Zidane at Euro 2000: The Alchemy of a Genius

Zinedine Zidane entered Euro 2000 not as a promise, nor as a player seeking redemption, but as a sovereign presence. He had just completed another mesmerizing season with Juventus, a campaign of near perfection undone by the capricious cruelty of Italian football. From August to March, the Old Lady lost just once in 26 league matches, her attack flowing through a trident of rare intelligence—Zidane, Alessandro Del Piero, and Filippo Inzaghi. Yet when the rain fell on Perugia’s sodden turf, Juventus fell too. Four defeats in eight matches surrendered the Scudetto to Lazio on the final day, the downfall sealed beneath Pierluigi Collina’s Diadora umbrella.

For Zidane, that collapse was less an ending than a sharpening of purpose. Denied in Italy, he would seek fulfilment in the colours of France, who arrived in Belgium and the Netherlands as reigning world champions. He had already inscribed himself into French folklore with those two-headed goals against Brazil in 1998; now, the European stage awaited his refinement into legend.

The Opening Act: Grace Meets Resistance

France’s campaign began with Denmark, a team versed in the role of underdog. Early on, Les Bleus looked tentative, jolted by Danish counterattacks and tested by Jon Dahl Tomasson, only for Fabien Barthez’s shaved head—kissed before kickoff by Laurent Blanc in a now-sacred ritual—to intervene. Then, in the 10th minute, Zidane picked up the ball from Blanc inside his own half and began to glide.

What followed was not a run but a revelation: defenders bypassed with effortless feints, acceleration without strain, balance without break. Stig Tøfting’s cynical foul ended it, but the tone had been set. Zidane’s artistry had announced France to the tournament, and soon Blanc, Henry, and Wiltord turned domination into goals. The scoreboard read 3–0, but the chorus that mattered was the crowd’s chant: *“Zi-zou, Zi-zou.”*

The Group of Shadows and Light

Against the Czech Republic, Zidane tormented defenders with his roulettes and flicks, threading improbable passes into narrow corridors. One outside-of-the-foot jab to Henry should have been an assist; only a fraction separated grace from glory. France won narrowly, their margin thin but their talisman radiant.

The Dutch awaited in Amsterdam, co-hosts with flair and fire. Gérard Houllier called it a “dress rehearsal for the final.” It was instead a warning: the Netherlands, roared on by their people, came from behind twice to beat France 3–2. Zidane, rested, watched as his teammates bent but did not break. Fate, it seemed, was arranging a clash further down the line.

Outside the pitch, shadows darkened. News broke of an Algerian-based terror plot against the French team—an attack on the multicultural harmony Zidane personified. The squad was moved to another hotel; the noise was unwelcome, but Zidane, of Algerian descent and a global icon, carried the weight with stoic calm. On the field, he answered only with the ball.

Quarterfinal: Zidane versus Spain

Bruges became the stage for Zidane’s first masterpiece of the tournament. Against Spain, he floated through midfield with a languid swagger that confused as much as it enchanted. Was it arrogance, or simply the ease of genius? His first touch—often stopping the ball as though tethered to invisible strings—became the prologue to movements that dissolved Spanish structures.

In the 32nd minute, Youri Djorkaeff was fouled outside the box. The stadium murmured in anticipation: “Zi-zou, Zi-zou.” Zidane stood over the ball, struck it with his instep, and watched it curve into the top corner past Santiago Cañizares. It was not just a goal—it was theatre, defiance, and affirmation all in one.

The match became a duel of minds: Zidane against Pep Guardiola, the deep-lying orchestrator of Spain. One sought to dictate tempo, the other to reshape its very rhythm. When the whistle blew, France advanced after Raúl’s missed penalty, and Zidane exchanged shirts with Guardiola—two architects acknowledging each other across the span of genius. Years later, Guardiola would call Zidane “the greatest player in history,” a sentiment born, in part, on that Belgian night.

Semifinal: Zidane and Figo, Mirrors of an Era

Brussels staged the semi-final, billed as Zidane versus Luís Figo. Frank Leboeuf called the Portuguese winger the world’s finest; Patrick Vieira declared Zidane his hero. Such was the polarity Zidane inspired: admiration from rivals, devotion from teammates.

From the outset, Zidane danced between tempos: a back-heel to Lizarazu, a driven switch to Thuram. Yet Portugal struck first through Nuno Gomes, unsettling French cohesion. Zidane, unusually animated, clashed with Figo, barked at Henry, and fought with a ferocity beneath his elegance. His dribbles now bore teeth, forcing Portugal backward, clawing France back into the game.

Then came *the touch*. A looping ball descended awkwardly; Zidane controlled it with his chest, flicked it over his head, spun, and crossed in one continuous ballet. Vieira’s words—“He turns a bad pass into a good pass”—echoed in truth. The goal never came, but the image endured: Zidane, turning chaos into poetry.

Extra time demanded resolve. Abel Xavier’s handball offered a penalty, and Zidane, unfazed, buried it. The calm after the storm. France to the final.

The Final: Resistance and Release

In Rotterdam, Italy imposed their will with defensive suffocation. Marco Delvecchio’s volley put them ahead; Francesco Toldo, heroic throughout the tournament, stood as a wall. Zidane, shackled by Demetrio Albertini’s discipline, sought gaps, chesting down awkward passes, attempting the improbable against familiar Serie A foes. Yet time ebbed away.

Then, in stoppage time, Wiltord slipped the ball beneath Toldo. France had forced extra time. In the 103rd minute, David Trezeguet’s volley ripped into the net, sealing the golden goal, sealing immortality. Zidane, though not the scorer, had again been the constant presence—the gravitational force around which France revolved.

Legacy of a Prime

Euro 2000 was Zidane at his zenith: conductor, destroyer of structures, artist of time and space. He did not merely play football; he sculpted it, bending tempo and geometry to his will. He won the World Cup in 1998, would later deliver Madrid its long-sought Champions League, and close his career in 2006 with a headbutt that made him myth. But in Belgium and the Netherlands, he was pure football distilled—flowing, flawed, furious, and unforgettable.

From Bruges to Brussels, from Rotterdam to Paris, his name still carries the chant: “Zi-zou, Zi-zou.”

Thank You

Faisal Caesar