Soccer Empire: The World Cup and the Future of France

PREFACE

Scoring Spirits

WHEN THE REFEREE BLEW HIS WHISTLE much of the globe fell silent. An estimated three billion people watched as the final game of the 2006 World Cup tournament began. The bar in Paris where I was sitting had been loud with conversation moments before. Now we turned as one toward the giant screen set up in the back, hypnotized, suspended in time.

I had followed the first part of the World Cup tournament in Michigan, where the faithful gathered in a university cafeteria to watch the games. Hundreds of Korean students, decked out in red and playing drums, showed up for one game. A handful of Ghanaians draped in flags braved nasty looks from U.S. fans as they cheered their team to victory. Many, though, arrived to watch without a deep commitment to any team. Part of the beauty of the World Cup is the freedom it gives us to choose sides. Especially as the tournament goes on and teams get eliminated, fewer and fewer people can actually root for a home team; most fans have to adopt one. They might opt for a powerhouse like Italy, Argentina, Germany, or Brazil, or lean toward a lesser-known team on an unexpected run, like Senegal or South Korea.

Sometimes the choice is infused with deep meaning and makes a statement about who we are. Sometimes it is just the expression of a fleeting affinity. In the film The Great Match a Touareg in the middle of the Sahara insists that those who surround him to watch the 2002 Brazil-Germany final on his television must root for Germany rather than Brazil. His reason? The good working relationship he once had with a German visitor. The West African migrants in the group are dismayed and refuse to follow the command; they see Brazil as their team. They’re not alone: for decades, in a world of soccer (or, football, as it is called in most of the world and as I will call it here) that is still largely dominated by European professional and national teams, Brazil has carried the hopes of Latin America, Africa, and the Caribbean.¹

I’ve long rooted for another team: France. Though my name is as French as it gets, I was born in Belgium and have lived in the United States since I was three weeks old. So when I root for the French football team, it’s not really about rooting for the French nation. I am rooting for something bigger than that. In contrast to nearly all European teams—the Dutch team has at times been the notable exception—the French team is and has long been a remarkably diverse group. It is a global team, a kind of transcultural republic on the field, whose players have roots in West, Central, and North Africa, the Caribbean, the far-flung Pacific territories, Armenia, and France’s edges in the Basque country and Marseille. Like many other fans of the French team, I see in it the promise of solidarity, tolerance, community, and cooperation. Of course that wouldn’t be enough if we didn’t also like how they played. Luckily the French team often produces matches that leave us breathless, that intoxicate us. At their best, the players offer a triumph of beauty, technique, daring, surprise and elegance.²

The French team, however, can also be alarmingly inconsistent. The team that won the World Cup in 1998 and the European Cup in 2000 fizzled at the 2002 World Cup, where it was eliminated from competition without scoring a single goal. In 2004 two of its most important players, Zinedine Zidane and Lilian Thuram, retired from international competition. In 2006 the French coach convinced the two of them to come back and play for France one last time. But France’s early World Cup games were disappointing. They tied against both South Korea and Switzerland and ended up in a situation where they had to beat Togo by several points to move on to the next round. Thankfully they won the decisive game. I rode my bicycle home that afternoon, belting out the Marseillaise, France’s strident and bloody national anthem, to the empty streets of East Lansing, Michigan. A few days later France defeated Spain. And then, in the quarterfinals, they defeated Brazil. Crossing my fingers that they would win in the semifinal against Portugal, I bought a plane ticket. I would watch the final in Paris.

