Get inside the mind of football’s most enigmatic icon.
‘Zidane is the master’ Pele
One of modern football’s most brilliant players – and one of its most iconic and mysterious figures – Zinedine Zidane’s football career is the stuff of legend. A World Cup-winner with France, he became the world’s most expensive player in 2001 when he moved from Juventus to Real Madrid for £46million, where his exceptional talent earned him a reputation as one of the greatest players of all-time. His playing career concluded explosively when he retired after being sent off for head-butting Marco Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup final.
But his football career was far from over. After a spell coaching in Spain, he was appointed manager of Real Madrid in 2015 and immediately demonstrated that his skill as a manager matched his talent on the pitch, leading the team to successive Champions League victories and establishing him as one of the new managerial greats.
Rarely speaking to the press, Zidane is known as a man who ‘speaks only with the ball’. In this definitive biography, Patrick Fort and Jean Philippe take us behind the scenes of his exceptional career, revealing the man behind the legend.
Patrick Fort
Patrick Fort is a leading French sports journalist.
Jean Philippe
Jean Philippe is an acclaimed journalist who has followed Zinedine Zidane’s career since its earliest stages in the French football leagues.
In memory of Jean Varraud, without whose help and encouragement this book would never have been written.
Five thousand people: more than could sometimes be found at the Stade Coubertin in La Bocca when AS Cannes were playing in the Première Division. Only slightly less than the population of Marseille’s La Castellane district.
Five thousand people: that was the estimated number of spectators who attended Real Madrid’s first-team training session on 5 January 2016. On the eve of the Epiphany, a public holiday in Spain, it was the only training session of the year open to the public. More importantly, it was the first to be overseen by Zinedine Zidane.
The day after his appointment as a replacement for Rafael Benítez, the former Real Madrid number 5 visibly embraced a vocation he had been extremely sceptical about ten years earlier, when he brought his career as a player to an end. But he did eventually become a manager, someone who no longer wears a numbered shirt but has numerous responsibilities on his back instead.
He may have already been managing for two and a half years, but not in such an exposed fashion. He was now in charge of the first team at the most successful club in the world – and in UEFA’s terms the best, ahead of Barcelona and Bayern Munich – as well as the richest.
Football is no longer a sport; it is a huge market, an economic sector in its own right, a spectacle with coveted audience shares, and a subject of passionate debate. Not everyone plays football, but everyone talks about it, particularly in Spain.
In Barcelona, for example, two days after Barça’s defeat at the hands of Real following an unbeaten run of 39 matches, talk of football even encroached into the corridors and lounges of the luxurious Majestic Hotel at the top of Las Ramblas. On the roof terrace, the hotel’s French general manager, Pascal Billard, pointed out the Camp Nou Stadium, home of FC Barcelona. He explained that it is almost impossible to avoid football here; in early April 2016, the name of Madrid’s new manager was on everyone’s lips, including those of its rival, Barcelona. The name of the coach who had just won his first Clásico was famous. Even better, he was respected.
In the land of passion, Zidane was attractive … and he could sell. In Real Madrid’s stores, Zidane’s shirt was still a force to be reckoned with, bearing his name and the number 5 he wore as a player.
Ten years after hanging up his boots, the novice manager had rekindled the memory of the champion he had been, a genius passer of the ball and goalscorer, elegant and virtuous, successful and legendary. The eagerness for images on this January day revealed what the public were subconsciously waiting for: to see the player again. A subtle flick of the ball from him caught on camera during a training session was enough to trigger hundreds of thousands of views online. A piece of unexpected ball control at the edge of the pitch during an official match resulted in applause from the crowd and slow-motion replays for television viewers.
But the player would not return. If his style reappeared on the pitch, it would only be by proxy in the movement of his team.
He might play no longer, but he continues to be a playmaker when he coaches. He is not unaware of the laws of the sport, of the market. He manages, confronted by the risks of the new profession he has chosen for himself. Victory is a reprieve; defeat the beginning of a challenge.
Madrid, the Valdebebas training centre. Enough tiresome drills. The time to play has come.
‘Come on, let’s have some fun!’ He coaches with plenty of spirit. When he started out as a player he was still a child, and he’s a man who never lost the energy of that youthful innocence.
When he started out as a manager he was unquestionably an adult, a father to four boys, a father who has often reflected and acted by thinking of his own father, aware of the efforts and demands that sport at the highest level requires. But also the immense joy the game can bring – just like life.
It was cold. It was winter 1953 in Saint-Denis. Ammi Smaïl Zidane had just left his native Kabylie, where he had been an agricultural labourer. He had come to work on a building site in the Paris banlieue, far from his village of Aguemoune in a mountainous region of Algeria where the economy was based mainly on agriculture, olive harvesting in particular. Smaïl’s daily life was gruelling. Homeless, he sometimes slept in makeshift shelters on the building site, exposed to the cold. This life lasted for three years, swallowing up his youth. But he pushed on.
