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Maybe I should have gone to Zagreb to watch the France-Croatia match as long as I did, I told myself in Moscow on the day of the final. "Come on, come on, go Croatia." "Come on, come on", these are the only words I understand in their fan song, since it seems that since the hit "A very back", these French words have become an international saying. Moscow was all for Croatia in this final day. And it was running on the stern bean.
Marina, my Karamazov brothers' specialist who did not play football with whom I played the first games, explained it to me. France was Ivan Karamazov, the intelligent and brilliant brother, dreaded and respected, to whom Dostoevsky was attracted and repulsed at the same time, while Mitia Karamazov, the unstable Mitia, impulsive and mad, was Croatia, the closest to the world. Slavic spirit
The Blues? They were this brilliant, intelligent team, a "scary war machine" as the foreign press said. War machines do not arouse sympathy. The "Irish Times": "The Blues play the kind of football that inspires more respect than love." This Belgian supporter summarizes it as follows:
"I would like to be nice to you, and say that I am for France, your team, it is powerful, it is the favorite, but we can not fall in love with it."
In short, it was like a pro-Croatian wave invading Moscow. All the Russians, who for the quarter-final in Nizhny Novgorod were more for France, now confessed their sympathy for our opponent. The traitors!
Svetlana, septuagenarian: "We have a common past, they knew communism as we do, we understand each other." My owner, Anna, in Moscow: "Sorry, I know you're from Paris, but I'll be in Croatia, it's a miracle that they've come so far, and we like miracles here."
My tattooed bearded fans of Zenit, the St. Petersburg club, with whom I saw England-Croatia, were also fond of Croatia:
"Croats are Slavic, as are we. if it had been the English against you, you would have been supported, the English hated them. "
(I did not dare to ask them if it was also because the Croatian team was white. Zenit Saint-Petersburg had indeed signed a manifesto in 2012 to ask the club not to recruit black players.)
The champion hearts
I continued my survey of supporters (forcing me to revise all my flags). Overwhelming. Peruvians, Argentines, Mexicans, Brazilians: "You have already won once, Croatia, never!"
Indians: "If you had faced the English, well, we would have been for you, but here, of course, we are for the outsider."
A Brazilian: "On paper, you should win But, on paper, we, Brazil, should be in the final. "
I run after Algerian flags, try the" one two three, live Algeria "to coax them. Rake: "Oh no, we are not for France!" Even Mbappé, half Algerian, half Cameroonian, does not soften their hearts. Insensitive, go.
Fortunately, I come across this group of Moroccans to finally get some commiseration.
"We're still for France, because it's the only team with Africans left."
Assia, Moroccan, was educated in France, but after visa problems, she had to change plans and come to study in Russia.
"I continue to support France, but France still has many lessons in whole world. "
Oh anyway. Guineans. "Long live France! The best African team!" We make a picture together.
Ngan Giang, my fellow journalist from Vietnam, confesses to me that among his Vietnamese colleagues, everyone has turned out and supports Croatia. Ditto among sports journalists from other countries:
"All sports journalists, except the French, prefer Croatia because it makes a better story."
Or as the "Nacion", Argentine newspaper : "Croatia is an illusion, a utopia that says that in football everything is possible, we have the desire to believe that for once, destiny could switch to fantasy."
Bassement, I try to tarnish the image of the Croats. Luka Modric is not it wet in sordid stories of corruption in football? Franjo Tudman, founding president of this small country, was he not an ultranationalist instrumentalizing football for his aims? A former defender and coach of the national team, Igor Stimac, invited for the final, just skipped an interview: "We face the Republic of France and the African continent." What to please the writer Renaud Camus or site Secular Riposte, obsessed with the "big replacement", who decided to support the Croats, "the only remaining European team". And then Domagoj Vida looks like a vampire (yes, I know, it's low, we did not say, not the physical).
Joe Dassin kidnapped by the Croats before the match!
Nothing fact. In Moscow, it's an avalanche of checkered flags. To feel a little "blue", the only point of retreat on this Sunday is the Embassy of France, the rallying point of all the French supporters. We meet Francis Lalanne. Who took away his son. In the subway, it screams, it sings. But as the stadium approached, the Croats regained the upper hand. They even sing "At the Champs-Elysees" by Joe Dassin, to the glory of Modric! I am shocked.