During the World Cup the globe turns into a giant stadium, but Paris was particularly vibrant the day of the 2006 final. The city hummed with the anticipation that comes from equal parts hope and dread as people prepared to watch their team play. French fans prayed for a national victory, of course, but they hoped just as much that they would watch Zidane—according to one poll the most beloved French citizen—end his remarkable career in the best way possible: holding up the World Cup in triumph. Waiting for the game to start, I wandered through the streets in my France jersey and bought a large, overpriced French flag from a merchant doing brisk business. Among the milling blue-, white-, and red-painted fans I watched the cars roll by flying flags and carrying signs saying, Merci Zizou, Zidane’s oft-chanted nickname. In front of me, along the Seine, a beat-up Citroën came to a stop, and I saw a lanky young man sitting in the backseat, holding a homemade flagpole with two small flags fluttering together: the red-white-and-blue French flag and next to it the Algerian flag, green and white, with its crescent and star. Zidane’s parents had migrated from Algeria to France when Algeria was still a French colony. In 1962, after a brutal war, Algeria won its independence, but Zidane’s parents remained in France. Zinedine Zidane spent his life at the haunted crossroads between the two countries. Flying on the same pole, fluttering against one another, the two flags became a single banner—for Zidane, for the French team, for Algerian France: a dream of reconciliation.

Settled in a bar with friends that night, I watched the opening ceremony, which featured a duet by the Colombian singer Shakira and the Haitianborn Wyclef Jean, who sported the Haitian flag on his shirt and his head. Many Haitians are passionate football fans, but the country has been in the World Cup tournament only once, in 1974. Through his music Wyclef Jean had found another way to give the Haitian flag a prominent spot in the tournament. On the field, meanwhile, gathered the largest group of Caribbean players ever to compete in a World Cup final. Standing at attention for the French national anthem were Thuram, born in the French department of Guadeloupe; Florent Malouda, born in French Guiana; and Eric Abidal, William Gallas, and the star striker Thierry Henry, all born in metropolitan France to parents from either Martinique or Guadeloupe. Several more players of Caribbean background, including Sylvain Wiltord, looked on from the sidelines.

Fans in the French Caribbean have long leaned toward Brazil rather than France, rooting for a team of players they felt best represented them rather than the team of their nation. By the 1990s, however, French Caribbean players were increasingly prominent on the French team, and younger fans from the region began supporting France, sometimes harshly criticizing their parents for continuing to support Brazil. Some pointed out that, especially in 2006, the French team had significantly more black players than the Brazilian team. As France faced Italy in the final the difference in the makeup of the teams was even more striking. It was as if two totally different visions of Europe were represented on the field. Almost all of the players for France had roots in the Caribbean or Africa and shared a history of empire and global exchange. Unlike France, of course, Italy never had an expansive empire in Africa, Asia, and the Americas; still, there are increasing numbers of immigrants, notably from its one-time colony in Ethiopia and North and West Africa, in Italy today. Nearly all players on the Italian team, however, have family roots in Italy, although—as has long been the case—a few have links to Italian communities outside Europe, notably in Argentina.

Just after France and Italy faced off, the French forward Thierry Henry was knocked to the ground in a rough collision with an Italian player. The next minutes were confused, physical, a little ugly. Then the referee called a foul against the Italian team after Florent Malouda either was tripped (according to French fans) or dove dramatically after having lightly touched the foot of a defender (according to Italian fans) in front of the Italian goal. Zidane stepped up to take the penalty kick. Through years of play he has scored countless such kicks, usually by sending the ball streaking into the net. This time, however, he sent the ball flying up toward the goal’s upper post. It spun off and downward, right behind the Italian goalie, Gianluigi Buffon. Amazingly, in the most important football competition in the world, he had scored a penalty kick in the most risky and theatrical way possible, with what is called a panenka, after Antonín Panenka, a Czech footballer who in 1976 scored a vital penalty kick by chipping the ball over the goalkeeper into the center of the net. It was as if Zidane was playing around, showing off in an afternoon pickup game with friends, teasing the goalie for fun. He’s mad! the elated French goalkeeper Fabien Barthez shouted to the sky as he watched Zidane score.

