Three minutes

"Tell me how the match is going, I only have 3 minutes and they won't let me call again." You said to me without preamble as soon as you heard my voice, the anxiety palpable in your tone.

"It's still three to three in the 118th minute. It's incredible, the commentator says there are more than 89,000 spectators present in the stadium." I respond, imagining your reaction on the other side of the phone line. I feel your absence is like a void in this celebration.

How I wish you were here at this very moment, sharing with all of us the joy of watching Messi perform his magical plays in the most important event of football, the World Cup.

"Messi has it, Messi has it… Nooo! The goalkeeper saved it, that Hugo Lloris is too good." I narrate the play while staying glued to the cell phone.

"Nooo!" You respond. Apparently, I'm doing a good job of narrating everything that's happening here; I can feel your nervous smile, just like all of us here in the house, in front of the TV, sitting on the edge of our seats, hearts in our hands. Worse off are those fans in the stadium; if I didn’t see their team-themed outfits, Argentina and France, I wouldn’t know which team they’re rooting for. The camera focuses on a young blonde woman with both hands clasped under her chin, unsure whether to laugh or cry, stay silent or scream. Next to her, there’s a man with blue stripes painted on his cheeks and his forearms resting on his head, each hand reaching for the opposite elbow, his mouth half-open and teeth clenched as if preparing to brush them; his anxiety infects me. A boy, about 9 years old, hugs him tightly around the waist, poor thing. But what catches my attention the most is a middle-aged French woman, judging by the blue, white, and red scarf tied around her head, holding a rosary in her right hand pressed to her lips, eyes closed, seemingly praying to the Virgin.

Here it’s no different; Martha has no nails left to bite, and Luis keeps shouting nonsense.

"No, there goes Mbappé, oh no, he's going down the left side. Stop him! Stop him! He crossed it, he crossed it, yesss, Otamendi cleared it from the area. What a relief." I tell you, my voice trembling with emotion.

"I'm going to die, I'm going to die." I hear you respond, imagining you leaning against the wall.

The strangest thing is that Dad is very calm, with a smile on his face and a beer in his hand, wearing his blue stripped t-shirt. But he’s not as euphoric as the moment calls for. His face is impassive, but his eyes don’t lie, he doesn’t lose sight of the ball.

"Two minutes, they added two minutes, it’s almost over." I comment. The knot in my throat tightens.

And if a psychiatrist saw Mom, they would surely commit her to a mental institution. She’s the one suffering and enjoying it the most. She stands, sits, stands again, jumps and shouts with joy, dances, and in this last play, she threw herself to the floor. She thinks Mbappé is the biggest danger, "he could take the Cup from us," I hear her say.

The people in the street are as crazy as she is, the noise never stops, the chants in the neighborhood seem like one voice. "Muchachos, ahora nos volvimos a ilusionar, quiero ganar la tercera, quiero ser campeón mundial." I hear them sing for the umpteenth time. That’s the essence of football, only football has the ability to unite and excite millions of people voluntarily, under the colors of a nation’s flag. Now Mom is up dancing again.

"Argentina has it, they passed it to Lautaro, he's going to shoot, he's going to shoot. He was blocked." I continue narrating, raising my tone with each word.

The fatigue of the players on both teams is evident. Despite that, they’re giving their all on the field, drawing energy from where there is none, to come back and win the match. In a military battle, any commander would want them on the front lines; they’re giving their last breath for their countries. Their faces are covered in sweat, their legs seem to weigh a ton, but their spirits remain indomitable. The pressure is immense, and each of them knows that a single mistake could cost them the championship.

I believe the breath and encouragement of fans around the world give them that extra energetic vibe to continue. Here we are contributing, our nephew Mati, although just a child, has contagious enthusiasm, jumping and shouting "come on, come on!" every time Argentina has the ball, as if he were the coach and the game depended on his push.

"Mbappé has it again, he tricked them, don’t let him shoot, don’t let him shoot! Dibuuuu! Hahahahahaa!" I scream with joy, my heart is about to explode.

"What happened? What happened?" You ask desperately.

"Dibu is the best, he’s one of the best goalkeepers in the world, he saved Mbappé’s shot. It’s almost over, brother, and we’re still tied." I respond. My words barely capture the emotion of the moment; for a moment, I saw our dream shattered. I agree with Mom, Mbappé is a danger.

"Last minute, last minute." I comment to you.

"Come on, come on Argentina, come on." You plead, full of hope, or maybe fear.

"Konaté has it, made a long pass forward. Kolo Muani received it. Take the ball from him!" I shout, though really shouting at the screen.

For the first time in my life, I feel time stop and I can see everything in slow motion, no doubt my heart isn’t beating. Kolo Muani has found a gap, running towards the goal with determination, knowing he has a golden opportunity in his hands (or rather, at his feet), controlling the ball with precision. Only Otamendi tries to block his path, he lifts his head and sees Dibu Martinez, advanced. He shoots, unleashing a powerful strike with his right foot, aiming to place the ball to one side of Dibu. The shot is fast and directed with force towards the bottom right corner of the goal. However, in a spectacular display of reflexes and bravery, Emiliano Martinez dives to the ground with arms and legs extended. The shot seems destined to go in, but Martinez's left foot manages to intercept the ball at the last moment. It’s a miraculous save. I breathe again.

We’re all jumping and shouting, hugging each other as if it were an Argentine goal, in a mix of relief and euphoria. Everyone’s faces are lit with hope and the opportunity to keep dreaming. I’m sure these memories will last a lifetime.

"It’s over, minute 122, final whistle, we’re going to penalties." I tell you, just as I feel the call disconnect. I know you are innocent, I look forward to your verdict next week, have faith.