I was in Paris, on Sunday evening.
I had spent July 12, 1998, in London, so I thought, one never knows, I'd like to see what it's like being in France if, well, you know, if the French team wins. 1998 was mind blowing: Trafalgar square, of all places, covered in French flags, the Marseillaise raging from every corner. I was even at some point expecting somebody to climb Nelson's column and either behead Horatio or dress him in French colours. And that was London. Just imagine what Paris must have been like. Unscrupulous spin-doctors fed us then with the Black Blanc Beurs slogan. Four years later, Lepen got to the second round of the presidential elections. Jospin left the stage like a vexed prima-donna. Courage, fuyons.
July 9, 2006. Zidane saw red. And so did we. Couldn't he have waited 20 minutes to headbutt Materazzi, that is, after a winning goal (surely he would have scored when Trézéguet failed)? Walking from République to Bastille on Sunday evening, one big murmur: "What did Materazzi say to him?" Two men discussing on the steps of a church: "Zidane has been weak: you don't respond to that kind of bullshit. You grit your teeth and get on with your job. Remember, he's paid 15 million euros a year." Young people at a terrace of a café raising their voices: "Italians are all Catholic white trash, they can't stand the universalism of the French melting pot."
Zidane, a fool that lost the plot or a tragic hero? A bit of both. As for Materazzi, more coglione del mondo than campione del mondo.
Now, this line in The Guardian this morning opens another debate: "For the past three weeks, the "scum" from the banlieues have been celebrating the genius of one of their own. As Bouziane, a social worker from Toulouse, told me yesterday: "In defeat or victory, the attitude of France to us remains the same - but Zizou, more than ever, remains one of us."
There are no us and them. There is one nation. Zidane is one of us all. His stupidity is ours and his talent belongs to the world.