France held the lead with one point, but not for long. Soon after Zidane’s goal, Marco Materazzi headed the ball past the French goaltender off a corner kick. And then, to those of us watching, hypnotized, all around the world, the game went on. And on. Seemingly endlessly. France shone, playing the smooth and fluid football they’re capable of at their best. But they didn’t score. And still they didn’t score. And neither did the Italian team. By the end of regulation time all the players were clearly exhausted. Just watching them was exhausting. Thuram held together the French defense, as he had done in the semifinal game against Portugal. Zidane fought, sweating, his shoulder aching from a tangle earlier in the game, his captain’s band hanging limply on his arm, where he kept fidgeting with it. Then he sent a header toward the Italian goal. It looked for a breathtaking second like it might be a replay of 1998, when Zidane scored a header against Brazil that put his team in the lead, followed by another later in the game. But Buffon made an amazing, reaching save and tapped the ball over the top of the goal. We screamed, looking up to the sky in desperation, and so did Zidane. Again, no goal.

A few minutes later Marco Materazzi tugged lightly at Zidane’s shirt. Zidane spoke briefly to the Italian defender and started to walk away. But Materazzi called out a string of insults.

FIGURE 1. Zidane during the latter phases of the France-Italy World Cup final, 9 July 2006. Bob Thomas/Bob Thomas Sports Photography/Getty Images.

Later, looking back on the event, the next moment seemed to happen out of time. But as it occurred, those of us watching on television and even fans in the stadium saw none of it. The ball was elsewhere on the field. When the game stopped, we didn’t know why. Then they showed the replay.

As Materazzi continued to bait the Frenchman, Zidane turned around, took a few quick, careful paces, and head-butted the Italian in the chest full force. Materazzi went flying to the ground.

Silence, disbelief, then groans filled the bar where I sat stunned. A few young men cheered, impressed. Zidane’s action seemed to strike them as a moment of real and instant justice, a rarity in the world.³ On the field, after a few confused minutes, the referee held up a red card, banishing Zidane from the game. For his final exit, he walked briskly past the World Cup trophy, looking down. As he sat alone in the locker room, Italy defeated France in penalty kicks. While the Italian team celebrated, Lilian Thuram waved to French fans, tears in his eyes, the last French player on the field.

Paris was as if in a daze. On the metro two teenage boys hugged, one of them crying. I walked for a long time that night, so visibly stricken that several people stopped to give me pep talks, saying that it was okay, that there would be another World Cup, that France had played well, gone further than anyone expected. Everywhere in the city strangers consoled each other. One even uttered that seemingly reasonable but truly nonsensical attempt at consolation often heard by football fans, telling me that it was just a game. I walked past the Hôtel de Ville, where a crowd of triumphant Italy fans gathered, huddled or leaping for joy. Some passersby looked on good-naturedly; others shouted Fuck you!—in Italian, to make sure they were understood.

I barely slept and then woke up in a depressing place indeed: Paris the day after France lost the World Cup. But, really, I was lucky. At least I wasn’t alone, back home, being teased by friends who rooted for Italy. I had plenty of company for my misery. As the day went on, though, I noticed something. Though many people were mourning—I spoke with one woman who had tears in her eyes—most people were talking about Zidane. And his head. And the amazing way he sent Materazzi to the ground. And why he did it. And what Materazzi must have said to make him do it. And whether he was right to have done it. People were talking, even laughing in amazement, pondering right and wrong, insult and dignity, violence and responsibility. And all around me people—not everyone, of course, but still a lot of people—were gradually realizing, as I was, that they were captivated, even thrilled by Zidane’s head-butt.

Many saw Zidane’s action as a disappointing, even tragic ending to his career, lamenting that in allowing himself to be provoked by Materazzi he stupidly fell for the oldest trick in the book. Others condemned it as an inexcusable offense against the core ethics of the sport. But such interpretations didn’t sit well with everyone. Indeed many rushed to defend Zidane, and even to celebrate him for what he did, usually assuming that he was the victim of a racist insult that required a dramatic response. In Paris and throughout the world, as people heatedly debated what had happened they projected their own fears, phantasms, and hopes on the head-butt. Indeed the French term for head-butt, coup de boule —literally strike with a ball, the ball in this case being a human head—suddenly became a shorthand and a symbol.

