Fútbol, Music, and Memory

This post was written by Ryan Hill, Assistant Academic Director of the BYU Humanities Center.

A few months ago, as I listened to a song by Trueno, one of my favorite musicians, I was struck by the lyrics of one of the verses. In his song, “Sangría,” released in 2019, the young Argentine hip-hop/rap artist asserts his status as a great musician in Argentina and beyond by alluding to a couple of central figures and events in Argentine culture and history:

“We represent the people and are the ones to spread the word/ Better let England know that we’re coming with mic in hand for the second war…/ If Diego sends in the cross, Batistuta scores the goal/ Like it or not we’re the new rock and roll” (my translation).

I was intrigued by the appeal to rivalry with England in musical and sporting terms. Even more so, I was fascinated by the idea that via cultural expression, be it in football or music, Argentines could win a rematch of sorts, symbolic rather than literal, and avenge a devastating military defeat that cost thousands of lives and left a scar on the national psyche still felt today (as evidenced by the song itself).

My older brother served a mission in Argentina, and ever since he returned when I was seven, I’ve had a certain affinity for the country. Add to this experience an obsession with anything fútbol and a constant need for music, and you have the makings of an academic career in Latin American cultural studies; or so I´d like to hope. Though this post will meander through political, military, and sporting history, considering how a nation views and expresses itself, what I love most about the humanities—and what I hope to highlight in the songs and texts I will share—is how these practices of fútbol, literature, and music can lift individuals, strengthen relationships, and bring hope to communities in difficult times.

Now, to the history.

Though never a formal part of the British Empire, since its independence, Argentina has been economically, culturally, and politically influenced by England. The names of many of the nation’s soccer clubs, such as River Plate and Newell’s Old Boys, are unmistakable examples of Argentina’s cultural English inheritance. Another obvious evidence of English power in the region is seen in another name: the Falkland Islands.

Located 300 miles off the coast of Argentina in the South Atlantic, these tiny barren islands are home to just under 4,000 people and have been considered British territory since 1834. In terms of natural resources or any other practical measure of value, they are insignificant, yet in Argentina, they represent a matter of national pride, tragic loss, suppressed memory, and unceasing yearning.

In Argentina, they are called las Malvinas. My first vivid recollection of them is from 2014, when, perusing the sports pages, I came across a picture of la selección, the Argentine Men’s National Football Team, posing before a match against Slovenia, holding a large banner emblazoned with the words, “Las Malvinas son Argentinas” [The Falklands are Argentine]. Five years later, while doing research in Buenos Aires, I saw this phrase everywhere: graffiti under a bridge, a large plaque outside a restaurant, on t-shirts and hats. Just this past Friday night, March 21, 2025, watching highlights of a charity match with la sección, I noticed that the man singing the national anthem before the game did so wearing “a white shirt emblazoned with an image of the Falklands in sky blue.” Las Malvinas matter in Argentina. And while my first awareness of this deep sentiment was with la selección in 2014, the first time they had posed with that defining phrase was actually in 1982, just before departing for Spain, where they would dispute that year’s edition of the World Cup.

That year, their sporting contest would coincide with an actual battle between British and Argentine armed forces. At that time, Argentina was under military rule and mired in an atrocious “dirty war” with their own people as the military sought to eliminate all leftist ideology in the country. In an effort to galvanize national sentiment and fortify dwindling support for the regime, General Galtierri decided to occupy and repatriate las Malvinas. He wrongly assumed that due to their great distance from and seemingly little import to Great Britain, the British would simply relinquish the islands. Sadly, for the Argentines—particularly for the unfortunate young men drafted into the conflict—he was gravely mistaken. Margaret Thatcher dispatched a well-outfitted military force to retake the islands and the British decimated the Argentine troops, leaving 649 killed, 1,657 wounded, and 11,313 captured. For both the sporting and armed forces of Argentine young men, the military’s hope was to conquer on the field, distracting from the failures of their regime to hold on to power as its control faltered. Both efforts failed horribly. The dictatorship fell by the end of the following year and Argentina returned to democratic rule.

