An English-Argentine battle in an Irish pub

"Excuse me, could I borrow a light?"

Which team do you support?

This conversation took place a few hours ago in front of an Irish pub in Dongzhimen. The questioner was a girl wearing a Three Lions jersey, and the person being questioned was me.

This is Paddy's Oshea, Beijing's most famous sports bar. In an hour, more than ten large screens in the bar will simultaneously broadcast the England-Argentina match.

My British friend told me that it would be crowded tonight and I should come early to get a seat. We arrived before midnight, and there were already quite a few people standing outside. There were no seats inside, so we had to find a corner with a table to stand in.

The Irish anti-English sentiment was just as strong as the Argentinian sentiment; on the semi-final matchup chart on the wall, England's red and white flag had been replaced with "404 not found." Perhaps Argentina was the official home team here tonight? My friend dismissed my guess: only the boss didn't support England. He wasn't lying; aside from three middle-aged white men in Argentina jerseys in the corner and a few scattered Chinese fans, almost everyone else was there for England.

You can see Arsenal, whose sponsorship has been cut in half, various styles of England jerseys, and a young boy in bright red – Portugal number 7, Cristiano Ronaldo. My friend, a Manchester City fan who grew up in London, didn't have a jersey on hand, so he brought an England flag. This was promotional material he bought years ago for his school's international cultural festival, costing him ten yuan on Taobao.

Before heading out, I chose the Morecambe jersey over the Manchester City one—it's associated with England, doesn't involve any clashes with my home team, and it just so happens to be white. This jersey also helped me get some fire, since its arm patch says "League Two" (now that the big guy can't even play in the national league).

The strict scrutiny of the home team was limited to banter; before the "big match," the atmosphere in the bar was harmonious. The middle-aged men next to me were probably old friends, two dressed in Argentina jerseys and two in England jerseys, chatting more happily than anyone else. The young people in the distance were equally relaxed, white jerseys with blue and white ones on their shoulders, as if they were wearing the same team's home and away jerseys. There were also a few tourists from Scotland, who had just returned from visiting the Forbidden City during the day and were exhausted; I didn't ask them who they were supporting that night.

The girl borrowing a light weaved through the crowd, sharing her England stickers—everyone got one. After exchanging greetings with a few colleagues, she turned to continue distributing them, only to see a man in a dark blue Argentina away game uniform. The two looked at each other speechlessly, then burst into laughter. The stickers eventually ended up with an Argentina fan; a boy wearing a Messi uniform was secretly "tricked" by his friend, his "I" replaced with a San George's Cross flag, and his back quickly became a photo spot.

At 2 PM, the World Cup officially began, and all televisions were tuned to the same channel. The promotional video ended, and Kane stepped off the team bus to cheers from the crowd. Paddy's was playing the BBC signal, having already announced the starting lineup. From goalkeeper to striker, the cheers grew louder and louder, reaching their peak when Kane appeared as the lone striker.

The signal returned to the studio, and Richards, Hart, and Rooney took turns holding the microphone. Everyone quickly returned to their previous state. You drink yours, I'll talk my mind. Someone tried to stand up and lead the cheers, but no one responded. It wasn't until Argentina's starting lineup made their appearance that cheers and boos erupted simultaneously.

Everyone arrived early, and their faces already showed signs of fatigue. The drunkards were saying goodbye to their friends; their England-Argentina match had ended prematurely.

The pre-match calm persisted for the first forty-five minutes, resembling the halfway point of a fight match where the fans' energy had nowhere to go, and they couldn't find an outlet to shout. In the second half, many people started chatting, clinking glasses, and going outside for some fresh air.

After halftime, the goal came suddenly, and the decibel level instantly rose to over 110. My friend was wildly waving an England flag, after being buried under two glasses of Maurice Lager. This was my best wishes to him: Spain is waiting for you.

When Gordon broke down the door, I felt water splash on my legs, but I didn't pay much attention in my frenzy of jumping around. Three minutes later, a staff member arrived late with a broom, and I realized that the people at the next table had gotten too excited during their celebration and had knocked over two bottles of wine, leaving shards of glass all over the floor.

The Argentinians then took over the game, launching wave after wave of attacks. At first, England fans were still cheering for Pickford's brilliant saves and Spencer's sliding tackle, but tension was spreading, as if everyone had a premonition: they couldn't hold on.

The quiet blue and white decor, which had been simmering all night, erupted in a final burst of revelry. Although it occupied less than 30% of the space, the release of pent-up emotions produced a volume that rivaled the crowd's. Another glass was knocked over; the guy in front of him slapped his own beer over the floor. Luckily, because there were so many people, the bar couldn't wash all the glasses, so he used a plastic one.

As Tuchel directed his players in a hopeless counter-attack, chants of Messi's name began to rise in the stands, with some spectators, not entirely loyal to England, joining in. Some tried to chant "Jude" in response, but their voices were weak and they fell silent after only two shouts. They were probably prepared to sing "Hey Jude" or "Wonderwall" after the match, but not today.

Before stoppage time was over, my friend started muttering "It's over" in my ear. His state represented that of all the England fans in the stadium: there was no extreme sadness as is common after a comeback, only a helpless shake of the head with a wry smile. They were so familiar with this kind of story that they were used to it.

As the crowd left, it was already broad daylight. The Argentine fans no longer celebrated wildly, and no clashes occurred. People said goodbye in twos and threes outside the stadium, and the question now became, "What time do you go to work?" I gave my friend a ride to the station on my bike, and on the way, he reminisced with me about past World Cups. His biggest regret was losing to Croatia in 2018, when he was about to start university. "The World Cup when you're 18 is always unforgettable."

The first subway train won't arrive for another 20 minutes. We've made plans to go to the next World Cup together. Spain, Portugal, Morocco—it's much more convenient than the US. He'll still be supporting England, so who should I cheer for?