Zidane left us with an offering. He exited the global theater of the World Cup by giving us his own, striking, answer to a universal question: What does it mean to face an insult? In doing so, he spurred millions of conversations, agreements, and disagreements, governed by endless returns to the game and to his final act on the field. A good number of the three billion people who had seen the coup de boule had an opinion about it—often a strong one—and felt compelled to analyze it, talk about it, moralize or joke or celebrate it. In France the discussion of the head-butt—impassioned, diverse, at turns comical and dead serious—powerfully illustrated how football can both condense and propel larger political debates. Less than a year earlier a massive, month-long insurrection had broken out in poor banlieue neighborhoods throughout the country. Young protesters, many of them the children and grandchildren of immigrants, were enraged by the police brutality and demanded that French society respect their rights as citizens. Zidane had grown up the child of Algerian immigrants in such a neighborhood. In a France still reeling from the riots, many interpreted his coup de boule in relation to the ongoing struggle over the legacies of empire and the place of immigrants born of that empire in French society.

Drawn into the national and global conversation Zidane started, I read everything I could about the history of football in France. As a historian, I’ve spent the past fifteen years studying the history of the French Empire in the Caribbean and beyond, and I had seen only passing references to the place of football within that history. But once I started looking I discovered that football—a bit like Woody Allen’s Zelig—was everywhere. It shaped and was shaped by all of the major transformations of the twentieth century, from World War I and World War II to the brutal conflicts over decolonization. A Frenchman, Jules Rimet, established the World Cup in 1930, when the French Empire was at its height, and administrators and teachers in the colonies did what they could to spread the sport, seeing it as a perfect way to diffuse Western ideals among the colonized. But they could never control football. It spread with startling speed in the colonies, notably in Algeria and the French Caribbean, and often became a vehicle for anticolonial protest. As early as the 1930s France’s professional teams were recruiting players from the colonies, especially North and West Africa. Zidane and Thuram, I realized, were part of a long athletic tradition in which empire shaped generations of French football. The history of football illuminates the complexities of colonial rule and anticolonial resistance in the French Empire, as well as all that came in between. And returning to that history helps us understand how and why this sport has created its own empire, which shapes the experiences and perspectives of vast numbers of people.

This book focuses on the history of France and its empire, especially Algeria and the Caribbean, in order to tell a larger story about the link between football and politics. Throughout the world football teams become symbols for towns, regions, or countries to rally around, and games become opportunities for people to celebrate and perform their allegiance to a particular place. But precisely because people identify so intensely with teams and make links between teams and something bigger—a town, a nation, a history—football also serves to crystallize and condense questions, debates, and conflicts about the collectives that teams represent. When a team takes to the field, fans say, They are us, and we are them. But sometimes that can also force a question: Who are they? And who are we?

Football makes icons, and many fans develop a tight, even mystical connection with their sporting heroes. I focus on two of the most important French football icons, Zidane and Thuram, following their exploits both on and off the field. Both were born in 1972 and grew up on the edges of French society, subject to marginalization and racism, and despite their dizzying rise to stardom and wealth, they have never been totally free from those forces. Through their victories and defeats on and off the field, they have both exposed and challenged the forms of exclusion that shape French society. Starting in 1996 and through the World Cup of 2006, their presence on the field generated perhaps the most widespread and sustained public conversations about the topic of race in France in decades. With their teammates—including the Ghana-born Marcel Desailly; Christian Karembeu, born in the French Pacific territory of New Caledonia; and Thierry Henry, whose parents are from the French Caribbean—they have performed miracles on the football field, inspiring the French to dream of political miracles that could transform society and truly fulfill the promises of equality that form the bedrock of France’s Republican political culture. Perhaps most important, they have also pushed people to do the work necessary for such promises to be fulfilled, to grapple with the past of empire and its many effects on the present. On the turf, Zidane and Thuram have been bearers of an uncomfortable history, both soothing and reviving the wounds left by that history.

