I’m trying to remember when I started crushing on French football.
Was it World Cup 98? Zidane’s double headers in Paris?
No, that was my first exposure to the French team, but I was supporting the Seleção. The Nike commercials, the Canary Yellow kits. El Phenomenon.
I had no clue. I couldn’t comprehend Zidane’s composure on the ball. I didn’t appreciate the roulettes or dragbacks. All I saw was a balding forty-four-year-old midfielder head two bullets past a cardboard cut-out of Taffarel.
Yeah, those blue Adidas kits were dope as hell but our relationship was still years away.
Oh, I remember now. London. It all began in North London.
P.S. I learned later that summer Zidane was only 26 years old. His early male pattern baldness brought me great comfort later in life.