Arriving early in Argentina for the World Cup of Golf, I spent my first day trying to familiarise myself with the course in the exclusive surroundings of the Buenos Aires Golf Club. The atmosphere on the Sunday before a golf tournament can leave you somewhat cold and uninspired.

I had visions of a country full of life and passion, gauchos and tango dancing couples in the street and evenings of football played at a frenetic pace in front of an animated stadium of supporters.

Glancing at the paper in the mahogany panelled lounge at the golf club, Boca Juniors, I noticed, were playing one of their great rivals San Lorenzo at home at six that evening.

Browsing over his Sunday paper was the President of the Club, who also happens to be the owner of Club Atletico Boca Juniors. Despite my enquiries about tickets for the game, it seemed at this late stage there was nothing even El Presidente could do to help.

"Get the expensive ticket if you can" was the advice of the club manager, "don't get a stand ticket if you can avoid it".

I convinced Andy, an Aston Villa supporter, and caddie for Mark McNulty that a trip to the Bombonera would be an enriching cultural experience, to see how it compared to Villa Park. As we arrived at the ticket booths there were four other "estranjeros" also trying to buy tickets. 100 dollar or 15 dollar tickets were the only options at that late stage. Despite the echo of "buy the expensive tickets" in my head, being a caddie I couldn't resist the cheap option. So off trooped the foreigners, adopting the safety in numbers approach. There was six of us amongst a bunch of 66,000 Boca fanatics.

It was one of those old fashioned grounds built in the heart of the barrio (neighbourhood), there were homes only a matter of metres from the stairwells to the stands. La Bombonera is very much La Boca.

Passing through the turnstile we were immediately greeted with an overpowering stench of urine. Wading our way up the steps we realised that we were also moving through a cascade of human urine. "The expensive seats" line throbbed in my head as I mounted the steps. We eventually reached the second tier, the south sector of the General Local, set right behind the goal.

We sheepishly sidled across the stand and assumed a tentative position close to the fencing at the bottom of the middle tier. I was surprised at the amount of space available considering the relative congestion in the rest of the ground. We obviously stood out as non-locals, "Ingles" was being hissed in our general direction, not in an unfriendly way. More in surprise at our choice of the "cheap tickets". I was soon to realise why there was space.

There was a huge sense of occasion already, one and a half hours before the kick-off of the main event. The fencing was acting as a sort of tight rope for the devoted with a bird like sense of balance, they were perched delicately atop the barbed wire railing with their backs to the game looking upwards towards the top stand and chanting what sounded like abuse at the crowd above . Many of the Juniors fans had their shirts off and tied round their heads. Strange I thought, it wasn't that warm, it must be a sign of allegiance or terrace fashion. I turned to a bemused Andy and watched a healthy gob of saliva run down his black leather jacket. As I craned my neck I observed a similar deposit on my own back. This was to last for over three hours. We were in the unfortunate location of being directly underneath the 5000 San Lorenzo fans penned in on the upper level, heavily armed with a rich source of saliva.

There was worse to come. The San Lorenzo supporters were drinking and obviously needed to relieve themselves throughout the course of the day. So we got that on top of us too at various stages. There was the odd rock, plenty of firecrackers, mustard, bits of stand debris and at one stage my hair was smoldering. "Get the expensive seats" was making a lot more sense to me now.

The real party began as the team appeared from the inflatable "tunnels" that lead the players from the dressing room. What happened before had been a siesta. The whole stadium, apart from above us, was a sea of blue and yellow Boca flags. Blue and yellow smoke bombs erupted around the stands, it was a chaotic scene of jubilation. The fans started a traditional jumping session which felt like an earthquake on the terrace measuring five on the Richter scale.

This force of passion was only to be matched when the home team scored the winning goal in the 84th minute, which caused a tremor of six on the scale and set the chanting alight for the end of the remarkable spectacle. The ringleader in this celebration was none other than the King of the Bombonera, Diego Maradona.

Set in his private box on the touch-line, he was bare-chested and swinging his Boca shirt manically while semi suspended out of the balcony. He will surely hurl himself over and onto the pitch in a frenzy someday. The "hand of god" was there at the Bombonera orchestrating the celebration while the team he reputedly manages was playing his enemies River Plate on the other side of town. A deed befitting the eccentric footballing god.

If ever you make it to the Bombonera on a hot summer's eve, despite a few discomforts, you will experience a passion unsurpassed by any other live event, least of all by the disinterested mood at most golf tournament finales.