Ten years later, Smaïl started a family with Malika – also originally from Kabylie – with whom he emigrated first to Paris, then Marseille. She gave him five children. First, three sons, Madjid in 1963, Farid in 1965, Noureddine in 1967, and a daughter, Lila, in 1969.
The youngest of the brood arrived on 23 June 1972. They named him Zinedine. At the time, the family was living in an apartment in La Castellane, a housing estate in the north of Marseille. The baby slept in the same room as Madjid, better known as Djamel.
When he was old enough to decide, Zinedine preferred to be called Yazid, which was his middle name, and so that was what they called him. He was doted on by the family, as the youngest often are. He would sometimes fall asleep clutching his football. A lively child, he was passionate about the game. As in working-class neighbourhoods all over the world, life for many children in La Castellane revolved around the round ball. Football was both their primary occupation and preoccupation.
Yazid grew up in a relatively new housing development, one with a reputation for hardship. In such a delicate social setting he was at risk from any number of dangerous influences. With his mother constantly keeping an eye on him and surrounded by his brothers, Yazid spent hours playing in Place de la Tartane, particularly after school.
When it was taken over by kids, this long rectangular concrete slab resembled a kind of stretched football field, bordered by buildings, including Yazid’s, Building G, near one of the goals. It was there that he perfected his tricky footwork, often in the company of Noureddine; he was particularly gifted when it came to football. When not with his ball, he had plenty of time to tease his sister, with whom he got on very well, as well as the odd moment to think about school. There he was boisterous, spirited. He needed to use up his energy, to play and to interact. On the pitch, he struggled to resist the urge to go on the attack. With his peers, he struggled to resist the urge to defend a teammate, if the need arose.
Sent off! Sent home. That particular day, Yazid had to come home early because he had tried to avenge a teammate at school. It was the sign of an impulsiveness that contrasted with the placidity of his father, a peaceful and altruistic man who did everything to give his children a good education and instil principles in them.
Smaïl worked at a shopping centre; he had a variety of responsibilities. Whenever he was not working, he took over from Malika looking after the children, including, of course, the youngest, who was showing glimpses of real footballing talent.
The game became a sport. After Place de la Tartane came regulation pitches. The sport became a competition; the mismatched outfits were replaced by official jerseys, those of the Association Sportive de Foresta in La Castellane. These were followed by those of the Union Sportive in Saint-Henri, then of the Sports Olympiques in Septèmes-les-Vallons, a town near Marseille’s northern suburbs with a predominantly working-class population. Poverty was not uncommon. Football was an exciting and inexpensive escape.
At each of these clubs, just as on Place de la Tartane, Yazid’s technique in motion and ball control were remarked upon and admired, as well as his enthusiasm and will to win.
Cannes, 1984. A few days before the start of the school year, term had already begun for the young players. The tenth Under-13 tournament organised by the Association Sportive de Cannes was held at the Stade Maurice Chevalier. Six teams, including one from the local club, took part in the Claude Roux Challenge, named after a former president of the Cannes supporters club. Those in their first year with the Under-13s came from Provence, the Var, the Alps, the Côte d’Azur and the Rhône-Durance region.
The players from Provence arrived on Saturday, the day before the tournament. One of them, Gilles Boix, felt a twinge during a training session. His parents came to see him the following day. As Gilles was warming up before the match against the team from the Côte d’Azur, his father could see that he was struggling. He was grimacing and clearly in pain. Increasingly so. But he wanted to play. His father refused; he wanted to take him to see a doctor first. Monsieur Varraud, a football scout, offered to drive them to the nearby Clinique des Mimosas, where he knew someone. The offer was accepted. Gilles had no choice but to give in to his father’s insistence and agreed to leave. He was replaced by the player in shirt number 13 and the match could begin.
Jean left the stadium. He drove father and son to the clinic in his old Citroën LN. The diagnosis was serious: a broken wrist. By the time they returned to the Stade Chevalier, the match had finished. The scout had missed the opportunity to watch the budding young players. But he had won himself a friend, Fernand Boix, who was grateful for his kind and unsolicited help.
Two years and three months later, at the Regional Centre for Physical Education and Sport in Aix-en-Provence, 30 Under-15s came together during the Christmas holidays for a training camp aimed at selecting 18 boys to take part in an interleague trial the following spring.
The first two days were taken up with trials. The third, a match between two teams of trainees. Jean Varraud had planned to attend to watch a promising forward from Cagnes-sur-Mer, Fabrice Monachino, but he was not selected. Jean decided to make use of his LN again anyway. Monsieur Boix, a manager from Septèmes, went with him. They were happy to see each other again and watched the match side-by-side.
Varraud enquired about the player in Monachino’s position. Fernand knew him well because he was from his home club. Robert Centenero, the young players’ coach, had pointed him out to the club president, Roger de Plano. They had offered this promising kid, who played at Saint-Henri, somewhere new where the gifts he had developed on Place de la Tartane would have the opportunity to blossom. Under the watchful and tender gaze of his family, he was always the last to leave the concrete rectangle but had yet to become as comfortable on dirt and grass pitches.
