Under the cold, crystalline skies of Polokwane, Javier Hernández—still largely an enigma to Manchester United fans—delivered a moment that sent legions of underdressed Mexican supporters into rapture and nudged France towards footballing ignominy. His was the goal that prised open a brittle French resistance, an incision made just nine minutes after he entered the fray as a 55th-minute substitute, his dart beyond the offside trap calibrated with such precision it escaped detection by mere inches. It left France on the precipice of an ignoble early exit.
When veteran Cuauhtémoc Blanco, summoned from the bench like a storied character from an epic, calmly dispatched a penalty twelve minutes from time, Mexico not only sealed their triumph but also marched level with Uruguay atop Group A. Meanwhile, France and hosts South Africa were left to share the meagre spoils of a solitary point—apt recompense for France’s torpid offerings thus far.
Javier Aguirre, the Mexican coach, offered an almost poetic ambition for the next act: “Hopefully we can impose our style on Uruguay and win the match.” By contrast, Raymond Domenech stood beleaguered, assailed by questions about his tactical missteps—not least his puzzling omission of Thierry Henry after withdrawing the ineffectual Nicolas Anelka at the break. Domenech’s words were a fugue of disorientation: “I really don't have any explanation for it… Mexico were possibly the better team.” That final evasive clause lingered like a sigh, for his concern now lay not with what Mexico might do against Uruguay, but rather with salvaging the tatters of French pride.
France’s introspection took on harsher cadences in the dressing room. “It’s shameful to lose like that,” said Florent Malouda, every consonant sharp with frustration. Captain Patrice Evra went deeper, speaking with the raw candour of a man confronting a cracked mirror: “We’ve become a small football nation, and it hurts.” His lament was an indictment born of history, acknowledging France as “not a great team”—a declaration of catastrophe delivered with almost funereal gravity. Having stumbled out of Euro 2008 at the first hurdle, they now stared into a familiar abyss. “You really don’t want to think about football any more,” Evra confessed, a statement as devastating as it was human.
Yet from the outset, Mexico appeared intent on scripting a different narrative. Unlike their cautious overture against South Africa, they opened this encounter with vivid attacking flourishes. Giovani dos Santos struck a post after just two minutes, his attempt ultimately nullified by an offside flag but serving as an early communiqué of intent. Carlos Vela, sharper on the next occasion, latched onto Rafael Márquez’s arcing pass only to hurry his shot, sending it skyward. Guillermo Franco’s clever turn past Eric Abidal went similarly unfulfilled, his effort flying too high.
France briefly emerged from their cocoon, pushing Mexico back with forays that threatened more than they delivered. Franck Ribéry’s tantalising ball across the box found no willing boot, and Jérémy Toulalan’s deft cross moments later eluded Malouda by a breath. Still, there was an urgency to this contest absent from many first-round skirmishes—a shared recognition that victory here would all but assure progression, while defeat could mean a long journey home.
Carlos Salcido, Mexico’s indefatigable left-back, galloped forward to draw the first meaningful save from Hugo Lloris. But Mexico suffered a blow when Vela departed injured without obvious contact, a grimace painting his exit. France, for their part, offered only sporadic menace. Anelka, anonymous until then, produced a routine save from Oscar Pérez on the cusp of halftime. His departure at the interval—replaced by André-Pierre Gignac rather than the talismanic Henry—was less a surprise than a resigned shrug at Domenech’s peculiar obstinacies.
The second half brought fresh Mexican verve, with Salcido again prominent, his drive halted only by Bacary Sagna’s intervention. Mexico’s inventive free-kick routine nearly unlocked France, Dos Santos threading to the byline only to squander the opportunity with an errant cross. France countered, Malouda forcing Pérez to tip over with a rising strike. Yet Dos Santos’s subsequent free-kicks, soaring harmlessly beyond the bar, drew not only groans from the crowd but a daggered glare from Aguirre, urging him toward more prudent choices.
All of which proved academic when Hernández, seizing on Márquez’s perfectly weighted return, sprinted through to round Lloris and tuck the ball away. The French defence’s belated appeal for offside dissolved under the replay’s scrutiny—Hernández had been onside by the slimmest margin, no more than the width of a boot.
Thereafter, France’s response was anaemic, Ribéry and Malouda ceasing to menace, Domenech’s substitution of Mathieu Valbuena for Sidney Govou failing to move the dial. Their evening of limp resistance culminated when Abidal, seemingly too weary or too defeated to withdraw his leg, felled Barrera in the box. Blanco, with all the calm of a man reciting an old poem, converted the penalty.
Thus France—so surprisingly buoyant in Germany four years prior—found themselves once more plunged into the murk. For Mexico, this was a night of rejoicing, their fans dancing defiant against the cold, celebrating not merely victory but a reaffirmation of identity. For France, only questions remained, dark and unyielding, echoing long after the stadium lights dimmed.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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