Just live

This incomprehensible Zidan jumped off the golden throne, jumped from the top and went on

When Zidane announced his resignation at a press conference, the President of Real Madrid Florentino Perez, who was sitting at the same table with him, looked at him with anxiety, bewilderment and quiet horror.

The resignation was unexpected for him. And for all unexpected. But it is not a matter of surprise. The billionaire and the large Vorotall captured at Zidane as a man who performs an incomprehensible, inexplicable, strange and even dangerous act.

Leave from the top. And not just from the top, but from the highest peak, ascended over the plains and ordinary clubs of club football, in which countless “arsenals”, “ayaks”, “Borussia”, “Bruges” and so on are beating. And here - “Real”! The Great Royal Club, a noble creamy whiteness against the backdrop of a worldwide football colorful, grandiose players, transfers for hundreds of millions and victories that are recorded in history with a golden pen. Who will leave this delightful life of his goodwill at the time of higher glory, in a situation of an open horizon and a beautiful path? Who is so insane to push away all this from himself?

Zidan. Zidan, nicknamed Zizi, forty -one years, eighty -seven meters, the father of four sons, and all four are football players. Nonseed on football almost from infancy, which received his first professional license at the age of ten, playing in France, Italy and Spain, knowing football in all its subtlest manifestations, understanding in football something that we all do not understand in it, for three years of coaches in Real Madrid, won the prizes and titles more than six coaches won before him (and among them were Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino and Mouurino Ancelotti)-this incomprehensible Zidane simply jumped off the golden throne, jumped off the top, shook off his knees of his dark blue trousers and went on.

Where? Where next? To life. Live.

This is not a change of one job to another, this is a change of work to a pause, a change of life and training for a minute to a thoughtful look at the window and, perhaps, a trip where he wanted to get so long ago.

In the Algerian village in the Atlas Mountains there is a small white house with blue doors covered with burnt in the sun, from the red pink tiles, from where his parents once fled to France. He always wanted to find this house, stand on its walls and, perhaps, enter his quiet dusk, bending his head, because the blue doors set by his father were not designed for the son to grow up with such a tall guy, such a smaller.

Such a tall person with a smooth bald skull, wearing expensive jackets and always a tie, a man, a man, whose face and voice know the whole world. And his dad was a storekeeper in the Marseille supermarket. Mom Housewife. How many years have passed since he played football on the street and Fintil in rapture, not yet knowing that all these departures to the sides, the ball and the turntable in both directions will be useful to him in filled and roaring huge stadiums.

Zidan, Zizi, hefty and strong, collide with such a more expensive one, in any game was the best, not because he physically exceeded everyone, but because he was more technical and smarter. This was the charm of his game. Thunder with filigree technology. A bald uncle, running the faster. I still like to look in the old chronicle, how he stops the ball, knocked out with all his strength by the goalkeeper by sixty meters. Do you know how such a ball flies? He flies like a core, and creates the wind in flight. Zidan takes him to rise his big leg - I don’t know what size is probably forty -third, and maybe forty -fourth - it extinguishes the speed of the ball with a relaxed rise and gently lowers it down to the ground. Perhaps I can also do this in place, but Zidan does it in such a movement and at such a speed that his T -shirt is inflated by the wind. With every step, he absorbs three meters. An angular, huge, in a blue T -shirt with a Gallic cock on his chest, he flies forward and in the thick of the crowds exactly works with his foot, like a club, leading the ball from under the nose of the defenders.

Zidan, Zizi, the son of migrants and a nee Frenchman, you combined in your game French grace and vital power of those who come from the sea from the south. The English and German clubs were not interested in him, alien, not needed - he spent his whole life in the world of the sun and pinin, in a magical paradise, where oranges are growing by the road. France, Italy and Spain were the habitat of his habitat, it is always warm, always friendly, always revealing the embrace of the world. Over the stadiums where he played, the evenings were a thick southern sky. He could see the sea into the open openings of stadium outputs. The Mediterranean Sea, blessed and soft, liberating the body and soul is warm, the ancient living world, which was time to fall into childhood and most of all to love the game in the foot ball.

Having become the coach of Real Madrid, Zidan did not invent sophisticated arrangement schemes and new methods of the game. The success recipe for other coaches can be formulated with few words. Klopp makes frantic rock and roll football with pressure and movement. Mourinho builds a game without holes and empty places. Simeone creates a fortress that is traveling on wheels, from which Griezman periodically runs into the attack. And Zidan? There were no discoveries in the game of Real Madrid, and yet he won the Champions League three times in a row. Zidan, who knows football to the last depth, knowing him as we never know, even having watched thirty thousand matches, did some human, simple and complex, inexpressible words in this national team in this national team, where a costarman stands on the gate, a Croats play in the midfield, and a Portuguese in the attack. And the Welshman is replaced and clogs with a blow through himself. He all of these diverse geniuses of the ball somehow tied the live team, created the density of the game, but did not concrete it, made the right schemes, but did not fix anyone.

When, in the final of the 2006 World Cup, in his last, farewell game, Zidan at the 110th minute hit his head in the chest of Italian Materezzi, who insulted his sister, many did not understand this act. The French by that time completely controlled the game. The captain of the French national team deprived his victory and himself triumph. He could leave football with triumphantly raised cup, and left under the stands with his head lowered. But those who condemned him did not understand that for Zidan there are things more important than football.

It sounds very strange for a person who played football all his life, knows nothing but football, earned worldwide glory and a lot of money in football, but this is so, and he himself talked about it more than once.

A feat is to save someone. To score a goal is not a feat. He called himself a person who enjoys people, but never a hero. You can play and train, but this is just a game, and around it is life.