Paris: Late in the second half of the World Cup final, a man walked his little dog past the throng watching on a makeshift outdoor screen at Le Saint Gervais in the Marais district of Paris, seemingly indifferent to the triumph at hand.
Then a garbage truck drove by, swooping dutifully upon bins.
From where I watched, clinging to a high fence, the World Cup final was for Parisians not so much a matter of life and death as joie de vivre and more of it. The day after Bastille Day, even to be there appeared to take them as a pleasant surprise. In the crowd, one wore a Zidane shirt, another Henrys, but no one yet had a Mbappe. This happy time had come upon them suddenly.
Admittedly, the Marais is scarcely a hotbed either of soccer or the French proletariat. But Le Saint Gervais was typical of the day. For security reasons – always paramount here – only one large public venue was opened, in front of the Eiffel Tower. For everyone else, it was either a muggy living room, or your friendly neighbourhood café.
Mine host at Le Saint had rigged up a screen atop seven bar tables and four crates, listing slightly, with an umbrella to shade it from the still bright sun. Patrons sat in the street, crossed-legged, as if at an outdoor cinema, and mostly stayed that way. Can you imagine that in, say, Italy or Spain, or for that matter Croatia? Two buffoons tried to set up their own chairs in the midst of the watchers. They were met with indignation, but neither raised voice nor hand.
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An hour before kick-off, a passer-by in a Croatian shirt elicited one, lone boo; can you imagine that in Melbourne?
Across the road, a fashion house continued to do steady business throughout the final. Any place else, it might have been closed and boarded up for the day. Here, it was running a sale.
Kick-off, so long awaited, happened without anyone really noticing. The crowd, like the team, took its time to get into the game. Cigarette smoke wafted, making its own micro-climate. By half-time, I had done more passive smoking than at any time since the Phoenix hotel closed.
The chatter did not abate. In soccer, there are those who follow the game, and those who mark time between the goals. Many here were like the crowd at nearby Belleville Park for Bastille the previous night; they had come for the fireworks. They got them.
But after Frances second goal, two young women in the front row still stood after everyone else had sat down, back to the screen, comparing selfies? Can you imagine that at the MCG?
That is not to say that no one cared. Your country playing to win the biggest prize in world sport is not so hard to grasp in broad outline; let others bother with the nuance. In this sense, it was AFL grand final meets Cup day.
French fans react as they watch the final in a Parisian cafe.
Photo: AP
Nerves were apparent. At half-time, France led 2-1 and the young man next to me was 0-4 for smokes. His girlfriend, had barracked raucously, all the while taking care not to tread on the violin case at her feet. Two elderly women, trying to get home, were shepherded through the crowd. Two younger women, carrying shiny bags presumably full of stylish new fashion, were given clear passage in the other direction.
The game resumed almost unnoticed. Its pattern was as in the first half, but more so: the metronomic mastery of the Croats versus the profligate flair of the French. In this tournament, they have been damned for dull play, but this victory was obtained as soccer purists would have it, from flashes of inspiration mixed in with serendipitous happenstance. It felt like a very Gallic way to win a World Cup.
At 4-1, the game became irrelevant. Croatias bizarre second goal went so unnoticed that five minutes later, a man looked up, and around, and asked: “Did they score?” His girlfriend exclaimed hysterically at another near miss, then realised it was a replay.
The formalities began early. The crowd took to its feet, the contest an incidental now. A flare went off, beer cups flew, flags appeared. A man on a motor scooter tooted continuously as he sped by. Across the city, the volume grew and floated from street to street. The many World Cups were becoming one, a vast one.
The celebrations begin on the Champs Elysees.
Photo: AP
A minute before the end, the publican, perhaps fearful for his hardware, began to dismount the screen, leaving the crowd to orchestrate its own countdown. When it was done, the joy was boundless. The euphoric crowds fanned out in to the streets, minor and major, fans and motorcyclists weaved as if dancing. It was clear there would be little sleep in Paris this night.
Exactly how France won the World Cup is probably still a mystery to many at Le Saint Gervais, but it is certain that as long as someone could win it in their name, they would be the worlds best in celebration.
Greg Baum is chief sports columnist and associate editor with The Age
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