Merci Zizou
06/07/06 11:43
In the Marais they were spilling out of cafes onto
the street twelve deep, everyone on tiptoes to catch
a screen.
When Zizou scored the triumphant roar shattered the night. We knew from the moment the penalty was awarded it would come home. There is something in the cool hard eyes and the calm self-control of Zidane that leaves no room for uncertainty. He has as much leadership charisma as anyone on earth.
The happy joyful chants at the end filled the bars and drenched the streets. Revellers thronged around every passing car, they hung from car windows, waved flags standing on the back of Vespas. They danced.
We stumbled to the Bastille. And in the symbolic heart of the French republic, French pride burned. Kids climbed all over the Julliet column in the centre of the giant Bastille roundabout. Crowds swept across the cobblestones, threading through the massed, honking traffic. Flares and skyrockets painted the sky in reds and blues and silvers. Happy, happy people leapt and whooped. They gloried in being French. It felt like the most impressive nation in the world. Maybe it is.
And we sang.
We sang Allez Les Bleus a hundred times.
A thousand times we chanted Ole Au Finale - if that is what the chant was meant to be.
And we chanted Zizou, Zizou, Zizou.
He comes to score. Zizou y va marquer.
The First Post, likening Zidane to a brooding impassive hero of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, says he is France's most admired public figure...modest, dignified and socially aware, devoted to his extended family.
France football shirts are usually rare in the city. But they were ubiquitous and most were emblazoned across the shoulders 'Zidane'. Seeing a Zidane shirt, revellers would call out 'Merci Zizou!' Then I heard someone repeating 'merci Zizou' the way someone else might say 'Praise the Lord.'
I went out in the morning and bought copies of newspapers to keep as souvenirs. Le Parisien claimed 500,000 people celebrated on the streets, though no one would have any idea.
How many times in your life are you going to be in the capital city of a country that has just made a world cup final?
On Sunday it is bleu contra bleu: Italy v France.
I have wanted since 1982 to feel a repeat of Italy's glory, the first time in my life I realised I had Italian heritage. And yet we've also been swept along in the joy of the French charge. It's a euphoria I want to go on and on.
I feel like I have two tickets in this race. Both my teams have made the final, though my head tells me Italy will win. 1-0.
Damn this is the best world cup ever. Merci Zizou.
When Zizou scored the triumphant roar shattered the night. We knew from the moment the penalty was awarded it would come home. There is something in the cool hard eyes and the calm self-control of Zidane that leaves no room for uncertainty. He has as much leadership charisma as anyone on earth.
The happy joyful chants at the end filled the bars and drenched the streets. Revellers thronged around every passing car, they hung from car windows, waved flags standing on the back of Vespas. They danced.
We stumbled to the Bastille. And in the symbolic heart of the French republic, French pride burned. Kids climbed all over the Julliet column in the centre of the giant Bastille roundabout. Crowds swept across the cobblestones, threading through the massed, honking traffic. Flares and skyrockets painted the sky in reds and blues and silvers. Happy, happy people leapt and whooped. They gloried in being French. It felt like the most impressive nation in the world. Maybe it is.
And we sang.
We sang Allez Les Bleus a hundred times.
A thousand times we chanted Ole Au Finale - if that is what the chant was meant to be.
And we chanted Zizou, Zizou, Zizou.
He comes to score. Zizou y va marquer.
The First Post, likening Zidane to a brooding impassive hero of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, says he is France's most admired public figure...modest, dignified and socially aware, devoted to his extended family.
France football shirts are usually rare in the city. But they were ubiquitous and most were emblazoned across the shoulders 'Zidane'. Seeing a Zidane shirt, revellers would call out 'Merci Zizou!' Then I heard someone repeating 'merci Zizou' the way someone else might say 'Praise the Lord.'
I went out in the morning and bought copies of newspapers to keep as souvenirs. Le Parisien claimed 500,000 people celebrated on the streets, though no one would have any idea.
How many times in your life are you going to be in the capital city of a country that has just made a world cup final?
On Sunday it is bleu contra bleu: Italy v France.
I have wanted since 1982 to feel a repeat of Italy's glory, the first time in my life I realised I had Italian heritage. And yet we've also been swept along in the joy of the French charge. It's a euphoria I want to go on and on.
I feel like I have two tickets in this race. Both my teams have made the final, though my head tells me Italy will win. 1-0.
Damn this is the best world cup ever. Merci Zizou.
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