"I Feel Like I'm on Mars": The Unusual Postcard of a Country That Paralyzes When Argentina Plays

On Sunday, July 13, 2014, while Argentina lost the World Cup final to Germany at the Maracanã, Beatriz Sarlo went to a museum. The art gallery was closed. The anecdote, which the intellectual defined as “of an alienated person,” became a symbol of a divide: the one that separates those who live football with passion from those who prefer any other plan. Eleven years later, this Monday, while Lionel Scaloni’s team beat Austria 2-0 with two goals from Messi and secured its place in the round of 32 of the 2026 World Cup, we took to the streets to capture that same fracture.

In a gym in Núñez, Liliana, a 34-year-old doctor, did crunches with her back to the TV. “My superstition is not to watch it,” she confessed while Messi missed a penalty. Next to her, Héctor, 64, lifted weights unfazed: “Football stopped mattering to me a while ago. But yes: I watch the finals.” However, when he needs help with a machine, he complains: “You can’t ask anyone because everyone is watching the match.”

On the streets, the silence was sepulchral. Darío, a ride-hailing driver, drove along a deserted Avenida Lugones while explaining his dilemma: “I had to choose: either watch the match or feed my family.” He didn’t work the first match against Algeria and felt it in his wallet. This time, he chose the latter.

At Malba, the scene was from another planet. Empty halls, employees glancing at their phones. José, a Chilean art historian, celebrated: “I’ve been coming for over a decade and today I didn’t queue. It’s a great strategy to come when there’s a match.” Mauro and Martina, a Uruguayan couple aged 25, confessed laughing: “We feel a bit embarrassed. We feel like we’re bothering. People want to watch football and we come here. But well, not everything is football.” José Luis, the security guard at the door, summed it up: “Every four years, not a fly buzzes here.”

Around the corner, at a supermarket on Jerónimo Salguero Street, the electronics aisle was the busiest. Employees and customers watched the match on display screens. Lidia, a 60-year-old lawyer, walked through the empty aisles in amazement: “I feel like I’m on Mars. It’s very strange, like being on another planet.” When Messi scored the first goal, a thunderous shout came from the checkout counters. “It seems I’m the lucky charm, so I’ll have to come shopping when the national team plays,” she joked.

At Fernández Hospital, a doctor requested anonymity and confessed: “We never neglect anyone here, but when the national team plays… We have one eye here and the other there.” Five blocks away, at the National Library, the scene was dual: in the auditorium, a giant screen and finger sandwiches; on the fifth floor, absolute silence. Simón, 22, was studying Administrative Law because “at home I can’t: my dad and brother distract me.” Sisa, an art student, said the bus was full of “older people, it had never happened to me before.”

As the Scaloneta closed the match with a 2-0, the streets of Buenos Aires offered a brutal contrast: deserted for those who didn’t watch, packed in the sky-blue-and-white bars. The divide remains open. And as Sarlo said that time: “Let them call me whatever they want.”

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