My mother must have seen the desperation in my eyes. It was in the game against México when life was going after the defeat against Saudi Arabia. A long half hour had passed and Argentina did not react. Another setback, or even a draw, could send us home with practically no start yet.
My mother has a kind of quiet sensitivity, very hers, that has always gone beyond my comprehension. My sister and I have known it all our lives.
So that day she came over and handed me a battered one-peso bill, mistreated for who knows how many years by so many hands, sweat, or various rearrangements. She told me it was for luck and I clung to it with the fervor of someone who doesn't believe in almost anything, but idolizes my mother beyond measure.
I already know that 47 million Argentines and many other fans of La Albiceleste around the world appealed to all kinds of cabals and made their promises. I know that they also believe they are directly responsible for the feat, but I feel somewhere in my heart that my mother's love has been an essential stitch to weaving this great dream.
She, like many people around, can barely guess the feeling that football awakens in me. It is very difficult to explain love and sometimes it is difficult for me to give voice to my sensations, my fears, and my most intimate and inalienable loyalties, beyond those I profess to the beautiful family I have.
She, in any case, knew that right at that moment she had to extend her hand to me. I took that piece of paper money, already very close to losing any real value, and turned it into a handle, a salvageable wreck in the middle of the sea, and I never let go of it anymore.
Of course, if I'm completely honest, it was only after the games went by that I understood that my mother had placed an infinite fragment of happiness in my hands. Because, then, the match against Poland came, and in an oversight, everything could have ended.
The Polish had planted a huge white flag in the center of the field, so I relaxed and waited for the winning goal. Thus, with my guard down, at some point, I went for a glass of water, or to look at something inconsequential on the balcony.
When I returned, the referee greeted me with a wink and immediately awarded La Scaloneta the only unfair penalty in the entire World Cup. Messi took the ball, perhaps without all the conviction -as I felt-, and some kind of universal balance corrected the referee's error allowing Szczęsny to stop Leo's shot.
One or another ghost woke up in the solitude of my room (yes, I returned to the old cabal of watching football completely alone), and some painful memory of missed penalties and lost Cups began to flutter around.
I, on the other hand, sighed with relief when I saw the old bill on the floor, with Martí’s image staring at me. I smiled at the analogy of the soccer teacher, a fan of another good genius like Messi, and I stayed there for a while, looking through the drawers of my memory to see if any text by the Cuban National Hero had left a semblance of this brilliant sport that the English had invented not so long ago.
But I did not separate myself anymore from the little piece of paper money. I found a place for it there, at the head of my bed, and -together- we watched the greatest player who ever lived to make history.
The World Cup, perhaps the most desired conquest by the human race, still put old Pepe Julián and me to the test. In the 99th minute against the Netherlands, when victory was almost snatched from us at the last moment, I hesitated. I looked at my clenched hand and wondered what that unlikely goal could mean. I questioned everything, I questioned the Universe, trying to understand how it was possible for an amulet as powerful as the one that comes to you one day, loaded with all your mother's love, to fail.
Then Argentina won and inevitably got into the most extraordinary final of all time. The rival was the incredible selection of France, pushed until the last minute by a player of the moment, like Mbappé; but I no longer had any doubts that in my right hand I was holding something as invincible as Messi's left foot, Dibu's balls or Diego's last blessing.
When everything finished and Messi finally raised the most beautiful Cup to the sky of Qatar, I didn't know what to do with my euphoria. My mother was 40 kilometers from me, oblivious to this cosmic avalanche that she caused with a simple act of affection.
While I was debating between hiding my tears -out of simple modesty in front of the closest people and friends who came to congratulate me or calling home to share a bit of all this joy with my mother-, I decided to start writing on the phone this story that for almost a month has melted me into a silent and anonymous embrace with the woman I love the most in this world.
