Mark Steel: How Argentina scored a goal so good it taught 10,000 fans to dance

View From The Terraces (or, to be precise, a square in Gelsenkirchen)

For the match between Argentina and Serbia, I joined a crowd of Serbs walking to the giant screen in a square near to where the match was played. As we arrived they were singing a chorus with increasing passion, so I asked Tony, a Serb from London, what the words were. "Oh, it's just a simple song," he said, "that goes, 'We will fight till we die, and must leave our heart on the pitch'." They don't help themselves, the Serbs, do they? Their World Cup single is presumably something like: "Back Home, they'll be thinking about us, with every limb we shed. They'll cheer us on as our foes are slain in rivers of blood, enabling us to make it through the group and into the knock-out stages."

I imagined that at the big screen the two crowds of supporters would be in opposite halves of the square, but instead there was a gloriously dishevelled mix of about 10,000 people, comprising contingents wearing the shirts of almost every country in the tournament, plus the Irish. And each group milled about, strolling aimlessly and greeting each other like in early afternoon at a rock festival.

I stood by a group of Argentines, including one banging a drum encouraging others to dance, but his effort was a glorious endearing failure, suggesting Argentina is very different from Brazil. Some jerked like drunk uncles at a wedding, and one danced while holding a local supermarket carrier bag, which was holding what looked like a packet of Hula Hoops and a Scotch egg. Then the drummer stopped and complained he couldn't carry on as he'd hurt his wrist.

But soon after the game began, Argentina scored and the drummer revived his spirits, encouraging a larger posse of dancers. Then came a turning point in the whole tournament. Some people argue that sport can be art, that the grace of a Brian Lara cover drive, for example, is the replica of an exquisite piece of ballet. This seems far-fetched, but Argentina's second goal was as close to putting this case as possible. Whereas most great goals celebrate individual brilliance, this was a supreme collective effort, combining a series of rapid, bewildering impudent touches and the final wallop. After that you could imagine the manager congratulating the team by kissing them on the cheeks and shrieking "wonderful - and the reviewers loved it."

Now the drummer beat his drum with a flair he seemed incapable of half an hour earlier, and a line of Argentines jiggled in perfect time. This goal was so good it taught people how to dance.

At half-time I asked one of the dancers, Joanna, whose face was painted blue and white, where she was from in Argentina. "But I'm German," she said, "I'm supporting Argentina because I have an exchange student from there staying with me." A middle-aged couple that looked like their normal entertainment would be a box set of Heartbeat, began jumping from one leg to the other and chanting "Ar-zhen-tee-na". "We are from Cologne," they said, "but we love Argentina."

By the fourth goal the drummer was at the centre of a huge party, as Italians, Swiss, English and every nation danced with a growing panache. By the sixth goal a second drummer had joined the first and they were playing together remarkably tightly. If there had been a seventh, a saxophonist would have turned up and they'd all have done a perfect version of "A Love Supreme" by John Coltrane.

Later, in the town, I wandered across to six lads at a bar, dressed in Argentina shirts. "Felicitations," I said, which I thought was Spanish for "Congratulations", but they looked bemused. Then one of them said he spoke English. So I said "Congratulations' and he said: "But we are all Serbs." "Oh, right," I said, "So why are you wearing Argentina shirts?" And he said "Because Argentina were wonderful today. From now on we are all Argentinian." Then he kissed his new shirt and they all cheered.

Boris, who I'd tried to congratulate, said, "Will you accept a drink off bad Serb. We are all bad, did you hear? Ha ha ha." "You can't all be bad," I said.

"But I want to be bad Serb," he said. Then he bought me a drink, put his arm round me and screamed "Ar-zhen-tee-na." In such ways is everyone in it together in an event that depends on competition, and nationalism is broken down in a tournament that owes its very existence to nationalism.

(Incidentally, I know the team was actually Serbia and Montenegro, but I called them Serbia for shorthand. And because I'm interested to see if any Montenegrins write in saying: "It's a disgrace. We played a part in getting beaten 6-0 as well, you know.")