‘He’s the one who replaced my son in Cannes. Zidane. Don’t you remember? The number 13?’
Yes, that was it. Jean Varraud remembered vaguely. Something about his physique, perhaps? Whatever the case, he did not regret having come. Although he played in positions he was not used to – on the left wing during the first third, then as a sweeper during the third – this kid in the white shirt, who played only two-thirds of the match, appealed to him instantly. His touch and vision of the game were extraordinary. Everything he did had a subtlety, a class. Varraud wanted to know more about him.
Zidane. Even in Marseille the name was not yet widely known. Except in the 16th arrondissement, on the Castellane estate, in Saint-Henri and Septèmes, clubs where Zinedine had played his first official matches. With well-marked-out pitches, referees and regulation kit. He had grown since the tournament in Cannes. And made progress. He was 14 and already had great technical finesse. But there seemed to be no interest in him from scouts. During the few training camps or matches for which he had been picked, his performances had not been the most eye-catching.
At the Roux Challenge, after coming on during the game against a team from the Côte d’Azur as an attacking midfielder, he played as a box-to-box midfielder in all the other matches, which came to an end with a goal against Rhône-Durance and then, to win the trophy, a crushing victory in the final against AS Cannes: 7–1!
At the end of the tournament, Zidane was not one of the players who were first on the Provençal coach’s team sheet. In the coach’s mind, ten of the eleven positions in his first-choice line-up were filled, but he was still hesitating about the eleventh, that of the box-to-box midfielder, the number 8. Another player from Septèmes, Gilles Manno, was in competition with Zidane, and was even slightly preferred. After the tournament, Zidane was judged ‘a little disappointing given his qualities. He played a bit half-heartedly. Must definitely do better because he has the means, technique and vision of the game.’
Despite this, Robert Signoret, coach of the Saint-Henri Under-9s, had noticed his ‘means’. Interviewed by the magazine Le SeptéMois in July 1998, Robert Centenero, the man who brought Yazid to SO Septèmes, would also remember ‘a more forceful personality than that of most of his teammates’.
This assessment confirmed the character the young kid who was crazy about balls on Place de la Tartane had already developed. It betrayed a little-noted part of his adolescent character: this apparently timid boy was a warrior.
Before the Christmas training camp at the Regional Centre for Physical Education and Sport, Zidane had already been called up to Aix on 17 October and 7 November 1986, and to Puricard on 31 October, but had only played in one match of four in this inter-district trial. Absent on 14 November in Carpentras against Rhône-Durance, 28 November in Oraison against the Alps, and on 12 December in Aix against Côte d’Azur, he only played against the Var at the Huveaune Stadium in Marseille, but was replaced by Manno during the game.
Selected in fits and starts for the département, his appearances at the top level, the Ligue de Méditerranée, were non-existent. In two years, he had only been picked at the top inter-category level once, for a training camp at Les Pennes Mirabeau.
He had failed to attract any attention on the pitch. Off the pitch, he was excessively shy. An instructor at a camp in Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, in Volx, remembers this personality trait, summed up by the image of an uncommunicative child hunched up in his K-Way jacket. Despite this, slumbering within him were an exceptional mastery of the ball and an ease with the game, revealed objectively during the assessment of drills almost three years earlier, and confirmed subjectively by a series of observations during matches. During this Opération Guérin – a training camp for spotting young talent named after Henri Guérin, a former manager of the France team – Zinedine, then in the second year of Under-11s, got the highest scores in the technical drills. Maurice Roche, in charge of the camp, noticed his skills when it came to keepie uppies and his behaviour in different phases of the game.
But this boy whose flashes were as brilliant as they were intermittent did not seem to elicit any interest. Not yet anyway. His parents, whose incomes were modest, made sacrifices to enrol him in paid training sessions.
In a sport that was becoming increasingly commercial and business-oriented, scouts were quick to seize every promising opportunity, the slightest hope of a quick profit. They had not seen anything in him. Jean Varraud was surprised.
Was the kid to blame? Was it because of his physical fragility? (The genetic condition he suffers from, a type of anaemia called thalassaemia, leading to frequent fatigue, would not come to light until fifteen years later.) It would take time for his muscles to fill out. Was it his inconsistency? At that age this is a common failing, something that could even be seen as a silver lining. There is always the chance that a teenager playing regularly at a sustained pace could become burned out. What’s more, the grind of competition can be distorting. It affects the fun aspect of the sport. It takes away the passion, or at least transforms it, as the pleasure in playing is quickly replaced by an obsession with victory. Zinedine showed clear signs of passion for the game and had the fundamental qualities. Broadly speaking, this was enough to make the scout offer him a training session at La Bocca, prior to a possible commitment.
Monsieur Varraud wanted to see him again as soon as possible, although his counterparts were not interested. So much the better for him, as he crossed the pitch at the Regional Training Centre and went to speak to the Septèmes directors. He expressed his desire to bring the player to Cannes for a probationary period of a week, which might lead to recruitment.
