Farewell, dear Zizou

Hi everybody!! Here are a couple of pictures from Sokcho Beach, which is where I went last weekend with some friends. It was cool and rainy all weekend, which was kind of a bummer. Pictured in the group are Barb, Gina, Steph, Bryan, and Andrew. You can also spot Pam in the distance pondering life. In the other picture, I wanted to capture the horizon, but got the bonus of capturing a profile of Gina's mug. The weekend was fun, and I wanted to show these pictures. However, the pictures are completely unrelated to the subject of today's entry.

Of course, I'm going to talk about the World Cup. While I had a great month, I'm happy it's over so I can go back to having some semblance of normalcy. With so many 4am games to watch, the last four weeks have been physically grueling, so this week I'm picking up the pieces and recovering. I'm also devoting some much needed attention to the blog, as I will make up for the lost time.

On Saturday evening, someone asked me who I was rooting for to win the final, to which I replied: "France." Why France?? One reason only: Zinedine Zidane. I told my friend that I was pulling for Zizou as he was retiring after the cup and that I had always admired the dignity and class he displayed as much as his phenomenal skill. I had told Bryan the weekend before (when we watched a masterful Zidane lead Les Bleus past the juggernaut Brazilians) that watching an in-form Zizou play would be like watching Picasso paint. He displays a brand of unique genius, grace, and artistry that only comes along once in a generation.

As I watched the final at Hoki's last night, with my Australian friend Sacha, I told him that I had felt a little sad watching a brilliant Zidane play against Portugal with the knowledge that it be no more after the final. As I watched the game, I was thinking of all the superlatives I would use in this entry. I thought of the time earlier this year when I watched a skills competition involving many star European players. One of the competitions was 30 meter free kicks, which was when an interesting and poignant moment occurred. While Zizou was lined up to take his kick, a young boy slipped past security and ran on to the field and up to the star player just to touch him. Zidane didn't walk off and leave the boy to security. Instead he put his arm around the boy and talked to him, which will undoubtedly be a story the boy tells the rest of his life. I felt that moment was emblematic of the sincerity and class that I've always seen from this athlete.

As the game went on, I was shaking my head in awe of the transcendent first touch of this truly special player. After he nearly de-pantsed the greatest goalie in the world on a feather-light penalty kick that kissed the post as it crossed the goal line, I remarked to Sacha that I admired the manner in which this man celebrates his goals. I'd never seen him pull his shirt over his head, or run to the corner flag tugging his jersey. He simply raised one arm, then turned around and jogged back to the half line. It's like when the NFL's great Barry Sanders would hand the ball to the referee non-chalantly after scoring a dazzling touchdown--soft-spoken greatness.

I had many of these kinds of thoughts and sentiments as the game went into overtime, with Zidane still playing with fire and his unique skill. And then... it happened. I'm certain everyone knows what I'm talking about without my having to re-cap the incident here. I'll just say this much: It made me think of a very classy player back home named Andy Stann. (The few people who get that will find it hilarious.) While I was very disappointed with and bewildered by Zizou's incident, it made me realize that he is human. For as cool as he is 98 percent of the time, occasionally the great Zidane has lost his head; and boy, did he ever lose it in the final!

I don't believe this incident cost France the final, but it would be a shame if this is what Z.Z. is remembered for. Personally, I'll remember him for the '98 final rather than this one. The real reason for France's losing the game was a cruel jinx perpetrated by yours truly. As David Trezeguet stepped up to the spot during penalty kicks, I turned to Sacha and announced: "He's going to hit the post." The rest, as they say, is history.

Oh well. At least I can say I'm happy for Salvatore and his brother Vincenzo back in St. Louis. Congratulations, fellas.