THE UNDER-20s CHAMPIONSHIP
DIABLES ROUGES V. JETS
APRIL 19
Stade Jean-Bouin is a real stadium: manicured turf, electronic scoreboard. It seats something like twelve thousand. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen. No clouds, no wind. No cop cars in sight either, no CRS vans, even though the stadium is full to capacity. Folks pack the bleachers and stand ringed around the field, not for the game but for Moose, Mobylette and Sidi.
Georges lent both me and Matt suits that don’t fit either of us particularly well. Georges was solemn as we tried on one jacket after another, so unlike him. It was Françoise who tried to lighten the mood, teasing us and telling us how good we looked and that our families would be proud of what we’re doing.
Georges and Françoise are in the crowd somewhere. Matt says Juliette is too. The only game any of them have come to. The Jets line the opposite sideline. All their players wear dark suits and ties like we do.
The crowd stills when Monsieur Lebrun and the mayor of Villeneuve guides the families out of the dressing room. They stand alongside us Diables Rouges in utter silence, faces blank, everything around us just empty air between earth and sky. Monsieur Oussekine, in a dark suit and tie that doesn’t seem right on him, silent and erect, his arm around Moose’s mom. Pinned to his chest is Moose’s grandfather’s medal. Next to them are Moose’s brothers and sisters. Then Mobylette’s people, the Konates: dark complected and in traditional African clothes, so colorful compared to the dark suits the rest of us wear. His big brother Khalil. The Bourghibas stand next to them: a huge family, eight, nine kids, Aïda, in a dark dress and her red-and-white Diables Rouges headscarf. Sidi’s absence is loud, as though he is dead too.
Seeing them like that—the Oussekines, Konates and Bourghibas, pieces missing from the middle of their family pictures—well, it’s been building in me: I got to get back. Back home.
The Jets’ club president crosses the field, carrying this huge wreath. He presents it to Monsieur Oussekine, Monsieur Konate and Monsieur Bourghiba. He says something to Marc Lebrun and Coach Thierry, then speaks into a mic, his voice blasting the stillness that blankets the stadium. “We will not accept a forfeit,” he says. “This game will end in a tie, nil–nil. We will share the league championship, for your young friends.”
The stands boom in a really electric applause, and it goes on as the Jets players, in single file, cross the field and shake hands with us, one by one. Each passing Jet offers condolences. I nod and don’t say anything. The running back I tagged during our first game approaches. I lower my eyes.
As the procession winds down, I look over and Matt has left the line. He’s standing near the end zone with Monsieur Oussekine, Marc Lebrun and the mayor. I step up beside Matt, who is just listening.
“We’ll do our best,” the mayor says.
“That’s not good enough,” Monsieur Oussekine says. His voice is shaky. “My wife and I, my children—Moussa’s brother and sisters—we have no more tears, so many have we wept since what happened to my son.”
“I understand—” the mayor says, but Monsieur Oussekine cuts him off.
“I don’t think you do. We have no more tears, but that doesn’t mean we have forgotten him. Moussa’s dream was to work with the youth of Villeneuve, to teach and give back in this way. I want…my family and I want you to do something—something!—in memory of our Moussa and to honor his wish. For him and his friends.”
Aïda has walked up, and Matt puts his arm over her shoulders. Tears stream down his cheeks.
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Afterward, me and Matt sit on the Pont des Arts, the pedestrian bridge by the Louvre. Neither of us knows what to say. I don’t, that’s for sure. But I appreciate the sitting, the quiet and peace of it.
“Today,” Matt says finally. “It’s what my dad would have done.”
“It was the right thing to do,” I say.
Such a beautiful day. We just sit, our ties loosened, our backs to the railing, facing the Île Saint-Louis. Nobody seems to notice us.
I say, “I thought this place was a dream. Paris, I mean. Maybe it’s really a nightmare.”
Matt looks over at me, surprised. “No. There’s always the good and the bad, the black and the white, both.” He looks back out over the Seine. “You can’t appreciate the sun without suffering the rain,” he says. “My dad said that. Or maybe it was my mom.”
I look out over the Seine too. Up at the spires of Notre-Dame, peeking over the rooftops. At the tiny patch of park below the Pont-Neuf, where there’s a statue of King Henri IV on horseback, hidden behind a bunch of leafing trees.
The Pont-Neuf, I think, looking over at it. It means “New Bridge.” Matt says it’s the oldest one in Paris.
“You my boy, you know that, don’t you?” I tell him. “For real. Always will be. Here, there, wherever. No matter what, I’ll get your back like you’ve always gotten mine.”
He doesn’t say anything. The Seine flows on by below. Bateaux Mouches, all the tourists.