In the final days before Argentina's 2022 World Cup victory, a nearly eighty-year-old woman named Lita became an unlikely national talisman, drawing crowds of young Argentines into the streets to sing her praises. What began as a spontaneous chant grew into something older and deeper — a country reaching back toward its grandmothers, toward the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, toward a history of women who refused to be erased. A columnist argues this is not coincidence but destiny: that a nation does not place its elderly women at the center of its greatest dream without that dream coming true.
Argentine grandmothers as World Cup talismans: Why Messi's team will win
You don't summon a legion of grandmothers without consequence.
Mark
You're predicting Argentina wins because of grandmothers. That's not actually a reason, is it?
Mimi
It's not a reason in the way you mean—not a tactical one. But it's a reason in the way that matters most: cultural momentum, collective will, the weight of history suddenly concentrated in one moment.
Mark
Your mother changed her mind about rooting for Argentina because of a song. That seems like you're reading too much into a viral moment.
Mimi
Maybe. But viral moments don't happen in a vacuum. This one happened because it touched something real—the way a nation suddenly saw itself reflected in its grandmothers, the people it had always kept at the margins.
Mark
The Madres de Plaza de Mayo were about something deadly serious. Doesn't it cheapen that to connect it to a World Cup song?
Mimi
The opposite. It honors it. Those women fought so their country could have moments like this—where the next generation could celebrate, could be joyful, could put their grandmothers at the center instead of the edge.
Mark
France is the better team, though.
Mimi
Absolutely. But football isn't only about technique. It's about momentum, belief, the invisible weight of a nation behind you. Argentina has all of that now.
Mark
So you really think they'll win?
Mimi
I think the story is already written. Whether it's true or not, that's what matters.
Le Pouls
- A viral moment ignites when Lita, an octogenarian with a small flag, is swept into Argentina's World Cup celebrations and crowned an unofficial national amulet.
- The movement spreads with startling speed — Argentines flood nursing homes to serenade strangers with 'Abuela La La La La Lá,' turning elderly women into the spiritual engine of a football campaign.
- Football has long treated elderly women as charming footnotes; Argentina has broken that pattern by placing grandmothers at the ceremonial heart of its journey to the final.
- The chant itself carries hidden weight — its melody borrowed from a Village People LGBTQ anthem, its emotional roots tangled with the Madres de Plaza de Mayo's revolutionary legacy.
- The columnist concedes France's technical superiority but insists no team can overcome the accumulated force of a nation's grandmothers — living and dead — when that nation truly bows to their memory.
In the final days before Argentina's 2022 World Cup victory, a nearly eighty-year-old woman named Lita became an unlikely national talisman, drawing crowds of young Argentines into the streets to sing her praises. What began as a spontaneous chant grew into something older and deeper — a country reaching back toward its grandmothers, toward the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, toward a history of women who refused to be erased. A columnist argues this is not coincidence but destiny: that a nation does not place its elderly women at the center of its greatest dream without that dream coming true.
A columnist and her eighty-five-year-old mother have become captivated by the story of Lita — María Cristina — an Argentine grandmother of nearly eighty who wandered into her country's World Cup celebrations with a small flag and never left. What started as a few dozen young men improvising a chant around her — "Abuela, la la la la lá" — grew match by match into a national phenomenon. By the time Argentina reached the final, Lita was surrounded by thousands, and the song had taken on a life of its own.
The movement spread beyond Lita herself. Argentines began visiting nursing homes to sing the chant to elderly women they had never met, and those women received them with open arms. Football has always had room for the occasional grandmother on camera — a curiosity, a brief warmth — but Argentina did something structurally different: it placed its grandmothers at the center, made them the talisman, the spiritual axis of a nation's sporting dream.
The columnist does not take this lightly. Argentina is the country of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo — women who stood in a public square under dictatorship and changed the course of history through sheer refusal to disappear. That memory, she argues, is now threaded through every chorus of "Abuela La La La La Lá." France may be the better team on paper. But you do not invoke a legion of grandmothers in that country without invoking everything they represent.
There is one more layer the columnist offers: the melody of the chant is borrowed from "Go West" by the Village People — a hymn of LGBTQ liberation — sung at a World Cup hosted by a dictatorship, in honor of grandmothers who became revolutionary figures. It is the kind of script, she concludes, that reality alone can produce. Argentina will win, and when it does, the grandmothers will finally stand at the center of a celebration that has excluded them for centuries.
If you're the type who doesn't want to know how this ends, stop reading now. For everyone else: Argentina is going to win the World Cup, and here's why.
My mother and I have become obsessed with the story of an Argentine grandmother who has somehow become the nation's good luck charm. Her name is María Cristina, though everyone calls her Lita. She's nearly eighty years old, and since Argentina's first victory in this tournament, she's been out on the streets with a small flag, celebrating. At first, it was just a couple dozen young men jumping around with her, singing something they made up on the spot: "Abuela, la la la la lá, Abuela." By the time Argentina secured a spot in the final, Lita was surrounded by crowds, and the song had become a national trend. Search "Abuela La La La La La" on Google Maps and you'll see what I mean.
Something shifted after that. The grandmothers became the story. Now enthusiastic Argentines are visiting nursing homes to sing "Abuela La La La La" to elderly women—whether they're actually anyone's grandmother or not. The women receive them with joy. It's an improbable and beautiful script: grandmothers as talismans for conquest, as the spiritual center of a nation's sporting dream.
Football has a long history of ignoring elderly women. Every so often one appears on camera and charms everyone, but always as a curiosity, a sideshow. Argentina has done something different. They've placed their grandmothers at the heart of their journey. My own mother, eighty-five years old, swore she would never root for Argentina. Now she walks around the house singing "Abuela La La La La Lá Abuela."
But here's what matters: you don't summon a legion of grandmothers without consequence. Not in Argentina. Not in the country of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo—those revolutionary women who changed the course of their nation's history. The weight of that memory, that resistance, that refusal to be silenced, is now woven into every chant. Yes, France is technically superior. I'll grant you that. But you don't play games with the force of an entire nation's grandmothers—living and dead—when that country bows to their memory.
I could be wrong. I'm often wrong. But not this time. Argentina will take the cup, and what follows will be a national celebration unlike anything we've seen: a country in the streets celebrating not just a victory, but its own history, its own struggle, its own women. For the first time in centuries, the grandmothers will be at the center of a festival that has always excluded them. There's another layer too, if you want it: the melody of "Abuela La La La La Lá" is borrowed from "Go West," the Village People anthem, a hymn of LGBTQ liberation. Grandmothers as amulets, a queer anthem, a World Cup held in a dictatorship—it's all there for anyone paying attention. This script couldn't be written as fiction. Reality has the advantage that it doesn't need to make sense.
Citations marquantes
Argentina will take the cup, and what follows will be a national celebration unlike anything we've seen: a country in the streets celebrating not just a victory, but its own history, its own struggle, its own women.— Milly Lacombe, columnist
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