BUT IT DID NOT start. The band played “The Watch on the Rhine,” the German national anthem. Then the “Marseillaise.” Still the game did not start. Time passed. Seconds were minutes, minutes seemed as long as a day. The athletes did what athletes the world over do in such circumstances. They leaped high in the air, squatted and squatted again. They kicked their feet out and up. They bent over, twisting at the waist, to touch the ground on either side. Some walked around nervously, unable to stand still. Nothing happened. From above, the French stands whistled and shouted. The delay was torture for everyone. The captains standing beside the stocky referee straightened up. But the ball stayed under the arm of Rudy Stampfli. The crowd all over now yelled for action.
“Commencez!”
“Anfangen!”
“Why don’t they begin?”
“Commencez! Commencez! COMMENCEZ!”
It appeared that the jam at the entrance gates had been so great, the confusion in the stands so widespread, that many spectators had not yet found their seats and were blocking the aisles. Hence the kickoff was delayed. The wait seemed forever.
The referee looked at his watch. Six, seven minutes had passed. Eight. Nine. Ten.
His arm went up. He snapped his out-pointed hand toward the small circle at midfield. The whole stadium roared as the teams rushed out, eager for action. One Frenchman crossed himself as he stood poised for action, not for victory, no, but to acquit himself well that day.
Suddenly the whistle sounded. The start proved that this was no match for weak hearts. France kicked off and pushed the ball gently to Bonnet, a wing, who kicked it far ahead to the right, a pass beautifully spotted. Varin set off at full speed as though the ball were already there. Sepp Obermeyer, Uncle Sepp, the German veteran who had been assigned to mark Varin, was caught flat-footed by that amazing and effortless burst of speed. You had to play against the boy to appreciate him.
Here it was, the very first minute of the game and the famous French attack built around their young star centre forward, around ball control, around pace and more pace was taking over.
“VarIN... Var... IN... Var... IN... Var... IN....”
The cheers rose, burst into an unearthly roar as the tall Number 2, taking the ball back on the pass, snaked his way through the German defense, stopped short, twisted, curled the ball around his feet, raced ahead, evading the defensive backs. A dart, a dash, a stop, a pivot, a turn, a twist, and he was nearing the goal.
“Regardez! Look at that! Allez, Jean-Paul, Allez! ALLEZ! FRANCEFRANCEFRANCE....”
In millions of homes all over the nation millions of men and women were screaming the same refrain. “Allez! Allez, Jean-Paul....”
The crowd on the French side of the stadium went wild. They were in a frenzy as that red-shirted Number 2 bore down on the goal.
The huge knot of photographers behind the left goalpost steadied themselves, feet wide apart, straining forward, cameras at their eyes. Before the goal the tall German veteran waited coolly. He tugged at his cap, watching the French boy pass the ball to a teammate and receive it back. The baron was wise and knowledgeable. Better than anyone he knew the importance of his slightest move. He had to guess and guess correctly. Waiting just long enough, he raced out, bent low, and scooped the ball away as the Frenchman slammed into him and went flying over his shoulder to land with a crash on the turf. The shock of their collision could be heard all over the field.
The German was older, more solid, more inured to blows of this sort. Besides, anticipating the shock he had braced for the boy’s onrush. Yet even he staggered from the impact before he could rise, straighten out, and kick the ball far down the field. The French player who had tumbled as though shot from the sky lay unconscious upon the turf. The whistle blew loudly.
For a moment there was silence in the stadium, a silence more violent than the roaring that had preceded it. Then a screaming chant rose from the French side. What had been in the back of their minds all afternoon now came out in a torrent of sound. It wasn’t that the French—both present in the stadium and elsewhere watching—lived in the past. But that the past lived in them.
“Le Boucher! Le Boucher! Le Boucher!”