In early versions of football, players kept track of goals by scoring lines into the goalposts with something sharp, such as a rock picked up on the field, leaving a permanent mark of what they had achieved. Because of the practice, people began referring to making a goal as scoring. As he prepared to play in the World Cup Final against Italy in 2006, Zidane described to his teammates what they should do on the field that night: Il faut marquer des buts en marquant les esprits. The beauty of the phrase revolves around the double meaning of the word marquer, meaning to score but also to mark or to leave an impression. Likewise, the word esprit means more than spirit, combining mind, spirit, heart, and even soul in one. The goal of the players, Zidane declared, should be to pursue victory by playing beautifully, scoring the spirits of those who watched. They should strive to leave an imprint deeper than a victory, so deep that it cannot be erased.⁴

Introduction

The Language of Happiness

IN 1953, AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN, Small Zidane left his village in the French colony of Algeria, heading north. He traveled to Paris, where he found a job at a construction site in Saint-Denis, a suburb famous for an abbey church that houses the tombs of generations of French kings. Unable to find lodging, he spent the winter nights on the ground near where he worked. He remembers the day he received his first paycheck: I experienced the first real happiness I had since arriving in France. That day, I didn’t feel the cold anymore. He sent most of his earnings back home to his parents. Soon he met other men from his village, and together they rented a small room in Saint-Denis. They were among hundreds of thousands of colonial workers who helped rebuild France in the wake of World War II.¹

A year after Smaïl left home, a bloody anticolonial uprising began in Algeria. A political organization called the Front de Libération Nationale (F.L.N.) launched a series of attacks in Algiers. In 1955 the French declared martial law, rounding up thousands of men and using torture to crush the insurrection. Many Algerian laborers in metropolitan France supported the F.L.N., which soon instituted a revolutionary tax, collected by its operatives in the shantytowns where the workers lived. In 1958 a group of well-known professional football players from Algeria sneaked out of France and gathered in Tunisia to create an F.L.N. football team. Traveling to Eastern Europe and Asia, they used the sport as a weapon of war, a tool of diplomacy, and an act of political imagination. When the team played, the flag of the revolutionary movement was raised and its anthem sung, and imagining that Algeria would one day be independent became a little bit easier.

Three years later the F.L.N. carried out a series of deadly attacks against police in France. The government declared a state of emergency in early October, banning Algerians from meeting and circulating at night and allowing police to search their homes at any time and without a warrant. On 17 October 1961 twenty thousand to thirty thousand Algerian men, women, and children marched into Paris from the shantytowns outside the city to protest the curfew. The demonstration was peaceful, but the Paris police chief organized a fierce response. As columns of protestors approached the center of the city, the police brutally attacked the crowd. They threw into the Seine the bodies of demonstrators they had beaten unconscious or to death. In some parts of Paris bodies were piled up in the streets. The police detained fourteen thousand demonstrators, holding them in stadiums on the edge of the city. Some were also kept in an athletic facility, the Palais des Sports, though they were moved elsewhere after a few days so that French fans of soul music could enjoy a concert by Ray Charles. Many were beaten, and more were killed, while in custody. For days afterward bodies of demonstrators washed up along the banks of the Seine. Seared into the memory of witnesses, the truth of the massacres of October 1961 was nevertheless carefully suppressed by French officials, unacknowledged and uninvestigated for decades. The killings remained a kind of subterranean haunting that many remembered privately but few spoke about publicly. Only relatively recently, through books, trials, and the popular film Caché, has the memory of these killings been publicly excavated.²

Smaïl Zidane lived in Saint-Denis at the time, and the French police’s brutality could have been on his mind when, after Algeria gained its independence in 1962, he decided to go home. But he never made it back to Algeria. On the way he stopped in Marseille, where he visited relatives and met a young woman from his village named Malika. The two quickly fell in love. They married and settled in Marseille, eventually living in the neighborhood of Castellane, to the north of the city. With Algeria’s independence in 1962 they were transformed from French colonial subjects into Algerian citizens, and they remained in France as foreigners. They had five children in France. The youngest of them, born in 1972, they named Zinedine.

