There's a scummy British pub in Miami incongruously placed in the heart of Little Haiti that features wall-sized screens and bangers and mash in a dark cave that would probably strike fear into the hearts of even cave-dwelling cockroach eaters. It's called Churchill's. I watched the World Cup there with an audience pretty evenly split along national lines (although the people nearest to me were the ones screeching "ALLEZ!") I was rooting for Italy, mostly because I have a crush on Pirlo.
Yes, I'm aware of his feathered hair. Anyway: the best moment of the game was obviously the head-butt, when the bar erupted in wonder. My friend, standing next to me in the glow of many screens replaying the incident, could only gaze forward and whisper, "That head-butt's going to be famous."
But while Zidane displayed remarkably unsportsmanlike behavior, (will we ever learn the words that provoked the rage of a charging bull?) his dramatic exit was probably the most street thing that's ever happened in soccer. With the head-butt, Zidane puts the most thuggish rapper to shame. His Count Von Count hairline is now justified by his actions. The mystical vision in the night that compelled him to return to the sport takes on another meaning: did perhaps the voice mean him harm? Is it improbable that Zidane was motivated to return not by a force of good, but by a force of evil? Did he sign a Faustian pact to propel his team onward that he suddenly rejected, only to be punished by Mephistophelian demons who took his head in their claws and used it as a battering ram against a fragile Italian solar plexus?
Whatever the answer, I'm glad his team lost. But in his fall from grace the former model of all things good, the family man, the elder statesman of French soccer, made his point in a way that had he used his hands or his legs or his elbows wouldn't have been nearly as impressive, nor as honorable. For one moment, Zidane showed us what the game is truly about. And he may have lost his head, but all athletes must be driven by a certain savagery that mere mortals lack (I, for one, get bored after about five minutes of playing any sport). It must be a struggle to maintain the facade of normalcy. You can't be angry with Mike Tyson for what he did, and you can't be angry with Zidane. And when Materazzi said, ''You make mistakes in life, but then you have to purify yourself, without seeking revenge. Everyone has their destiny,'' you sort of want to punch him in the face for being such a pious motherfucker.
I am really, really sad that the World Cup is over. Today is like the day after Christmas. Even the Italians honking their horns outside my window all night knew that morning would dawn bleakly.