The Procession.

The parade of people flowed from the city centre, beneath the omnipresent table mountain and out to the ocean; to the stadium. We met the flow someway along and stepped in to be carried the rest of the way. There was not anything you could do but shuffle to the mass beat of it all. We walked a while before our destination materialised in the distance. We were beginning the approach. There was a change in the atmosphere; the vuvuzelas became more consistent; drums and music floated around us; people danced and Africans busked in the street. High above on either side people hung out of windows; waving, shouting, cameras flashing. In temporary slits through the crowd I could make out rows of people, perhaps three deep, here just to witness the spectacle in the afternoon sun – it was a Saturday after all. They applauded us as we walked. The excitement grew: we were the lucky ones, we were here to participate.

The grass was a brilliant green. It appeared perfect; flat and sharp. The goals stood at each end, beckoning action. Encircling up, the white seats were filled; Argentine and German colours overpowered the scene. Straight beyond my view of the opposite corner flag, between the corrugated roof and the top tier was the silhouette of Table Mountain – seeing to it that perspective is duly maintained throughout. Behind me, behind the stadium gates, sat the Atlantic ocean and views to the horizon. Above, the sky was pure, a gentle sea breeze maintained a freshness.

The Argentine shirts were bouncing, their anthem had began. Thousands in the blue and white jumped to the rich tune. Then the vuvuzelas blared; time for the Germans and apparently an Opera. A deep voice bellowed a couple rows behind us, emphatically pounding out every word with all his might was an aging German. Skye took his photo. The stadium backed the man as those rough, harsh words sounded down to players below. Again the vuvuzelas; time for kick off.

The dream was over quickly. But down eight minutes in, it was always going to be tough. Those in La Albiceleste colours were resilient and continued to stand and to deliver support and the team came out determined in the second half. But they were ultimately silenced. So was Di Maria and Tevez and Messi and Higuain and then Aguero. Maradona consoled his former number and favourite though not the legal son as we looked on. A blur of the Germans and their fans celebrated on the peripheral. Though Skye seemed pretty happy with himself. It was my second time seeing Die Mannschaft and it was the same scoreline. My two teams had been done. I was done, twice. It's personal now... so come on Spain - my boys!

We slinked out to greet the night sky, Skye's German scarf ruffled in the cool sea breeze in some kind of symbolic victory. His friend had an apartment nearby, just off the foreshore. We farewelled Darryl and River and made for the braai. The scene was spectacular; the balcony offered endless views of the Atlantic on one side and on the other, green point stadium lit up in its brilliant best. It stood in great reverence, looking as if it was the sole culprit for its country's energy crisis. Though having been constructed by Germans it was apparently happy just to bask in its victory of a job well done, awaiting the next match.