Pro-Croat Colombians forcibly made me up with the colors of their flag.
Doan Bui / The Obs
Chinese people with Croatian jerseys get hogged by Croats and ask me to take pictures of them with the Croats. Everyone thinks I'm Colombian or Japanese. Pfft. Come on the Blues!
I'm trying to join the fan zone. It's in the middle of nowhere, you have to walk about a thousand years to get there. I want to join Assia, the Moroccan pro-Bleus. A soul mate, finally. The whole long line of fans is pro-Croatian. Ah, Germans: "Sind Sie für Frankreich?", I ask. Franco-German axis, good God. "Nein". I am on the verge of depression. My feet hurt.
(Doan Bui / L'Obs)
Only 15 minutes before the match. There is a tail of madness. I decide to turn back to see the match in the city center. Total loses My taxi does not care about the final, of France, extinguishes so many tickets that I do not count anymore. I see on Twitter that the match has started. There are journalists who got fired for less than that. A bar, a bar! Quick!
On the Fanfest of the Red Square, full of tourists. But no giant screen. I'm going to die.
I run to Nikolskaya Street, where supporters usually crowd. I rush into a donuts store that displays the colors of Fifa in storefront. Not a screen. What is this mess?
Nikolskaya Street (Doan Bui / The Obs)
There. A bar-restaurant. The boss refuses to let me in. "Full, full, Signora"
He thinks I'm Colombian because of my makeup! It's not even "full" his thing. I beg him, he lets me go. On the screen, I see that I missed the first goal. Marked by a Croat against his side, tells me Twitter, because the boss of the bar explains Russian stuff that I do not understand. 1-0. Yeess!
Diplomacy of beer
The bar, like all Moscow is clearly pro-Croatian. At the Croatian equalization, these painful guests scream like crazy. English people accept me at their table. They are still undecided. I convince them to support France. I should be hired at the wharf-d'Orsay!
(Doan Bui / The Obs)
Penalty! The boss of the bar, the only one to support the French, raises his arm and gives me a wink. "Antoine Griezmann, I love". I think of the son of Francis Lalanne, Griezmann fan too. I'm stressing. If he misses us … But no. Goal !!! 2-1 !!!
It's half-time. My Brazilian neighbors explain to me that they are also for Croatia, the outsider. Diplomatically, nobody dares to evoke this common memory of the 3-0, in 1998. And one, and two, and three zero, sang supporters of the Blues in the subway. I found that daring.
It's back
Aim of Pogba! 3-1! I am the only one to express my joy. My English neighbors still applaud. Pogba plays in Manchester. My English neighbor is a fan of Pogba, because Manchester
"All your players, they play in our English championship Giroud, Pogba, it's like old acquaintances."
Aim of Mbappé !!! 4-1! My Brazilian neighbors applaud, fair play . If I can convince them to support France, I ask to be named ambassador. My English neighbor: "It's good, it has won 10 million euros in value, there, Mbappé! You will have the greatest victory ever achieved in the World Cup!"
Since the Brazilians know that I I am French, they do not dare to show their joy loudly at every Croatian action. In the bar, the others shout "goal, goal," every time the checkers try something. And then they sigh of disappointment. Well done!
It's over, we're the champions! The pro-Croatian bar applauds all the same. When Macron kisses the Croatian president, it's funny. It also laughs when Pogba grimaces.
There is still no horn on Nikolskaya Street. The blue supporters are not out yet. It makes me weird. But on Whatsapp, a lot of videos come from Paris. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
On TV, the images continue to scroll. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
Finally, on Nikolskaya Street, a compact crowd begins to rush. Horns and vuvuzelas are heard. People shout "Russia! Russia!" And also "spassiba" (thanks). Well I think. The night will be long. "What a wonderful world cup," my English neighbors tell me. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
I think fugally back to 1998. Illuminated Champs-Elysées. Flags floating. Deschamps did not have gray hair, Zidane had hair all at once. Killian Mbappé was not born. On Whatsapp, my little family sends me images of jubilation in Paris. Football, or this marker of our lives.
Doan Bui, Moscow
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