On July 2, 2000, joy erupted in the stands of De Kuip, yet Roger Lemerre’s face betrayed no such ecstasy. As teammates embraced in the ecstasy of Sylvain Wiltord’s last-gasp equaliser against Italy, the French coach stood still, his expression unreadable. He had learned too well that football, in its cruel theatre, never concedes its drama until the very end.
What unfolded was not merely a comeback but the apotheosis
of a team that had already carved its name into history. Two years after
conquering the world on home soil, France seized the European crown, fashioning
a “grand slam” that only a few national sides in history could claim. Yet the
triumph was double-edged, prolonging the reign of an ageing core and masking
fissures that would later crack open in the disastrous 2002 World Cup.
Jacquet’s Shadow and Lemerre’s Inheritance
Lemerre’s journey was not one of sudden ascendancy. For
years, he had worked in the shadow of Aimé Jacquet, absorbing the lessons of a
man besieged by critics yet vindicated in the most emphatic way imaginable.
Jacquet’s defiance in 1998—his refusal to appease the press, his insistence on
youth over the cult of Cantona—etched a philosophy of independence. Lemerre
inherited not only Jacquet’s tactical framework but also his stoic resilience
against outside noise.
If Jacquet’s revolution was one of demolition and
reconstruction, Lemerre’s was of continuity. He kept faith with the warriors of
1998—Blanc, Deschamps, Desailly—while slowly blooding new strikers such as
Wiltord, Anelka, Henry, and Trezeguet. This delicate balance between loyalty
and renewal would define his reign, for better and worse.
Zidane and the Rhythm of an Era
France’s tactical identity rested, as so many opponents
learned bitterly, on the velvet feet of Zinedine Zidane. In an era before
gegenpressing and relentless verticality, Zidane thrived in the slower cadences
of play. He was not a strategist in the modern sense but a conjurer—slowing,
pausing, dribbling into traps only to dissolve them with elegance.
Jonathan Wilson aptly described him as “a playmaker of
genius but limited pace and defensive instinct.” Yet it was precisely this
freedom from defensive duty that gave France its aura. In the 4-2-3-1, Zidane
dictated tempo while Henry and the wide forwards stretched half-spaces. In the
4-3-1-2, the burden fell to Vieira and Petit, engines who oscillated endlessly
between the flanks and the centre, permitting Zidane to remain the untouched
pivot of invention.
The age of Deschamps, Blanc, and Desailly limited mobility
but not wisdom. Their collective positional awareness created a structure
resilient enough to absorb pressure, even if vulnerable in open duels. France’s
defensive strength lay less in energy than in shape—a compactness that funneled
opponents wide, while Zidane floated back into pockets to choke passing lanes.
The Final: Breaking the Italian Labyrinth
Italy’s defensive rigour in the Euro 2000 final was a
tactical masterpiece. With a 5-2-3 that suffocated space, they aimed to starve
Zidane of the ball. “Every square metre was ceded so grudgingly,” wrote David
Lacey in The Guardian, capturing the suffocating precision of the Azzurri.
Yet France, as in their semi-final against Portugal,
revealed a crucial quality: adaptability. They never dominated possession, but
they manipulated rhythm. Midfielders rotated, full-backs surged in overloads,
and Henry darted into channels to destabilise the rigid Italian backline. When
Marco Delvecchio struck in the 55th minute, the test became psychological as
much as tactical.
Lemerre’s calm on the touchline seemed to seep into his
players. Wiltord’s desperate equaliser in stoppage time was less a stroke of
fortune than the manifestation of belief: a team unwilling to concede to
destiny. And when Trezeguet’s golden volley ripped into the net in the 103rd
minute, it was not merely a goal—it was the culmination of a cycle of
greatness.
Legacy of a Golden Generation
That French team embodied paradox: aged yet irresistible,
tactically traditional yet capable of fluid improvisation. From 1998 to 2001,
as Marcel Desailly later remarked, they were the best in the world, precursors
to Spain’s later dynasty. Their triumphs, however, delayed the inevitable need
for renewal. By 2002, fatigue and complacency had calcified into vulnerability,
and their crown slipped at the first hurdle.
Still, their place in football’s pantheon is unshakable.
They were not merely champions but dramatists of the game, offering the sport
moments of exquisite beauty and unbearable tension. Many of those players went
on to become voices in media, mentors in coaching, or figures in public life.
Yet the indelible image remains that night in Rotterdam: Lemerre, stoic on the
touchline, his players sculpting glory in the crucible of time.
The footsteps they left remain colossal, almost oppressive
for any subsequent Équipe Tricolore. For in those years, France did not just
win—they defined what it meant to reign.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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