Zidane's headbutt: the real moment that made a great man lose his cool
The Times
July 21, 2006
By Ed Smith
IN BARS, living rooms and sports clubs all around the world, the same question has been bouncing around: what was he doing? How could Zinédine Zidane, with his greatness assured and a 1998 World Cup medal already in the cabinet, do that? How could a veteran of 108 caps lose his rag minutes before the final whistle of his career? What happened to the coolness that enabled him earlier in the match to chip a penalty past Gianluigi Buffon, the Italy goalkeeper, with such insouciance?
Zizou’s head-butt raised broader questions, too: can a great legacy be tarnished by a single moment of madness? And in the era of the constantly rolling news story, can the paying public simply keep demanding new chapters until we finally come across an ending that we like?
In his subsequent interview, Zidane apologised for being a poor example to children but denied regretting his actions. We can never be sure what Marco Materazzi said to Zidane, nor exactly what made Zidane snap. But I am not convinced by the conventional wisdom that Zidane could have been provoked to end his final match in disgrace by an insult to his family.
Scratch a brilliant sportsman deeply enough and you reach a layer of self-certainty in his own destiny. The greater the sportsman, usually the more convinced he is of his own predestined greatness.
The big stage means it must be his stage, victory has been prearranged, it is his destiny to win the World Cup or the Olympics or the Ashes. He thinks it is inevitable that he can decisively influence the occasion. That is why champion teams often have a talismanic force — someone who believes the match, the day or the championship is set up in accordance with his own destiny. His self-belief radiates to his team.
Zidane had exactly that quality. When France needed something special, he believed he would do it. It is a truism that the best players always seem to have more time. By the time you — a team-mate, opponent or fan — have finished asking, “What the hell is he going to do now?” the champion player has stolen a head start.
In extra time of the World Cup final, with Thierry Henry substituted, France looked almost exclusively to Zidane. We can be sure Zidane shared that view. He had taken France to the final, and now France needed him to win it. One last moment of predestined brilliance was all that he needed.
And he did it. In the 104th minute a cross was delivered, and Zidane’s soaring header sailed inevitably towards the top of the goal. Just as Steve Waugh did by reaching his century in the last over of the day in his final Ashes Test at Sydney, Zidane had once again subordinated the day’s narrative into his own. Played two World Cup finals, won two — scored twice both times. As it was meant to be.
Having complied with Zidane’s will thus far, the gods finally made a mistake. Buffon made an inspired save in response to an inspired header. What followed was the most revealing and desperate image of the World Cup as Zidane’s face contorted into an agonised scream. This should not have happened, cannot have happened, must not be allowed to stand.
Having come this far with him, how could the gods now abandon him? But they went their own way, and left Zidane in solitary despair — as they eventually do to everyone, even Muhammad Ali and Sir Don Bradman.
Which would weigh more heavily on a champion’s mood — a verbal insult to his family (the kind of insult that sportsmen nearly always manage to ignore) or being denied, in a state of physical and mental exhaustion, what he considered to be rightfully his: the winning goal, the perfect narrative, his destiny as a two-goal double World Cup winner? The greater the inflation of a champion’s willpower, the greater the deflation when it is punctured. Zidane’s deflation, like his career as a whole, was on an epic scale.
It was a narrative we disliked almost as much as Zidane hated it. Of course there was a moral dimension to people’s disappointment — the hero with feet of clay. But something is more dear to us even than heroes, and that is the perfect story. The audience, like a Hollywood studio editing a film, want a change of ending. But though the soap opera can continue, the imprint in history is made. Deep down Zidane knows that. So should we.