Six months earlier, in Guadeloupe, Mariana Thuram had a child she named Lilian. The island of Guadeloupe is largely populated by the descendants of slaves brought there from Africa by the French to work on sugar plantations. Mariana Thuram, like many others in the Caribbean, still worked the cane, even as she carried Lilian, and when she wasn’t in the fields she worked as a domestic servant to make ends meet. When Lilian was eight, Mariana decided to join a stream of migrants leaving the islands for metropolitan France. So Lilian Thuram grew up in a banlieue (suburb) to the south of Paris. Both Zinedine and Lilian were avid and talented football players, and as teenagers were recruited to football academies. When they met for the first time, it was at tryouts for the French national team.

Since the 1950s, when Zidane’s father worked there, the town of Saint-Denis has mushroomed into one of Paris’s many large banlieues. Pocked with concrete projects, it is home to immigrants from North and West Africa and to their children and grandchildren. Looming over the town, not far from its ancient abbey church, is another, newer temple: a football stadium called the Stade de France, built to host the 1998 World Cup. Though the tournament began with worry about rowdy crowds and disinterest in the tournament on the part of much of the population, as victory followed victory, people began to rally around their team. In a riveting semifinal game against Croatia, Thuram scored two miraculous goals to secure France a place in the final. A few days later, on 13 July 1998, Zidane scored two goals against the widely favored Brazilian team to win for France its first World Cup.

Paris erupted in a massive celebration. The city projected Zidane’s face on Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe, and chants of Zidane Président! echoed through the streets. Older residents remembered only one event that compared: the liberation of Paris from the Germans in 1944. For a few days it felt as if France was a unified, joyful, hopeful nation—a nation capable of anything, even overcoming the racism rooted in its colonial past. Politicians, journalists, and intellectuals rushed to celebrate the victory, often proclaiming that it signaled the dawn of a new era in French political and social life. The team, they declared enthusiastically, represented the possibilities of the collaboration of white and black, immigrant and native born. It signaled the birth of a new French identity that, like the French flag, brought together three colors: black, white, and beur —the last a term describing children of North African immigrants. It showed France what it could be: a nation free from racial divisions and conflict, a nation that gained strength from its diversity.

In the next eight years such hopes came to seem utopian. The far-right Front National party led by Jean-Marie Le Pen, whose platform claimed that immigration was destroying France, attracted many voters. The banlieue neighborhoods, where the majority of immigrants and their children and grandchildren live, festered in continued poverty and isolation, frequently exploding into insurrection, most powerfully in November 2005. In the wake of those riots Thuram spoke up on behalf of young banlieue residents, attacking the government and reminding people about the ways the history of empire and ongoing racism had created France’s contemporary problems. When the football team took to the field in the summer of 2006, France couldn’t help but be reminded of its complicated past or its conflicted present. Seventeen of twenty-three players on the team that year came from families with roots in West or North Africa, the Indian Ocean, or the French Caribbean. And nearly all of the players had grown up in the banlieue areas of France, still smoldering from the previous year’s uprising.

Le Pen attacked the team—as he had once before, in 1996—for having too many players of color. For Le Pen the diversity of the French team was a distressing symbol of how immigration was changing the face of France. It also, of course, put him in an interesting bind. Whom should he root for: his country, represented by a team that challenged everything he believed, or, in an act of shocking disloyalty, the other team? Like the runners John Carlos and Tommie Smith, who famously raised their fists in a salute to black power as they received their medals for the United States in the 1968 Olympics, the French team simultaneously represented and challenged the nation.

When Zidane and Thuram stepped onto the field for the 2006 World Cup final, they entered the largest theater that has ever existed in human history. This has been true for every World Cup for several decades, and it will be true again in 2010, when teams and fans from throughout the world pour into South Africa, assured that they will witness a dramatic new chapter in history unfolding. The competition is now the largest sporting event in the world, surpassing even the Olympics in the size of its audience, crystallizing political conflicts and hopes, and creating a seemingly endless and inexhaustible site into which people have pumped their hatreds and phantasms, not to mention their money.