The response was favourable. It was also accompanied by some advice: ‘If you want to get him, do it right now!’ The message was clearly understood. No other clubs had their eyes on the teenager from La Castellane; all the directors at Cannes had to do was keep things quiet enough so as not to alert anyone else. But they still had to act quickly. The passing of time, the lack of good academic results, the uncertain prospect of becoming a professional footballer … and the neighbourhood in which he grew up meant that a difficult period was in the offing for this boy who was about to turn 15. On the one hand, he was exposed to the aggression of his adversaries, often unsettled by his ease with the ball; on the other, there were plenty of bad examples that might set his adolescence off course. Fortunately, he had his family. A family bound by affection around solid principles of life and education. A mother, a father, a sister and three brothers who took care of him, the baby of the family. But these strengths might still turn out not to be enough. Monsieur Varraud was familiar with the situation: ‘It’s always the tough guys who attract the others.’ Zinedine was sweet but he lived in a difficult neighbourhood.
He had a carefree air, chatting calmly with his friends during the post-match peace and quiet. He did not know that his future was at stake. They had to take him straight away. Alain Lepeu, manager of the Septèmes Under-17s, suggested a meeting two weeks later, after the Christmas break. ‘Come and see us on 11 January. We’re playing at Saint-Raphaël.’
On the way home, in his LN, which took the injured to hospital, kids to the stadium and future stars to their destiny, Jean Varraud told himself he had discovered a boy with plenty of potential.
Great players are rare. Great scouts even more so. Monsieur Varraud was one of these.
A former player with AS Saint-Étienne, he joined the senior team at the age of 17. He settled in Cannes in 1941, just opposite the legendary Stade des Hespérides, since superseded by the Coubertin. He ran a cinema, the Vox, for several decades. But football was his passion. After a career as a player, interrupted by the Second World War, he became a coach and then a recruiter on a volunteer basis. Although he traded in the industry of dreams, this dignified and courteous, sensitive and lucid man did not have a mercantile spirit. He was not a trafficker of souls. Completely devoted to AS Cannes, he suggested players to the club with the intention of seeing them go on to become a part of the ‘pennant team’. His interpersonal skills, kindness and straightforward nature often allowed him to attract players who, for geographical or purely sporting reasons, should logically have signed elsewhere.
Youth tournaments were his chosen field, conjuring up his own childhood back in Saint-Étienne, where his football was his day-to-day companion. Pure talent, as yet unconstrained by experience, blossoming in all its splendour. He still had to spot a good player, assess his margin for progression, his capacity to play at the highest level. Jean Varraud observed, felt … Because he used to play himself, he knew football well. Because he had rubbed shoulders with them, he was familiar with the art of great players: Max Charbit or the Yugoslav Yvan Beck, a striker for the great Sète team, then at Saint-Étienne and scorer of three goals in Uruguay during the first World Cup. However, experience does not necessarily provide finesse when it comes to insight. In the stadiums to which he took his sharp eyes, he sometimes watched matches in the company of former international players. Some thought they had spotted great potential in a run-of-the-mill performance; others were unaware of or underestimated young hopefuls who eventually broke through. Despite never having been a professional, his insight was clear. Jean Fernandez, manager of the Cannes professional team, and Gilles Rampillon, the technical director, had absolute confidence in him.
Jean Varraud did not recruit adults, but children with the potential to become professionals. This particular child amazed him as few others have.
‘I saw this guy. He had hands where his feet should have been!’
When he got back to the club, Monsieur Varraud told the general secretary, Gilbert Chamonal, about the player he had found in Aix. Still surprised by the lack of eagerness of his counterparts, he wanted to see the young player again quickly with a view to potentially offering him a trial.
He kept his appointment in Saint-Raphaël. Rampillon went with him. A frail man, a subtle player and a former international, he too made his senior debut at the age of 17, at FC Nantes, where he stood out thanks to his vision of the game and his technique, two essential components of talent. It was therefore an expert eye that he cast over the young Marseille player. But Zidane did not play in his usual position, that of attacking midfielder. The Septèmes coach came to apologise to the Cannes observers. Thanks to a shortage of players, he’d had no choice but to put him in as sweeper.
In this position as the last line of defence, the slightest error can prove fatal. And so it was thanks to some risky dribbling, intercepted by an opponent who converted the opportunity into a goal. Saint-Raphaël equalised. Zidane was dismayed, all the more so because he had shown nothing attractive to the two observers apart from a handful of pieces of skill. But his performance would soon be nothing more than an anecdote.
Septèmes won by two goals, 3–1, but lost one of their players: as agreed, he would see them again a week later. After his training camp. He climbed into Gilles Rampillon’s Mercedes and headed for Cannes.
Two and a half years after the Claude Roux Challenge, Zinedine once again trod the turf at the Stade Maurice Chevalier on a week-long training camp. Initial assessments were made. Potential was gauged. Shortcomings were spotted. He had to work on his aerial game, jumping as often as possible towards the training equipment. He also had to work on his technique, tactics and physique. But the basics were there: he was insanely talented with his feet. The ball became a magic toy every time it found its way to this tall, skinny kid.
