When Zizou Head Butted the World Cup...!!

Dear Zizou

The headlines were asking this everywhere, so I'll ask now.
Why?

I have a dirty habit. I often think up blog posts about an event before it actually happens; a head start, so to speak. While Shakira and Wycleff were up there on stage gyrating, I had it all planned out in my head.

There was a post about the beauty of sport, the glory of it. I'd thrown in a bit about emotions and something about sport as a panacea. My personal favorite part was the one about how this World Cup's been like a movie; Two embattled teams, one reeling under the allegations of match-fixing and the other marching back from a nightmare slump that saw them sink to the worst title defence in the history of the tournament, those two teams coming together, against all odds, to play this epic final game at the very place Hitler desecrated by his very presence and Jesse Owen consecrated by his.

Heck, I even threw in a rousing finale about those two teams standing there at the start, thousands of people in the stands, millions, no, billions of people across the world watching and how players managed not to be over-whelmed by the occasion.

And now here I am, writing this piece of emo tripe instead. So I'll ask again, not as an accuser, not as somebody demanding an explanation, but just as a guy bringing you a stiff drink and asking you if you want to talk about it.

Why man, why?

Before the final , a friend asked me who I was rooting for. You want to know who I was rooting for Z? Argentina. But hey, we all know what happened to them, so I said "You know what, I'm not really *rooting* for anyone because I like both teams so I'm just looking forward to a good game." "Nah" said my friend. "That's not how it works. Say I put a gun to your head and said you had to choose. Then what?" In that case, I said, France. I mean, Allez and all that right? You know why I said France?Because I figured if I had to choose, I may as well choose to see Zinadine Zidane's last hurrah.

And here we are now, at the end. You played a beautiful game man, you were good... you were fucking Disco.

And then, right before my eyes, my proposed post on the glory of sport turned into one about the folly of rage. To nick (and bastardize) what Steve Waugh told Herschelle Gibbs at the Cricket World Cup of 1999, "you just head-butted the world cup son."

How'd it feel? Did you hear a rib break? More importantly, did you hear the heartbreak? What a career you've had man, what a career. You're damn near peerless, if France wanted an Olympic gold medal at the 100 meters dash, all they have to do is enter your name in the event and put a ball in front of you at the starting line, you're just that sort of talisman.

I'll get the crucifixtion out of the way; I don't know whether you lost France the World Cup, I don't know how it would have gone down with you still in the game and I sure as hell don't think I've seen a stupider move in my life.

And now the friendly hug; you had a bad moment. Its ok, you'll live. Sure, you picked pretty much the worst time in the world to have that moment, but yeah, you had a moment. One of those where the brain goes into temporary shutdown, the emotion gets insane, and you did what you did. S'ok, we've all been there. Ok, so not THERE as in the Olympiastadium in Berlin at the World Cup final, but we've all had our meltdown moments.

I'm not going to lie to you. We're going to debate this one at coffee houses and bars, we're going to get drunk and call you the filthiest expletives, we're going to tear you to pieces. Just, you know, try not to take it personally.

Because you're still the man. Because for that one horrible moment, you've given us a billion beautiful ones. Because you're Zizou. I'm just sorry you blew your last hurrah. Now if only we could know why.

Yours sincerely.
Krishna.

P.S: Stripping away the consequences, ramifications and stupidity of the moment, I have to give you one thing. As a one on one, guy versus guy thing... that was pretty fucking badass. Get yourself a copy of the replay and check out the look on his face as he goes down. I hope you followed up with the French version of "How do you like THEM apples...bitch."

P.P.S: I also forgot to tell you, dear Z, that after France lost, a friend of mine who was supporting Italy made fun of me. I did the mature thing and head-butted the fucker in the chest. You got a red card for your efforts, I got a chilled Bacardi Breezer. (And, I think, a mild concussion)