All of this background is needed to understand the significance of what would happen four years later when, as fate would have it, Argentina would face England in the quarterfinals of the 1986 World Cup. It is in this match that Diego Maradona struck two of the most famous goals ever scored; first, the infamous “Hand of God” goal, in which he raised his fist, tucking it closely by his head to simulate a header, and then deviously punched the ball over the English goalkeeper; and second, a slaloming dribble starting from his own half of the pitch in which he evaded five English defenders and the goalie before slotting the ball into the net. What was most important about each of these goals, regardless of the guile of the former or sublime talent of the latter, is the fact that they were scored against England. Though Argentina would win two more games to secure World Cup victory, this is the match and the opponent everyone remembers. Four years after suffering a humiliating military defeat, losing—again—a territory felt to be rightfully theirs, Diego and his teammates exacted a form of vengeance by eliminating the English from the premier event of the game they invented.

Unlike Diego and the other heroes of la selección, the young men who fought for their country just four years prior—those who lost the battle and, for many, much more—were marginalized and discarded, rather than honored and remembered. In the words of Argentine author, Mempo Giardinelli, “The Malvinas are and continue to be a national trauma. The conflict is something not spoken of…it is a lacerating guilt which shows itself in the face of each mutilade and resentful veteran” (my translation).[1] Giardinelli, in fact, wrote a short story, “Tito, Never Again,” in which the protagonist, a young man just beginning a promising football career, is suddenly drafted into the conflict, loses his leg in battle, and lives out a long, difficult life as a poor, neglected veteran. The narrator of the short story explains, “society despised them: as hard as it was to admit it, no one wanted to see in the veterans their own stupidity. For that reason, self-marginalized by the infinite resentment which overcame them, these supposed heroes had become an uncomfortable and unresolvable problem” (my translation).

In the years following the military dictatorship, with all its horrors and tragedy, Diego and la selección, while providing some recompense for all the suffering, ultimately supplanted the story of those young men who also fought, and who lost it all. Fortunately, the story doesn’t end there. Music comes to the rescue once again. In 2021, la selección won the Copa América, its first major trophy in 28 years. In response to this long-awaited triumph and in preparation for the 2022 World Cup, a major news outlet sent out a call for new fan songs and chants to cheer on the team. The winning song that essentially became the team anthem is called Muchachos; it began as a chant in Argentine professional clubs, then made its way to the stands at national team games, eventually being sung by the players themselves in the dressing room and on the bus. Such an embrace of the song, along with continued winning on the field, brought attention to its lyrics. The opening verse says: “I was born in Argentina/ Land of Diego and Lionel/ of the Mavlinas boys/ whom I will never forget” (my translation).

As the song grew in popularity, so did the stories popping up on social media of all those of the younger generations who had heard little, if any, of las Malvinas. One tweet from the parent of a 7-year-old girl encapsulates the significance of the song: “Cata. At dinner. – Dad, who are ‘the Mavlinas boys whom I will never forget?’ I hope the author of…Muchachos has a real idea of the power of the words he wrote” (my translation). The power of song combined with the power of football, in a country where both practices are everything, now highlights the sacrifices and worth of thousands of young boys turned old men who have only begun to be remembered and honored for what they gave to their friends, family, and nation.

In fútbol and in music, the young rapper Trueno (cited at the beginning) sees England as a standard against which Argentine culture can measure up. Indeed, as he says, they are the “new rock and roll.” Maradona scored! Argentina won! In a world where countries are compared on the basis of wealth and military might—criteria by which Argentina falls woefully short—the footballers and musicians are the national heroes. Of even greater importance, in my eyes, is the significance of Muchachos. When the heroes of la selección, legends like Lionel Messi and Angel Di María, World Cup champions in 2022, sing about the pibes de las Malvinas [the Malvinas boys], those once forgotten heroes can now feel proud to stand and be seen, be honored and embraced.