How had the scouts missed it? It became a daily question.
Jean Fernandez was immediately won over. As the professionals were coming to the end of a training session, Jean Varraud asked him to watch the Under-17s.
‘Come and see. I’ve brought someone.’ Fernandez was reluctant. He had just finished a tiring session, had work to do and was keen to put it off. But Varraud knew it would be love at first sight.
‘Come on! You’ll see.’ The recruiter was insistent. Fernandez walked with him to the Mûriers 2 pitch at the Coubertin complex. The young player in question was in the middle of the bald pitch. He received the ball in the air, controlling it with his chest. With ease. With consummate ease.
Fernandez, who was no novice, was impressed. Stunned even. He stayed pitch-side for 25 minutes, identifying the shortcomings and qualities of this frail virtuoso.
Why had the scouts missed it? Pierre Ailhaud, coach of the Cannes Under-17 team, had to answer another question. One asked by those who discovered the skill of this brand-new trainee with amazement: ‘Who is that?’ One by one, they all came to enquire.
A passing director also shared his admiration.
‘He’s good, that Under-18 kid!’ He was good but he was not an Under-18 player. He was still an Under-17!
He was precocious. Everyone liked him, both as a footballer and as a person. With every touch of the ball he confirmed everything good that had been said about him. He knew how to be bold, as he showed in this game of six-a-side played across the width of the pitch. The goals were small but this did not stop him from shooting from distance, unleashing a shot from the middle of the park. The ball flew over the keeper’s head and ended up in the back of the net. This tricky shot, requiring speed of vision and execution, revealed a great sense of improvisation, a real skill.
The recruiters seemed won over. The coach Charly Loubet, a former Cannes player and French international, as well as an important figure at the club, got on the phone to Septèmes. His opinion was categorical: ‘We’re interested in him. His basic skills really are above average.’
All that remained was to convince the boy’s club, and his family. More determined than ever, Jean Varraud asked a local government employee, Daniel Delsalle, to plead Cannes’ case with Loïc Fagon, a director at Septèmes he had known since childhood. There was no need. On returning to Marseille with his trainee, Gilles Rampillon had no trouble convincing them.
He was given a warm welcome at the Septèmes ground one Saturday morning. The club president, secretary general and coach met with Smaïl, Zinedine’s father, to talk about the future.
Money did not come up. Monsieur Zidane asked the question everyone was waiting for: ‘Monsieur Rampillon, do you think he can become a professional footballer?’
As always, whenever he is asked that question, the coach remained cautious. Instead he preferred to insist on the need to continue normal schooling alongside the boy’s football training. He was all too well aware of the importance of psychological and physiological factors, the hazards of adolescent development, to be categorical. He took up the argument that Maurice Desvignes, director of studies at the Cannes club, often summarises with a single sentence: ‘We don’t want the trainees to regret coming through the door of our academy,’ especially if it ends in failure.
On the other hand, Gilles Rampillon was almost certain: AS Cannes, playing in the Deuxième Division, were headed towards the elite. He was a firm believer, although the end of the league season was still some way off. Once the team reached a certain level, it would intensify its training efforts – staff at the Cannes academy was already expected to be increased by half – and more trust would be placed in their young players, who would consequently have the opportunity to begin their careers at the highest level. His words were clear, devoid of pretence. Attractive.
Jean Varraud had another, decisive argument: a bag. Zinedine’s bag. A bag that did not contain the jumble of laundry you would expect to see at the end of a week spent by a kid away from home. It was all perfectly clean and organised! And this was thanks to a mother who had welcomed the trainee into her home: Nicole Élineau.
Cannes may well be close to Marseille, both in terms of distance and climate, but Smaïl and his wife Malika would only let their son leave on one condition: that a host family had been found. In their eyes, nothing could replace a family atmosphere, something that was so important to the Zidanes. Nothing. Not even a football academy. Whatever the case, AS Cannes did not have it: there was no specific building at the academy for accommodating professional apprentices.
Several weeks passed before the signing of the non-solicitation agreement that would grant AS Cannes priority when it came to recruitment. Madame Zidane only gave her consent once the question of accommodation had been settled. There was an obvious solution: the friendly and committed Élineau family would host Zinedine. Jean Varraud went to see Jean-Claude, Nicole’s husband.
‘Do you want to take a child into your home?’ He may have wanted to, but could he? The Élineaus had three children of their own. They were already hosting another trainee, Amédée Arnaud. Theirs was only a three-bedroomed house. This was not just about a week but a whole year.
Despite this, they agreed. They were already fond of Zinedine, so much so that, like those closest to him, they never called him by that name.
‘Hi, I’m Yazid.’
