MUCHAAAAACHOS

My love for Argentina started when I was little (even smaller than I am now), watching a young Messi, a “wait—is he really only 25?” Mascherano, el fideo Di María, TEVEZ, a feisty Otamendi, a “what even is that haircut” Agüero, a miracle-in-cleats Higuaín, a built-like-a-brick-wall Romero… I mean, that team was STACKED. They played like poetry in motion.

I turned to my parents and said, “That’s my team.”

They just looked at me like: ??? ???

But I had made up my mind. Even though I’m 1000% Peruvian, I had never felt a deep connection with our national team. Maybe it was my dad screaming louder than I’d ever heard in my life at MetLife Stadium when they played against Ecuador. Maybe it was the constant disappointment that came with seeing all the players on scandal tabloids about crazy nights and showing up to training hungover or not at all. Who knows.

Every time I rooted for Argentina around extended family, I was called a traitor. They always jokingly said I was crazy, confused, etc. But I didn't care. Argentina's my team. And honestly, pissing people off—especiallyyy extended family—is one of my favorite things.

Over the years, my love for the team grew. Eventually it expanded to Boca Juniors—even though both of my parents are River Plate fans (go figure).

Fast forward to 2022. I was dragging my friends out of bed to watch early-morning Qatar World Cup games. Game after game, we squeezed into packed bars with die-hard fans, chugged beers, cheered, screamed, and stumbled out of there by 5pm absolutely hammered.

When the final came, I got up at 5am, put on my jersey, my star earrings, star necklace, lucky rings, and headed to The Long Acre Tavern (which I had been kicked out of once, naturally). Even though it’s right off Times Square (hell), I knew it’d be the perfect spot. Tucked away, showing every game, with a good crowd—but not too packed—and a bartender named Sean who always took care of us. I was the first one in line before the bar opened. Slowly, fans trickled in. My friends arrived. The game kicked off. And it was life-changing.

With the shadow of Maradona’s passing just two years earlier, the pressure on the team was massive. Every minute had us gripping the edge of our bar stools. 

When it came time to get the tattoo, I knew I wanted three stars—but I didn’t want something plain. I wanted something big. And when I saw a design with eyes and stars, it clicked. That’s exactly how it felt watching them win the 3rd one: stars in my eyes.

Even the tattoo artist was meant to be. He had been tattooing my friend for months. When we met, he told me he was from Argentina—and I knew it was fate. It was his first World Cup tattoo, and he was grateful to do it.

I told my whole family that someday I’d get an Argentina tattoo.

And here it is.