Today there is no sport more popular and powerful in its global reach, or more tightly linked to international politics, than football. Indeed football may well be the most universal language that currently exists, its empire more extensive than that of any political or religious ideology. The only denominator common to all people, the only universal Esperanto, one enthusiast wrote in 1954, is football …What? A game has done what the cardinal virtues, laws, and modern science have not? Yes! Football was a world language, whose grammar is unchanging from the North Pole to the Equator, its worldwide influence predicated on the fact that it is spoken in each corner of the globe with a particular accent. If that was already largely true in 1954, it is even more so today, as boosters of the sport, notably the powerful international football organization F.I.F.A. (Fédération Internationale de Football Association), constantly remind us. Our planet is now saturated with professional and international football: from individual games, to proliferating tournaments and regional and continental competitions, to, increasingly, international competitions for youth and women’s teams.³

The World Cup, however, remains the defining competition for the sport. Its games focus national hopes on a vivid drama. Novelists and filmmakers often struggle to transform individual characters into symbols of a larger collective. But for its fervent fans, a national football team really is the nation, at least for a time. An athlete can instantly become a national icon after even one play on the field. When this happens, the accident of his biography, of the story that brought him to the crucial moment when he changed the course of a game, and therefore history, become charged with larger meaning. At such moments football produces a crossroads between personal history and national history that illuminates and shapes the language and practice of politics.⁴

Indeed in the midst of a World Cup the choices made by football players can seem much more significant than the actions of elected politicians. Writing about the 1966 World Cup in England, which unfolded in the shadow of a government crisis linked to the state of the economy, Alastair Reid recalls, Breaking open the morning papers and reading banner headlines like ‘England in trouble’ our hearts would sink for a while until, after a closer glance, we found that they applied merely to the state of the economy and not, as we first feared, to the football team.⁵

What is it about football that generates such passions, transforming what detractors identify as an artificially constructed and futile game, dominated by and infused with capital and accused of corruption and corporate influence, into a terrain of political passion, utopian longing, and philosophical reflection? To answer this question, we need to think about the form of football itself. On the one hand, the stage of football (and other sports) seems the ultimate embodiment of the promises of egalitarian meritocracy, a place where the mythological promise that any individual, of any background, can succeed if he or she is talented and disciplined enough, can actually come true. As such, the field of play condenses the broader, often diffuse promise of a certain kind of liberal democratic society into a spectacular physical drama. At the same time, however, it also foregrounds a potentially conflicting necessity for collective action, in which players often need to efface themselves, passing the ball to someone in a better position rather than seeking to score themselves. Just as important, the game also constantly highlights the basic and disturbing truth that life is, with stunning consistency, completely unfair. Football is, after all, notoriously unpredictable, a realm of constant surprise. The ball, as anyone who has played knows, fully obeys no one, even those who would seem to be its absolute masters. And because games are often won or lost on the basis of a few points, mistakes matter dramatically.⁶

So does the role of the referee, whose instant and irreversible decisions often determine a game’s outcome. Referees make split-second decisions without the benefit of video replay. They interpret the flow of the game, since they are allowed to ignore a foul if they determine that to call one would disadvantage the attacking team. But players well know that the referees often are unable to fully see what has happened, and that they inhabit a flawed system of justice. Trickery and playacting are therefore a crucial and time-honored part of the game, and many fans deeply appreciate the ability of a player to get an advantageous call, whether or not it is deserved. It often seems as if nearly every call and decision by the referee is the subject of some kind of protest at the time, from fans or players. Many calls become the subject of intense debate after the game, and some particularly pivotal decisions are lamented for decades. Each football match, then, produces an unending field of interpretation, not only about talent and success, but also about justice and injustice, fate and luck, fakery and virtue. It is a drama of fortune in the world, and as such it opens up enormously diverse possibilities for narrative and symbolism.⁷