The tall boy was sitting in the living room. He got up and held out his hand. He had arrived at the Élineaus’ house in the afternoon but Jean-Claude did not meet him until the early evening when he returned from the ‘factory’, the name he used to refer to the company where he worked, Aérospatiale. Factory: the word hardly fits with the image of Cannes conjured up by the tourism, La Croisette, congresses and festivals that make up the mainstay of the city’s economy. In terms of numbers, Aérospatiale is its largest employer. On its western fringes, near Mandelieu-La Napoule and the sea, from which they are separated only by the RN 98 motorway, the company buildings are home to, among other things, parts for satellites. The site of this industrial zone is placed under vigilant protection. It is top secret.
Dressed in a white shirt with a badge, Jean-Claude was a workshop technician; he made carbon antennas in a hangar. Previously employed by the same firm in Bouguenais, near Nantes, he had obtained a transfer to the Cannes site 13 years earlier. Several times a month, he would work into the evening. He worked shifts: from 4am to noon, from noon to 8pm or from 8pm to 4am.
That night, the Élineaus found out that Zinedine preferred to be called by his middle name, Yazid. That was what everyone called him at La Castellane.
He was polite, well brought up, spoke little and had a nice smile. He inspired a desire to help him, to protect him whenever he seemed to withdraw a little, through embarrassment or fear of being in the way. Yazid won his hosts over during that rainy week.
Jean-Claude, his wife Nicole and their children – Dominique, Laurent and Virginie – had been living in Pégomas for three years. A town in the Cannes banlieue with a rural feel, not yet suffocated by the real-estate projects threatening to rid the plain of its farmers, one by one.
Pégomas, pronounced Pégoma or Pégomasse, is peaceful fruit and vegetable country, with villagers who still remember Provence and are perplexed or irritated at the developments and homes they see constantly going up. In the heart of the village a shady bridge crosses the river, the Mourachonne. It makes for a pleasant stroll. The new hamlet, where the Élineaus lived, is a little further on, near a busy road. Their two-storey maisonette was surrounded by a piece of land waiting for a fence.
Upstairs, next to Virginie’s bedroom, two bunk beds were occupied by Laurent and Amédée, who was also training at AS Cannes. Dominique slept downstairs, on the sofa bed in a corner of the living room, with a curtain dividing the room.
For Nicole and Jean-Claude, taking in boarders was a way of thanking Raymond Gioanni, the president of the Côte d’Azur district of the French Football Federation. It was thanks to him, who had welcomed them in Cannes with kindness and friendship, that they were able to continue their involvement in football. In Rezé, in the Nantes banlieue, Jean-Claude Élineau supervised the trainees, while Nicole helped with administrative tasks. They gave a lot to ASC, just as they had previously given to the Pont-Rousseau schools association. There was more that they could have done, but things were cramped. Nevertheless, they agreed to welcome this new aspiring professional. The sporting year begins in July, and Dominique, the eldest of the children, had to leave in June to carry out his military service. This left a spot free. The corner of the living room would not remain unoccupied for long.
Monsieur Varraud did well to work this out in advance. Zidane’s final months at Septèmes confirmed the scout’s judgement: on 5 June 1987, the future Cannes player, still registered in the Bouches-du-Rhône, was called up to the national junior team. With the delegation led by Jean-Pierre Escalettes – who would become president of the French Football Federation years later – he travelled to Ireland. There Yazid would discover a world that would leave its mark on his life: the France team. His call-up letter showed his first name as Sincédrie! Zinedine was definitely not yet a household name …
Yazid’s destiny followed a course that became increasingly favourable. In just a few weeks, his existence had been turned upside down. Still closed or even unimaginable six months earlier, the door leading to professionalism was now ajar. What had been on the horizon was coming into view. After the insight and insistence of Monsieur Varraud, attracted by a match he had little reason to attend; after the host family, at which Yazid had found a place, it was the turn of the Cannes team to reach the top flight, Division 1!
This rise was all the more deserved as it was obtained at the expense of the D1 club that finished third from bottom, in this case FC Sochaux. During the return match, played in the pleasant atmosphere of a Saturday in June, a record crowd occupied the stands at the Stade Coubertin. The 2–0 win, making up for the 1–0 defeat suffered at Montbéliard, brought about a joy that would not be short-lived. An era of a passion for football had begun in Cannes.
For Yazid, the prospect of playing not only with the professionals but also at the highest level, in the Première Division, was no longer just a dream. But the club would need to stay in D1. At the Coubertin, in the offices under the stands, the idea of spending only one season among the elite had clearly not been ruled out by anyone. But a rare cohesion, a calm environment and a competent workforce were transforming one of the best clubs in D2 into an efficient and solid club capable of establishing itself in the top flight for seasons to come. They were set on one idea: training young players who, at a lower cost, would strengthen the squad and, over time, become first-team players.
It was in this serious and committed atmosphere, combined with Cannes’ traditional laid-back attitude and persistent euphoria, that, 29 days after the victory against Sochaux, the baby of the Zidane family arrived.
If all went well, he would not return to the family apartment in Marseille for several weeks, until the holidays. If all went well, it would be a long time until he would be able to return home after the holidays. Maybe it would not be possible again. Ever.
