It is the equal of my greatest sporting experience - and I was at the Olympic Stadium in Homebush when the Socceroos qualified for the World Cup after 32 years.

La Bombonera sits incongruously amongst the famously colourful and poverty stricken barrio of La Boca in the east of Buenos Aires.

A sleepy suburb punctuated by dilapidated houses, cracked pavements, countless children kicking footballs and a myriad of locals lounging in doorways.

On matchday the barrio comes alive with enthusiasm for the beautiful game and a fierce primordial passion for one of the most fabled clubs in football, Club Atletico Boca Juniors.

In the lead up to kick-off for this final match of the season, one Boca needs to win to claim the title, the leafy narrow streets around the stadium - a concrete behemoth - billow with smoke from the myriad of parrillas set up by residents offering barbequed feasts of chorizo and chicken, true believers decked out ubiquitously in blue and gold of Boca, excited chatter, the clinking of beer glasses and riot police.

I’m not sure if I stand out like the tourist I am, but my Spanish does that for me. After stumbling through a series of highly rehearsed phrases (‘no soy gringo, soy Australiano’) with some of the gruffer ticket touts, I manage to purchase a 30 peso ticket for the match, albeit it for 100 pesos.

I am on my own in a foreign land with a foreign tongue but football is a language we all speak and the rhythm of it all rolls right over me.

The day itself is an homage to football and is dedicated entirely to it. The buzzing streets which have been closed off to traffic become more and more congested with fans eager to show their pride and passion. There is plenty of shouting, yelling and merriment.

Boca fans, traditionally of the working class, have a reputation. I have heard countless tales of the thefts other travellers have suffered at games, but I witness none of this.

With the entire suburb bustling and buzzing with football I cross the derelict train line adjacent to the ground, which adds to its urban feel, and attempt to enter the ground.

This is when the confusion begins. I circle virtually the whole ground but none of the gate attendants will permit me entry and each time I attempt to argue my case a furious game of finger pointing ensures.

“Vistiante. Visitante. Visitante.” The constant phrase rings in my ears. My classroom Spanish is failing the pressure test.

I sit down on the crumbling sidewalk in the shadow of the giant stadium, terrace rows of houses sporting blue and gold behind me, and it dawns on me like an own goal. I have purchased a ticket in the visitors section.

Steeling myself for all manner of coins and missiles I cautiously walk through the 10-foot high gauntlet of plastic walls that attends the southern end of the stadium and the entrance for the visiting fans.

The walk up several flights of stairs in the warm air is sweaty one and when I prop myself against the concrete railings at the summit La Bombonera below me is full of life.

It is still an hour to kick off but the party is in full swing. Blue and gold banners billow wildly from the vertigo inducing stands, streamers flutter madly in the breeze, and increasing numbers of fans are negotiating the 12-foot high wire fence that rings the ground.

When the players finally take the field, the roar is deafening, one that is only matched when the great Maradona emerges from a private box just before kick off to shower his blessing upon the match.

When Boca goes ahead 1-0 early I feel a surge off relief as I uneasily eye off the opposition fans around me - a Boca win would result in an uneventful departure. Suddenly the whole stadium begins to shake like an earthquake is upon us, an effect the Boca fans jumping as one in sublime celebration has created, and one I was later told was a highlight of a visit to La Bombonera.

There is concern in the stands when Lanus scores to even the game at 1-1 and then fury when it scores again midway through the second half to lead 2-1. The game itself as a spectacle was a relatively free flowing affair but it was the experience of being there in person that created the indelible memory.

I am sure I must have prayed for Boca to equalise, to win, and to win well, but those prayers were never answered. I skipped out of that stadium with the full-time whistle, and a Boca defeat ringing in my ears, those 10 foot high plastic walls flanking my departure as police helicopters flew overhead.

There were platoons of riot police stationed on each of the half dozen corners between the stadium and the bus depot. But win, lose or draw the barrio of La Boca was quiet that night. And through it all appeared to flow a quiet resignation that this was not to be Boca’s year in a title race eventually won by Juan Sebastian Veron’s Estudiantes.