In 2006 I was traveling from Paris to Rotterdam on Thalys, back from a botched shoot. It was the night of the World Cup final, and Italy were playing France. The announcement screens had been cheering on “les bleus” all day. Then, as the train left, at 6.20 PM, the streets were eerily silent. The bar where I had a last coffee before going home, was preparing for the game: a widescreen TV was being installed and everyone was in an expectant, festive mood. Zinedine Zidane, tormented genius of French football had looked like a shadow of himself during the early part of the tournament. Then, after the quarter finals, a change seemed to come over him, and he looked eager, quick to the ball. The radio was on in the Thalys bar, but I was traveling “comfort 1st” and so had no need to go there. Then, cellphones chimed, people were getting texts. I was getting one too, from D.: zidane headbutted materazzi, he’s been sent off. Italy won. This was Zizou’s very last game, which ended with his disgrace and fall from glory (”Oh no! Not this, Zinedine, not this, not now, not today, not after all that you’ve accomplished. Not this”). But it did lead to a great song, that summer.