Maybe it was a farewell to his childhood … After 20 days, Yazid turned 15. His new life and career were beginning. He had waited a long time for that moment, and he would have to deal with it whilst far away from his loved ones. Far from Malika, his mother. Far from his elder siblings, his sister Lila, his brothers Noureddine, Farid and Djamel. And far from his father, who had decided to go with him to Cannes when he left to see him off. A two-hour train journey. A long way.
Jean-Claude Élineau nearly arrived late. His Citroën had broken down. He had had to come to the station with Nicole’s car, an Austin Mini that was aptly named; Smaïl struggled to fold his long legs into the back. Yazid, who was not much shorter, climbed into the front with his bag.
It took them 25 minutes to reach Pégomas. Monsieur Zidane left again that night. He only stayed a few hours. The goodbye was low-key and brief; all emotions were contained. What can you say when you are leaving a child? As well as a childhood? A pivotal year in the course of a life would take place away from home.
This was not a normal goodbye. But Smaïl could leave calmly. He had already seen that his son had been entrusted to sensible people. The substitute parents would do their duty. There was also a boy of his age, he would make a good pal, before becoming a friend for life: Laurent, known as Lucky since missing a cinema trip. While in Nantes, Nicole and Jean-Claude had wanted to take him to see a cartoon, Lucky Luke, before they were told by a cinema employee that they could not take such a young child in to see the film. His parents turned this misadventure into a nickname.
Lucky Luke, a reference to the speed of the hero of the same name, was also the nickname of the footballer Bruno Bellone. He played at Monaco. He had grown up in La Bocca, near Avenue Chevalier, where he would dribble and shoot for the first time on a small neighbourhood pitch surrounded by trees. The start of his career, six years earlier, had been dazzling. He was still one of France’s best strikers. There were rumours of his transfer to ASC.
In Cannes, in the summer of 1987, in the absence of any news other than the usual influx of tourists, there was plenty of talk of football. It had not been spoken about so much since 1949, when the club left D1 for the first time, or since 1932, when the team had won the Coupe de France. At the time it was the only national competition, a few months before the first professional league began. This victory remained the only trophy won by the players in red and white. With Bellone, climbing to Division 1 would be even more intoxicating.
In Pégomas, Yazid was at a safe distance from the local excitement. He spoke little and enjoyed his first moments of relaxation quietly. The day after his arrival was a national holiday. He went to the village dance with Lucky and two friends. He gave the impression of being bored, barely moving his legs when he danced. Nonchalant? Reserved? Thoughtful? What went on inside Yazid’s head was a mystery. There was a tendency to see it as nothing more than shyness. But it could also have been seen as maturity, an innate understanding of adulthood, into which he was getting ready to dash headlong without being weighed down by the torments of adolescence. Holding on to the most precious thing of all: the soul of a child.
As for dancing, he did it in silence rather than to music. On the football pitch. And it was he who chose the rhythm, as the inspiration took him. A waltz, for example, when he spun around the ball and back on himself. During a training session with his fellow Under-17s, Lucky was not content to admire the virtuosity of his friend, whose Marseille turns had got the better of more than one opponent. He too tried and succeeded with this daring move, as Yazid watched on. It was a source of pride that would be discussed at home, fuelling the conversation.
Unfortunately, the enjoyment of a piece of skill or the game is not what makes up the majority of training. When you are destined for a professional career, you have to run, jump, stretch and build muscle. The sport is not just a game. And the competition is not just a sport. There is a lot at stake. When you set foot, literally and figuratively, in a major club, you also set foot in a world of struggle. It is not just about having fun with others, as on Place de la Tartane in La Castellane, or on makeshift pitches all over the world, where those who are young at heart can enjoy themselves. Sometimes you have to learn to fight, with madmen in command and cowards who obey.
Luckily for Cannes, Gilles Rampillon was neither of those. He had been a great player and an exemplary champion, punished only once by a referee. Lucid and determined, Jean Varraud, another hard-line opponent of the warrior sport, was keen to skip the intermediate and dangerous steps. He wanted Yazid, although only 15 years old, to join the club’s second senior team as quickly as possible, without going through the Under-17s. He had complete confidence in Gilles Rampillon, who was in charge of the professional reserve team. Playing for that team was the final step before the elite. Playing for that team at 15 meant that it would probably not be an end in itself, provided it was backed up by relentless work.
Of course, Yazid and his teammates also had to get used to working without a ball. Without playing. Without pleasure. Without football at all. In the mornings, they would meet in the car park of the Stade Coubertin before heading off towards the trails of Parc de la Valmasque. Long running sessions in the forest were on the agenda. Such is the lot of competitive sportsmen. But not everyone has the opportunity to play under the gaze of such a noble and attentive coach. The former Nantes playmaker was still keen to stress the importance of group performances, but without countering individual initiatives. Yazid’s physique was a source of hesitation: should he be played as an attacking midfielder, as he had at his previous club? Rampillon had excelled in this position, with a style based on one-touch passing to his teammates, with his back to the opponents’ goal. He believed that someone of Zidane’s build could take more play than a number 10. He imagined him wearing the number 8 shirt – usually given to the box-to-box midfielder, positioned less often near the goal, covering more distance across the pitch. More space.