No matter how lopsided the matchup, you can never be sure what will happen in a game. French football fans of an earlier generation, as one scholar notes, vividly recall how this truth came home in 1957, when a small football club from the town of El Baïr, a suburb of Algiers, defeated the Stade de Reims, then one of France’s greatest teams, in a knockout game of the French Cup competition. It is also a particularly unstable game, in which the score is often tied through large portions of a match, which heightens the stress and intensity of the experience of watching.⁸

All of this makes for a particularly riveting form of theater. Indeed one French theater director wrote in 2006 that she couldn’t help feeling jealous upon realizing that football was a new theatre that makes entire crowds hum with emotion and passion. The sport had replaced her profession, brilliantly evoking the drama of the larger society as theater once had done among the ancient Romans and Greeks. Lilian Thuram also thinks of a football match as a theatrical performance that begins with a magical ritual. It is unforgettable, he writes, to walk out of the locker room, down the hallway, and out onto the field to be greeted with shouts and applause…. It’s the unchanging prologue to a play that lasts ninety minutes, performed with the greatest improvisation imaginable.⁹

Over the years the theater of football has been invested with great hopes. Jules Rimet, a French veteran of World War I and the founder of the World Cup, envisioned an international tournament that would create communication and collaboration between nations, who could meet on the field of play rather than the field of battle. Others shared this vision. In 1938 a journalist in France wrote that the competition could civilize conflicts and even help to solve the great problem of our times, peace. Another suggested that it was possible to see the tournament as a kind of active, living United Nations, inspired by a common idea and subjected to universal, formal rules accepted and respected by all. Football certainly didn’t bring peace in the bloody decades that followed. But it has become a deeply powerful force in politics, a place where nations take shape in the form of eleven players on the field, and where the hopes of these nations are worked out on a green rectangle surrounded by white lines.¹⁰

Soccer is never just soccer: it helps make wars and revolutions, and it fascinates mafias and dictators, writes Simon Kuper as he embarks on a journey that highlights the fusion of football and politics from Cameroon to Scotland. For Franklin Foer, meanwhile, football literally explains the world, helping us to understand the formation of identities and the complexities of globalization.¹¹ Football has many, often contradictory and even ambiguous effects, just as globalization does. As some walls come down, others go up. If some people move around the world more easily than ever, others are stopped at the border or forced into increasingly deadly attempts to cross it. In today’s world football crosses and even seems to erase some barriers. At the same time it also helps to deepen and sometimes even create differences and barriers. What makes the sport particularly powerful, though, is its unpredictability, the space for maneuver and improvisation it allows fans and players, many of whom, notably Zidane and Thuram, are many things at once, occupying shifting positions, taking on multiple affiliations, in the fields of both football and politics.

In his classic book on cricket in the West Indies, C. L. R. James famously described how sport is always much more than a game. The social and political passions of the islands in the early twentieth century, he wrote, were fiercely expressed through cricket. Indeed the sport was a kind of apprenticeship for the political activism to which James devoted much of his life: Cricket had plunged me into politics long before I was aware of it. When I did turn to politics I did not have too much to learn. Apolitical sport does not exist, the scholar Youssef Fatès has argued more recently. Athletes who compete internationally are told, with justification, that they are ambassadors for their country, and often that they represent a certain economic or social system as well. The ceremony of sport, with its raising of colors, the resounding of national anthems, is a condensation of politics, in which athletes become true living flags. Writing about the 2008 Olympics in the New Yorker, Anthony Lane put the point more succinctly, describing the attempt to keep politics out of sport as being as futile as trying to keep the sweat out of sex.¹²

In fact in many places, notably France, the nation exists as a widely shared and performed symbolic form only thanks to international football games. As in neighboring Germany, nationalist symbols in France are relatively rare and even regarded with justifiable suspicion by many citizens. But football unleashes an effusion of body painting, flag waving and draping, anthem singing, and general celebration. Football has produced the most significant moments of national unity and public celebration in France during the past decades. Precisely for this reason the commentary and celebration that surround football have delved deep into the question of what France is, what it has been, and what it can