Zinedine Agonistes

Could there be a better encapsulation of the stunning conclusion to the month-long tournament that brought the planet to a stand-still and sent shock-waves from one end of the globe to the other.

French writer and social commentator Bernard-Henri Levy, writing in the Wall Street Journal, has perhaps put it the most eloquently, and I take the liberty of quoting him at some length:

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"Here is one of the greatest players of all time, a legend, a myth for the entire planet, and universally acclaimed. Here is a champion who, in front of two billion people, was putting the final touches on one of the most extraordinary sagas in soccer's history.

"Here is a man of providence, a savior, who was sought out, like Achilles in his tent of grudge and rage, because he was believed to be the only one who could avert his countrymen's fated decline.

"And then this valiant knight who is a hair's breadth from victory and just minutes from the end of a historic match (and of a career that will carry him into the Pantheon of stadium-gods); this giant who, like the Titans of the ancient world, has known Glory, then Exile, then Return and Redemption; this redeemer, this blue angel dressed in white, who had only the very last steps to scale to enter Olympus for good, commits a crazy incomprehensible act that amounts to disqualification from the soccer ritualthe final image of him that will go down in history and, in lieu of apotheosis, will cast him into hell."

For those of us who have spent the last month transfixed in front of the television screen as we do every four years, and this includes a considerable proportion of the Bangladeshi population, these heart-felt words are no melodramatic overstatement, no overwrought soliloquizing, but perfectly capture the epic sweep of this great tournament and the very essence of the tragedy that befell the finest player of the past decade Zinedine Zidane in the waning minutes of the 2006 World Cup final.

Football, to be sure, is a matter of life and death for the discerning enthusiast. The language of football is the language of the world, and there is no emotion that unifies the planet more than love of the game that is played and followed everywhere from the smallest village in Africa to the largest city in Europe.

Nowhere is this more true than in Bangladesh where every four years the entire nation re-arranges its collective life around this tournament that Bangladesh has never come close to qualifying for. Less important matters such as party politics and upcoming elections take a back-seat as young and old alike stay awake all hours of the night to catch a quadrennial glimpse of the greatest show on earth that transports us from the dreariness of everyday life into the excitement of this timeless spectacle.

Despite the fact that there had been a chronic shortage of electricity, the government ensured that power was available all over the country during the tournament, heedful, perhaps, of the very real danger that if it were unable to provide power for people to watch the World Cup, then we wouldn't have to wait for the caretaker government and new elections, the government might fall then and there.

As Levy wrote in his WSJ piece, after many twists and turns, this year's tournament was heading towards a dramatic fairy-tale climax.

No one had given the French side much of chance. True they were led by a man who had once been the world's best, but there was definitely a weariness to the team, most of whom, despite their unquestioned brilliance, had seen better days. The memory of their shock first-round exit at the last World Cup had still not faded and observers wondered how this year's team, four years older, four years more fractious, would do much better.

Nor did they look impressive in their early matches. Lack-lustre draws with Switzerland and South Korea seemed to confirm their decrepitude. Facing elimination in their final first round game, they rallied to defeat Togo, but hardly in convincing fashion.

In the second round, they faced Spain, whom many were tipping to win the tournament after their electrifying performances in the opening round. Spain had come, seemingly from nowhere, and unveiled on the world stage a team of astonishing talent and virtuosity, brimming with energy and inventiveness.

But in a classic confrontation between experience and innocence, age and youth, wisdom and impetuousness, the French calmly sliced and diced the Spanish on their way to a convincing 3-1 victory.

The man of the match was the old lion Zidane. Showing that his advancing age had withered neither his skill nor his guile, he effortlessly controlled the tempo of the game, playing with his sublime touch of old. It was he who put the dagger in Spanish hearts with the third goal, superbly taken on the break as he glided effortlessly past the hapless Spanish defence before slotting the ball in the corner of the net with clinical precision. From the moment he touched the ball 35 yards from goal and with defenders on his heels there was no question that the ball was ending up in the back of the net.

On to the quarter-finals against the pre-tournament favourites, Brazil. Once again, it was Zidane who dominated the game, making it clear to anyone watching that it was he, not either of the young pretenders in a yellow shirt, who was still the world's finest talent. Once again, it was Zidane, playing like a man possessed, who was instrumental in creating the goal that took the French through to the next round.

By the time the semi-finals rolled around the world had begun to realize that Zidane was a man of destiny and that we were witnessing one of the most astonishing come-backs of modern times. Once again, it was Zidane, who made the difference, his performance on the field evoking images of the man who had almost single-handedly won the tournament for France eight years before, converting the game-winning penalty for good measure.

The stage was therefore set for not just a French triumph but a story-book ending to one of the most magnificent of careers. Everything was going according to script. Once again, it was Zidane, with ice-cold nerve, who put France in the lead with the most audacious of penalty kicks. The Italians did manage to equalize on nineteen minutes, but after half-time there was only one team in it.

This then, was the backdrop to the calamity, al naqba, Zidane's moment of madness that brought his world crashing down and sent the trophy, undeserved, to Rome.

This is not to condone or excuse his actions. Even though he was provoked, there can be no justification for Zidane's temporary act of insanity that effectively lost France the World Cup, and the referee had no option but to red card him.

But I do not think that he should be judged by one moment of weakness and that it should in any way detract from the memory of one of the most mesmerizing footballers of the modern era. Zidane's names belongs up there with those of Pele and Beckenbauer and Maradona, and nothing can tarnish his image as one of the greatest footballers the world has ever seen or is ever likely to see.

The tragedy is not Zidane's alone but that of the entire French team and the nation it represented. This was the French team of the 2005 riots, this was a team made up of seven black men of West African or Caribbean origin, captained by the son of Algerian immigrants; out of a squad of twenty-three, all but seven were non-white. This team was the face of the new France, the France of the marginalized and alienated and dispossessed. This team was Jean-Marie Le Pen's nightmare.

But in the blink of an eye, the dream was over. Zidane's heroic come-back was halted in its tracks and his team of brilliant misfits and unlikely anti-heroes were finally defeated in a penalty shoot-out that they could not have lost had their talismanic captain still been among them.

Like I said at the outset, it was pure tragedy in the tradition of Athenian theatre. For Zidane, raised as the son of Muslim immigrants on the mean streets of Marseilles, who has received 14 red cards in his illustrious but tempestuous career, wrath has always been his fatal, tragic flaw. As team-mate Thierry Henry has said: "You can take the man out of the rough neighbourhood, but you can't take the rough neighbourhood out of the man."

Tragic as the denoument of the World Cup has been, perhaps the calamitous saga of Zinedine Zidane and his ultimate fall from grace just as he was reaching the pinnacle of glory has taught us the most important lesson of all.

There are no story-book endings in real life.

Zafar Sobhan is Assistant Editor, The Daily Star.