On this day 21 years ago, France won the FIFA World Cup for the first time in their history, beating Brazil 3-0 in the final. That day and indeed the duration of the month long tournament bring back so many fond memories for me. It was then that I became a fan of the French national team and my deep love for sport was awakened. It was then as well when I felt aware for the first time the connection I had with my dad.
In the lead up to the final Brazil were the heavy favourites and expected to beat the hosts and retain their title they won 4 years previously. France were the underdogs, they’d seen good days in the 80s but wouldn’t have been considered a powerhouse of the sport in 1998. Brazil had team filled with household names such Rivaldo, Dunga and Ronaldo, the most prolific and clinical striker anywhere. It was a forgone conclusion they’d be champions for the 5th time in Paris.
I watched that final at home with my family and it was the first one for me. I’d seen pictures of previous finals and could remember the one moment that stuck with me when Brazil won their title against Italy in 1994. For a reason I don’t know, the enduring memory of that match wasn’t the Brazilians running onto the pitch afterwards and joyously embracing one another or of them lifting the trophy. It remains with me to this day and that memory was of Italy’s Roberto Baggio walking up to take the decisive penalty and hitting it over the bar. I think it might be that I’ve always seen happy people in sport but that was the first time in my young life that I’d seen the extreme end of the spectrum of emotions that sport is able to rouse. I remember the cameras showing Baggio hanging his head after the miss and then later breaking out in tears. I couldn’t understand why something like that would make a grown man cry. I’ve been guilty of elevating sport sometimes in the past. At the end of the day, it’s just a game. But I do think that it’s incredible that it can bring out the best in people and how it can make you feel every feeling that you are capable of feeling. Baggio’s miss was the first time I saw that.
Watching my first final in real time was something of a treat for me. To be honest, I don’t remember much about that game except for one of the two goals Zinedine Zidane headed in. But it could be that I’ve seen it many times since then as I grew older. What remains with me is the people I was in the room with on that evening. I remember being with my dad, mother, uncle and older cousin, Baphiwe. It was way past my bedtime but I was allowed to stay up with my brother. It was so much fun to be in a room with grown ups having animated discussions, laughing, shouting at the TV and seeing them stare in disbelief as Brazil went behind by one goal, then two and three and eventually lost the match. I could see a whole range of emotions displayed by people who had no deep ties to either team or country. Up until then, I’d played sport because it was fun and I liked being outside doing stuff. I think back to that night and I think it was in that period that I realised that sport is amazing. There have been 5 men’s World Cups since then and I’ve enjoyed each one in varying degrees but France98 will always have a dear place in my heart.
Being a country boy with no idea how big the world was, I thought Bafana Bafana were the greatest team in the world. They played in the first game of tournament against the hosts and I didn’t know that game was a big deal at all. It was South Africa’s first ever trip to the event but there was plenty of hope and expectation. That winter evening at home we watched as Pierre Issa scored twice in the back of his own net as France won 3-0. Reality set in. Maybe we weren’t that good… My favourite player at the time was Doctor Khumalo, a tall, classy midfielder with silky touches. He missed out on selection for the Bafana squad for the tournament and I didn’t have another favourite, so my initial interest was only mild. While watching that first game I suddenly fell in love with another player, but he was on the French team. He bore a striking resemblance to Khumalo. He had the same height, body shape, touches and hair and something always looked like it was gonna happen when he had the ball. My English wasn’t the greatest then so I couldn’t hear everything but I listened out for the commentator every time the France number 12 had the ball. I could see that ‘Henry’ was written on the back of his shirt but couldn’t register why he kept saying “Olree” (that’s what it sounded like to me) instead of HEN-REE. I figured it must’ve been his first name. From that game on I had a new favourite player “Olree” Henry (i have since learned that his first name is actually Thierry) and I was determined to follow him everywhere.
For the rest of the tournament, I kept a keen interest in the French side, more so I could watch my Henry than anything else. My dad would be my watching partner on most nights. He wasn’t big on sport but whenever there was a major tournament, he’d watch. He was a linguaphile though, words and languages were his thing. He loved learning and although he had little to no understanding of French, he loved the accent and pronunciation of their words and he’d often repeat the French players’ names out loud after the commentator said them throughout the 90 minutes. His favourites were Deschamps, Leboeuf and Bixente Lizarazu. He loved how they sounded.
With each France game that came on TV, I became more enamoured with Henry and his teammates and my dad developed a deeper interest in French culture, politics and the language while watching alongside me. He’d ask questions I had no hope of possibly answering like which former colony the black players in the team were originally from or how much the value of the Franc was in comparison to the Rand. He was an intellectual so sometimes basic and ordinary questions would go above his head and he’d forget that his audience was a young son who could hardly spell the words he was saying. Maybe he was just thinking aloud to himself. But I never minded one bit. I cherished it. In later years, I developed similar interests and adopted some of his conversation points and line of questioning and curiousity. Watching France became our bonding agent and spending that time with him was a treasure. I’d laugh every time he said the players’ names out loud. It was hilarious for me to hear him twist his tongue saying those names, they didn’t sound like anything I knew or heard before. I’d make him laugh too. We would watch the post match interviews with the players and coaches and I listened attentively and I would imitate what I’d seen and heard and repeat what they said in a mock French accent. I don’t know how funny that was but he seemed like he enjoyed it and we had a great time together. I admired him because he entertained me, encouraged me to learn new things and developed an interest with me, all at the same time, through a game he only had a lukewarm passion for . I had the best time lying on the floor next to the heater, watching back and forth between the TV and my dad probably mispronouncing the names of Desailly, Djorkaeff and Dugarry.
During last year’s World Cup, my thoughts would often go back there. It was the first one I’d watched without my dad. I’d wonder to myself if he would’ve done the same things he did before and repeat Griezamann or Pavard’s names aloud each time they were on the ball or what he’d say about the French side and all the black players in their team and what kind of questions he would ask me about the French government in the middle of a tense game. I wonder if he would’ve thought back to 1998 as fondly as I do.
You tend to be more nostalgic the older you grow and sometimes the memories of your childhood seem much better than they actually were. But I know for certain that time was one of the greatest of my life. It’s the only explanation I have for why I have a deep longing to go back there and then to the time I truly fell in love with sport, French football and the first time I remember my dad and I combining the things that each of us loved.
Side note: A year after that World Cup, Thierry Henry was signed by the English team I was assigned to, Arsenal. I say assigned because my brother wouldn’t allow me to support his team, Manchester United and told me to support Arsenal instead. I dunno if it’s coincidental or if it was just meant to be. I think one way or another I would’ve ended up an Arsenal fan anyways.
Mawandinho 