Rampillon hesitated. There was one thing he was sure of. This young player, this adolescent who was discovering a new world, rubbing shoulders with the seniors and playing at a new and higher level of competition, should in no way have his playfulness drilled out of him. He liked playing with the ball. This love had to be channelled.
Jean Fernandez, keeping a discreet eye on his progress, recommended a useful, if not enjoyable, drill. He noticed that Yazid, excellent when it came to his natural sense of the game when facing the opposition’s goal, was relatively slow to spin around on himself when he picked up the ball in the opposite direction, with his back towards to the goal.
‘Kick the ball against a wall. As soon as it comes back to you, bang! Spin quickly until you’re facing the direction of play.’
He committed the advice to memory.
Every evening, Yazid was picked up by Jean-Claude Élineau or Charly Loubet, who made the journey back to his home in Grasse. Pégomas was halfway there. But going home did not mean the end of football. A day of drills did nothing to blunt the passion. Quite the contrary. The demonstration in the street was enlightening. The fun – a word dear to all the great players, strikers in particular – is always to be found in manipulating the ball, controlling it and dribbling with it. Dribbling, getting past the opponent blocking your way with the ball at your feet, is one of the fundamental building blocks of football. In absolute terms, however, a great team can dispense with it if each pass is well measured and received. It turned out that Yazid also liked passing the ball, finding the opening and sending it on without it being intercepted.
But outside the front door of the house in Pégomas, there was no one to pass the ball to. There was only Laurent and Amédée. It was just a kick-about before dinner. No one missed it. Despite all that they had done during the day, the two trainees came together with enthusiasm and good humour. In Allée des Violettes, Yazid felt a bit like he was back on Chemin de Bernex in Marseilles. There were no matches here though, no passes, just a competition; the winner was the one who could perform the most nutmegs. This piece of technical skill held no secrets for Yaz. More often than not, he won the friendly challenge.
Yaz. From one diminutive to the next, he became ever closer to his host family. Yet he still spoke few words. He preferred to listen to music on his cassette player. But his looks and smiles spoke volumes. As did his absences, when his thoughts seemed to fly elsewhere. A long way. A two-hour train journey away.
Brutally uprooted, he missed his nearest and dearest, who did not come to the Riviera as often as they would have liked. In size he was the largest of the Zidanes, but he would always be the youngest, the baby of the family. He missed them more and more. And they missed him too. Despite the odd Saturday or Sunday of freedom, when he was not required to play in an official match, he rarely returned to Place de la Tartane, where his teammates often thought about him. Time with his friends had become episodic: brief, snatched moments. When he came back to Marseille, he had to be content with days here and there, a few hours carved out of a busy schedule.
He was finally a footballer, almost full-time. So he would not cry. At least not in front of everyone. Jean-Claude, Nicole, Dominique, Lucky, Virginie and Amédée did not notice anything. Not even a tear. Given that his words were rare, it was difficult to tell the difference between happiness and pain.
Yazid spoke little and opened up even less; except to Laurent, rarely. Sometimes he would chat with a neighbour, originally from Argentina, who was very interested in football and lived at the other end of the hamlet to the Élineaus’ home. Zinedine was not very talkative but not at all asocial. He liked people but preferred to listen to them. He would only talk over and over with his two friends, once he had had his fill of his football … or after the neighbour had confiscated their ball, annoyed at seeing it mistakenly land in her garden.
It was finally time for dinner. There were plenty of people around the table, in a kitchen in which everyone came together after a day at the factory, school or on the pitch. Nicole drew lots to assign chores to each of the children. Luck would determine only the turns, not the share. The responsibility was the same for everyone. There was no lack of work, especially since the mistress of the house aspired to a little relaxation after hours spent at the community centre where she worked.
Two parents, one girl and three boys. Like in Marseille, almost. For Yazid, it was not the same family, but the same kind of family. Large and close, with little room in the house but plenty in the heart.
The families of Chemin de Bernex and Allée des Violettes had got to know one another and respected each other. Laurent was particularly fond of Monsieur Zidane, whom he regarded as a philosopher, a sage. He liked to talk with him, to immerse himself in his vision of life, influenced by both his respect for others and self-sacrifice, knowing that nothing can be achieved without effort, nor without rest.
At Pégomas, Yazid was kept away from the temptations of Cannes city centre. He went to bed early and slept a lot, as much as he could to counter the tiredness. Dreaming of victories, in a red and white striped shirt, at La Bocca or elsewhere, with the number 10 or 8 on his back, it mattered little.
Near the house, on the right, outside the front door, was somewhere he could give his parents good news: he rang Marseille from the phone box next to the boules pitch. This precious link reassured both parties. Everything was fine.