Watching Uruguay play is a bit like driving past the boarded-up shop-fronts of a once-thriving city centre. The phantasms of a glorious past haunt you. Occasionally you see flashes of pride and quality, more often you see a rage against the dying of the light. Except, whereas a depressed city centre might hold out hope to be regenerated, Uruguay will probably never regain its footballing greatness.

And, simply watching the players on the pitch, you know that they are aware of this. The footballers, their fans, their media, all of them carry the burden of history, as the descendants of giants who were once the hub of the footballing world.

They are perpetually tormented by the ghosts of José Nasazzi and Héctor Scarone, Alcides Ghiggia and Juan Alberto Schiaffino, the men who led this tiny country to two World Cups more than 50 years ago. There was a time when Uruguay were to football what New Zealand used to be to rugby: a tiny country of about three million souls, punching far above its weight thanks to a combination of knowhow, organisation and sheer love and passion for the game.

All that ended a long time ago. The rest of the world – buoyed by wealth, size and population – left them in the rearview mirror. The last truly great Uruguayan footballer that most remember is Enzo Francescoli, who retired a decade ago.

Nicknamed “The Prince”, he affected a kind of last of the Jedi air, languidly strolling around the pitch and dispensing magic as and when it was needed, like the little Dutch boy sticking his finger in the dyke. I bumped into him a few years ago – he lives in Miami, Florida, where he runs a television network – and asked him about his country’s faded glory.

“We were once a Mercedes, now we are a Volkswagen and we know that we will probably never ever be more than that,” he said. “The world has changed. I knew it even when I was playing, 20 years ago. The ghosts were staring at me from above.”

The ghosts looked on on Saturday night at the Monumental Stadium in Buenos Aires, watching their footballing descendants take on Argentina in a World Cup qualifier. There were shreds of hope to hang on to, despite the pedigree of the opponents. This is, after all, a derby, the two capitals separated by the River Plate, and in those matches anything can happen.

For years, Uruguay has rallied around the principles of small country/big neighbour pride, a sort of Latin American Scotland. Whether they are claiming that their beef is superior or that Carlos Gardel, the tango star (one of the three classic Argentine icons, along with Eva Perón and Diego Maradona), was born in Uruguay, they wrap themselves in their tribalism in the hope that it will lead to overachievement.

In a footballing sense there were glimmers of hope. Argentina had been winless in their previous five World Cup qualifiers. Uruguay had lost only once – narrowly, to Brazil – in the previous 11 months. Alfio Basile, the Argentina coach, was gambling with a top-heavy lineup – a front four of Sergio Agüero, Carlos Tévez, Lionel Messi and Juan Román Riquelme – that was long on talent but short on workrate, which might have lent itself to a smash-and-grab.

All that was shattered within the first 15 minutes. Argentina scored twice – first Messi, then Agüero – and the gulf in class was obvious. As so often happens with nations of Uruguay’s size, when a regular is injured his replacement brings a severe drop in quality.

With Diego Forlán injured, Sebastián “The Madman” Abreu led the line. A 6ft 4in battering ram who epitomises the “have boots, will travel” journeyman ethos – he has played for 15 clubs in five countries – Abreu was so far behind the action that he could not even live up to his nickname.

Because of Argentina’s cavalier attacking attitude, Uruguay did pull a goal back late in the first half thanks to Diego Lugano – a wider, blonder, slower yet equally inspirational version of John Terry – but that was it. After the break things got testier, with Carlos Torres, the referee, handing out ten yellow cards (he could probably have given twice as many).

Even against an Argentina team who looked disjointed, it was all Uruguay could do – ratchet up the physical side and hope the home team lose the plot.

Both sides gave as good as they got during the game and it is not as if Uruguay were dirtier than their opponents. But, with every late tackle and forearm smash to the throat (such as the one that Javier Zanetti, the Argentina captain and Inter Milan player, received) one got the sense that it was not mere run-of-the-mill frustration. It was a cry of “we’re alive, we’re still here, we’re Uruguay, we’re still fighting”.

A cry that the ghosts of the golden past probably acknowledged with a blend of ennui and sadness, but perhaps also a touch of pride. The talent is gone and, with it, the glory. But the spirit lingers on.

And another thing...

Domenech still clings on to job after great escape

Raymond Domenech, the France coach, has so many lives that he would put most felines to shame. Even before his team’s trip to take on Romania on Saturday, the knives were out, with Didier Deschamps, Laurent Blanc and Gérard Houllier lined up to replace him.

As it happened, France battled back from two goals down to draw 2-2, although their performance did Domenech no favours. Romania had 60 per cent of the possession.

Domenech did his part with a number of controversial decisions, which are sure to enrage the press. He left out Karim Benzema, sending the Lyons forward on after 37 minutes (and when a manager makes a first-half substitution, the kneejerk reaction is that he got the lineup wrong). In central defence he persisted with Éric Abidal (talented, but a natural full back) and Jean-Alain Boumsong (the less said the better), while leaving Philippe Mexès to warm the bench.

Tomorrow, France host Tunisia in a friendly. Regardless of the result, reports in France suggest that it will be Domenech’s final match in charge. Then again, he has been written off before.

Mourinho’s grand entrance

Speaking of Romania versus France, José Mourinho was in the stands to watch two of his Inter Milan players (Cristian Chivu and Patrick Vieira, who injured himself in the warm-up) and two of his potential future ones (Franck Ribéry and Dorin Goian). Curiously, his presence was treated with the same hype and hysteria that would probably greet the return of the Beatles if Barack Obama replaced John Lennon, Pope Ratzinger filled in for George Harrison and David Beckham, Paris Hilton and George Clooney served as roadies.

A local agent loaned Mourinho his private jet to fly into town and Romanian television interrupted programming to show live pictures of the Special One landing at the airport. Let’s hope that all the attention doesn’t go to his head.

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