From sombre to sol and sombrero

Mexico 3 Iran 1: Well, olé, olé, olé. There's an eternal mystery to Mexican football. A sorrowful one. Qualifiers for 12 World Cup finals in a row, they are as much a part of the tournament as the opening ceremony and Pele's grin. And they have just as much influence on the outcome. Twelve appearances and only on the two occasions when the thing was held in their own back yard did they even make the last eight. No wine travels worse.

Which is a little tragedy. The Mexicans bring rivers of wonderful fans to every tournament. They paint their faces, wear their sombreros, do their national wave and the olé, olé thing - and it always ends in tears.

They won't win this World Cup but yesterday was a happy day. Three goals against a spiky and resistant Iranian team set Mexico up nicely for escape from Group D, assuming they can cope with the threat of Angola.

With the confidence the late surge will give them perhaps the Mexicans can at last do themselves justice at a major tournament.

Not that it was all sol and sombreros. Yesterday in Nuremberg threatened to be somewhat typical of what has been a long series of mildly unfortunate events. World rankings are baloney but even still Mexico's pre-tournament rating as fourth-best in the world reflected what should have been a gulf in class between themselves and the Iranians.

And? Much huffing and puffing later Mexico found themselves level going into the final 20 minutes. Not just level but seemingly incapable of finding that killer final ball with which to end the struggle.

It was frustrating. Mexico had set out with the more attacking formation and were the busier side from the start. Yet the best chances in the first half went to the Iranians.

Ali Karim had claims for a penalty after eight minutes and, more seriously, his cross 10 minutes later was met by the head of Vahid Hashieman and a top-class save was required of Oswaldo Sanchez in the Mexican goal.

So it continued. The running of Mahdavikia on the right exposed Pineda and allowed crosses which begged a touch from the great Ali Daei or Hashemian.

The breakthrough came just before the half-hour and, a little against the grain of the game, it went to the Mexicans. Pardo tickled a clever little free from the right, and the ball was headed on by Guillermo Franco, left criminally unattended. Bravo ghosted in at the far post to sidefoot the ball home for a goal his industry deserved.

Still, the Iranians were remarkably unperturbed and just kept on doing what they believed in. Plenty of attacks down the flanks, plenty of low crosses that scared the Mexican defence like dogs among sheep.

It took just seven minutes for Iran's self-belief to be repaid.

Mahdavikia floated a corner from the right. Nekounam headed it from close range at Sanchez the Mexican keeper. Golmohammadi was there to poke it in. Level.

It stayed that way till half-time, and on the big screen the saturnine features of Mexico's Argentine manager, Ricardo Lavolpe, begin to crease with anxiety. He acted quickly, in fairness. Zinha and Luis Perez came on and were soon joined by Francisco Fonseca, whose promiscuous goalscoring at this level suggested excitement.

For a while Mexico banged away like a kid smacking a piñata but the reward never came. A couple of penalty claims were dismissed as the work of swindlers. Iran just kept rolling along.

Mexico didn't threaten much even against an Iranian defence stamped FRAGILE any time it travels. It began to look as if a game begging for a moment of genius would be settled by two setpiece goals. Then Iran's concentration just snapped. Mirzapour, their big, voluble keeper, attempted a silly clearance from a backpass. Chest high and short, it smelt of danger from the time he connected.

Sure enough, the ball broke loose just outside the penalty area. Rezai could have tidied up but bungled it to the sub Zinha, who with lovely composure rolled a precise, angled pass to Omar Bravo for his second goal of the afternoon.

The massive army of Mexican fans had barely resumed their seats when it was fiesta time again. Mario Mendez made a precision cross from the right and Zinha rose to head sweetly to the corner.

It wasn't the sexiest fixture of the opening round and for a while the football lived down to the billing. In the end though Nuremberg succumbed to the party atmosphere. We were all seduced.