and carried out by the gangs. The victims of this second type are usually the players.
When the directors have a problem, the gangs—the barras bravas—fix it, for a fee. Maybe a club president wants an opposition goalkeeper to throw a match; his manager to resign; a star player, lured by European clubs, to sign a new contract. He calls in the barra, and the player is threatened with blackmail or worse. “There are three important factors in soccer,” Romero enumerated. “Violence, information, and money. The gangs have violence and information. The directors have money.”
The barras are a kind of Argentine KGB. They control the players’ lives. Blackmail is easy. Not only do they know which soccer players use drugs, but often they even supply the drugs themselves. They also know about players’ women. Romero cited the case of the San Lorenzo player who wanted a fat new contract. Too fat, the club felt. Over to the barras. The player had a girlfriend, but he was picking up women in clubs, and the barras let the girlfriend know. Not only that, but San Lorenzo refused him any kind of contract. “Don’t haggle,” was the message to his teammates.
Sometimes the barras destroy a player in the stadium. They stand behind the goal, pretending to be ordinary louts, and whistle every time he touches the ball. Either he is negotiating a new contract, in which case the abuse lowers his price, or, if the club has had enough of him, he agrees to leave. The chants during an Argentine match often have little to do with events on the pitch. As club directors need the hooligans, many clubs pay their transport to away matches and give them free tickets to home games. The barras sell these tickets: they get into matches by storming the turnstiles. Gate-keepers tend to step aside.
Sometimes the gangs threaten players with violence or just beat them up. A few days before I arrived in Argentina, Daniel Passarella, captain of
the 1978 World Cup team and now manager of River Plate, was duffed up in Mar del Plata. The cause was a complicated fight on the River board, between a pro- and an anti-Passarella director. “Part of business, a guerre de boutique,” Romero explained.
It happens all the time, but Passarella broke with protocol and made a scene. Two hooligans were arrested, but a judge decided to let them go. “But,” a journalist told me, “they must have found one honest judge in Mar del Plata, because this man arrested them again.” The thugs were easy to find, since they had stayed on in Mar del Plata, and they were shocked at being arrested. The police seldom trouble the barras, and some gangs are even led by police officers. Once, when Boca Juniors were given a penalty in the last minute of the match, it was the police who opened the gates so that the opposition’s fans could storm the pitch. The president of one Buenos Aires first division club, when negotiating a contract with a player, fills the room with policemen. “The player knows his job is to sign,” grinned Romero. And there is a famous photo of a city chief of police, swathed in club colors, standing in the middle of a barra and waving a club flag—“like a policeman wearing a Liverpool shirt!” Romero said.
The barras work for themselves as well as for the directors. “There isn’t a single player who doesn’t give the gangs money,” said Romero. “Maradona is the first in everything: he is the best player in the world, and he pays the gangs the most. After the World Cup in Mexico he wrote them a check for $30,000, for practical reasons making it out to Air Peru. For the players, the underworld is simply a tax.”
Gangs are useful things. The barras are multifunctional, and they often work in fields other than soccer, sometimes for politicians. A prominent member of parliament organizes the Boca Juniors barra, but the gangs also do freelance work. If there is a demonstration against a politician or his policies, he might send a barra to create havoc in the crowd, so that he can say afterwards, “These demonstrators, look what they have done.” On occasion, the barras carry out assassinations.