THE FUSE

In the summer of 1998, my wife and I watched the World Cup final from a park in Geneva. We had walked across the bridge to the Parc de la Grange by Lac Léman, where large screens had been set up for France against Brazil. We drifted in among the Brazilian fans, hair dyed in team colors, drums going, everyone certain Brazil would win. Then Zinedine Zidane, about whom I knew just a bit, rose out of the crowd for one header, and then another, and by the end, France had won three to nothing. We spent the rest of the night celebrating with the French supporters.