During the national anthems in Sapporo you could hear the English jeers loudest only because more of their fans made it to Japan. The expected whistles during the ceremonies, especially during God Save the Queen, was the only manifestly antagonistic element of what has arrived as an enduring and wonderful occasion in world football.
The dark history of the Falklands debacle and the bitterness of all the old pitch feuds have slowly faded from this rivalry to leave a truer and warmer reflection of what both countries represent. The brief, half-time handshake offered to David Beckham by Diego Simeone, who played Mephisto to the England captain four years ago, was instructive of the passing of time. The sting will never leave games between the countries, but it is now accompanied by respect.
Yesterday, England achieved some form of redemption for Maradona's devilish genius in 1986 and the cruel end to their 1998 World Cup. That this 1-0 win is the first against Argentina in the World Cup since 1966, a year that still shimmers in the English psyche, will inevitably lead to bold flights of imagination across the sea.
For a pragmatic nation, the English can be notoriously superstitious when it comes to sport. Also, tradition and ambition will inevitably prompt many commentators into equating this victory as proof of why England can win the World Cup. The formula has been simplified. Argentina were the hot favourites to lift the trophy in the first hours of July. England have beaten Argentina. Therefore . . .
Few outside that country will see it that way, but regardless of how far the English advance - and it is hard to deny that they have had a fair few unlucky breaks in World Cup tournaments - this tournament is blossoming into a extremely positive and happy occasion for them.
There is a theory going round that many of the English hooligans of the mid-90s have become worn down by a mid-thirtysomething ennui. The tattooed masses have bowed to time and are now too busy changing kids' nappies and stocking up on cheap red down in Sainsbury's to have time to fight on the street for the honour of King George.
The hard men of the terraces are now content to indulge in little nostalgia festivals celebrating the good old romper-stomping days.
Whatever the reason, they certainly appear to have stayed away from Japan. Since the tournament began, we have been treated to courteous and measured interviews with genuine English fans that seem intent, God forbid, on enhancing the reputation of their country.
Against expectations, the reported feel-good factor from Asia is seemingly in excess of that registered in France four years ago. Much of this is down to the apparently endless well of charm and civility that the hosts have prepared.
How great it was to see beaming oriental faces mixed in with the English in Sapporo yesterday. The Japanese have always had a fascination with western pop culture, and yesterday must have been a virtual experience that surpassed any of the high-tech marvels on offer in downtown Tokyo. To stick on an Owen shirt and watch him play! To see Beckham-san in the flesh! Hell, they could almost pretend they came from Birmingham.
It was a good day to be English and in the purest sense. But yesterday's game carried more resonance for the Argentinians. The aristocrats played without soul or evident passion in this game. Argentina looked drugged and listless throughout.
UNFORGETTABLE as it would have been to have had a ticket for the Sapporo stadium yesterday, the real drama must have been unfolding on the last outpost of the Southern Hemisphere, Buenos Aires.
Quietly and without much heed, 19,000 people a day are now drifting across the poverty line in Argentina. It is not just the voiceless from the shantytowns any more, but successful, perfumed and multi-lingual people with expensive crafting from the orthodontist as a legacy of better years. The country's economy is flat-lining and the greater world, the global powerbrokers by whom Argentina so dearly wants to be held in esteem, really couldn't care.
One of the most poignant stories of this World Cup began filtering through from Buenos Aires last week. Horacio Garcia Blanco, the godfather of the Argentine soccer writers, was due to cover his 10th finals in Japan this summer. His was the authoritative word through so many of the great moments and tribulations in their rich soccer past, from Wembley in 1966 through to Mexico two decades later.
Shortly before the tournament began, he was told that he required a kidney transplant in Spain.
He had the means to fund the cost of the operation but, like the majority of his fellow citizens, Blanco's bank account has been in deep freeze since the December turmoil. After reviewing his case, the judges permitted him to take a mere 10 per cent of his healthy reserve. It was not enough to cover the medical costs and Blanco died last week. So vast and faceless is the media corps at big sporting events now that probably only the elder statesmen of the game will have time to lament his absence.
Like so much of Argentina's recent history, what makes Blanco's story so sad is that it was all so avoidable.
The Argentine population, temperamentally as lachrymose and introspective as their English counterparts are cheeky and determined, was desperately hoping from some solace from this World Cup.
Stripped of long-term ambition and certainty, there was at least the hope that their countrymen would reign supreme at the beautiful game with the rest of the world watching. They could bask in that reflected glow and feel some respite after months of sustained sadness.
After yesterday, many Argentinians will feel that for them, and for some unknowable reason, 0-1 is the score of life. With this loss, the football team becomes a metaphor for the land and economy. In Veron, Batistuta, Crespo and Ortega, they have all the riches a country could ask for, as they have the best soil, the best beef, the best education. And yet they fall, buckle before the less gifted but more focused composition of Mills and Butt, Sinclair and Seaman.
No doubt they gathered in the squares around Buenos Aires yesterday evening to protest and analyse and weep. Argentina may well go out of the World Cup now because the Swedes lack the imagination not to beat them. And there was a resignation about the Argentinians in Sapporo yesterday, as if they had not the heart to realise the massive skills and performances anticipated of them; that does not bode well. The great South American artists and controversialists may be about to disappear. I, for one, will miss them.
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