France 98 - the final word

France 98 - Dispatch report from Paris, France

In early 1997, in Manchester, someone asked me: “So, how are the preparations for the World Cup coming along?  Is the tension mounting?”  It wasn’t.  In fact, at the time it was dead calm.  Last Christmas a friend from London expressed his surprise that food manufacturers hadn’t begun a huge promotional campaign for their products with the tournament looming.  “The peas, for example, are really excellent in France,” he said.  Others were indeed making plans well in advance – my friend John had bet on a French victory months before.

But personally, I didn’t really feel much.  As a sociologist, perhaps I shouldn’t let emotion cloud my view too much anyway, but simply analyse things.  And since Euro 96, like many others, I had frankly doubted the ability of the team to produce a style, on or off the pitch, that we could identify with.  We are not like the English or Scottish, willing to dig around the grounds right from the start of a campaign, with or without tickets, to support our national team. French supporters need to feel that there’s something in it for them.

In the run-up to France 98, there were plenty of additional factors which worked against any great upsurge of enthusiasm.  There was the cost of the Stade de France and the impossibility of finding a team worthy of the name to play there, as well as a lot of fairly ugly manoeuvring by sponsors and the media.  More significantly, perhaps, there was a complete failure on the part of the organisers to involve marginalised groups in the deprived suburban estates in any of the preliminaries.  So for various reasons there was little sense of anticipation until shortly before June 10.

Stade de France in construction - the cost totalled the equivalent of €290 million

And then, a month later, with the French team victorious, more than a million people were on the Champs Elysees, and all over France there were scenes of wild jubilation.  It took me several days to return to reality, to get back into the swing of things after a month spent on a little cloud, and to digest the implications.

As it turned out, this World Cup was indeed beautiful, even taking into account the sometimes unpleasant reality of France and of football.  It had all the nice surprises that you need to sustain the belief that football really is a beautiful game.  Not necessarily great matches, but good matches, rarely ruined by the high stakes, a little spoilt by refereeing that was over-fussy or just plain wrong, but with a lot of great skill and technique and fair play, and some great goals.  The extraordinary Japanese, like good school children, had bought the shirts of all the French clubs to honour the host country.  There were classics involving Cameroon, Nigeria, Brazil and Scotland.  Away from the stadiums, the atmosphere in the tower blocks for Morocco’s first match was electric.  And in the streets and cafes something extraordinary was taking shape for France too.

Scotland fans at Stade de France

But there were also the classics involving English and German hooligans.  The former were exactly what we expected: I mark my territory, I drink on my territory, I hit whoever sets foot on my territory and I am helped by the opposing “fans,” in this case the youths from the tough northern suburbs or Marseille and a few Olympique Marseille ultras who took the opportunity to make their mark on their own town centre.

The longer the tournament went on, the more the behaviour of the French fans helped to foster an atmosphere of festivity rather than aggression.  But there again it took a bit of time.  When France met Denmark in Lyon, any sense of occasion was limited to the station (the Scots were coming back from St Etienne), the Place Bellecourt (where the giant screen was) and on the road to the stadium.  For the matches involving Morocco, Tunisia and Iran, by contrast, there was a fevered atmosphere in the districts where the majority of the inhabitants are north African.  Otherwise, everything was normal. 

But then the suburbs began to descend on the town centres to watch the matches, and from France-Paraguay onwards things started to get very exciting.  At St-Denis there were two World Cups.  On one side there were those who had tickets, those who wore ties and followed the signs held by elegant hostesses bearing the names of the major sponsors, those who frequented the VIP village.  On the other side, all around them, there was something like a carnival, made up of people who didn’t have tickets but just wanted to be there to savour the big-match atmosphere, eating sausages and chips and painting their faces, before going home to watch the match on television or settling down in front of one of the big screens.  The whole spectrum of people was to be found in front of these screens: diehard football people, blacks, whites, Arabs, both men and women, those who made the trip after congregating in the town square or their usual café, all surrounded by traders selling exotic sandwiches and T-shirts.

World Cup carnival - Brazil fans arrive for the final

And things grew slowly.  France-Paraguay: everyone had enough space to put their bottle down next to them.  France-Italy: those who arrived late were a long way from the screen.  France-Croatia: the roof of the disused factory that overlooked the area was black with people.  For France-Brazil, there was no more space by five o’clock in the afternoon, and no more tiles visible on the factory roof.  Little by little, France came round to the World Cup, to the pleasure of football, and to the intensification of that pleasure that comes from getting behind your team.

Support for France, however, was never unequivocal.  In the first round we tended to support the small countries against the big ones.  In the second we chose France, of course, but also Brazil and Nigeria.  Even on the day of the final many of the young fans were sporting Brazilian colours.  But the game had captured the imagination of France, and for many, the final was the icing on the cake.  We had nothing against Brazil, in fact it was the dream final.  But then came the glorious surprise.  We won!  Yes, France too can win the World Cup!  We, too, can enjoy one of those liberating days when you shake hands or kiss people without knowing who they are, buy each other drinks, stay in the crowd out on the streets without fear, find common feelings with people we will never meet again.  We were just elated that everything – nearly everything – had gone so well.

Nigeria fans cheer on their team

Afterwards, there was plenty of analysis of the events of July 12.  We talked, of course, about victory for integration.  With tricolours flying we talked of a rediscovery of national pride, one which didn’t automatically imply aggression or exclusion.  We felt that victory in football was a symbol of a better self-image for France.  We rejoiced in the new values embodied by Aime Jacquet and his team; the work ethic in the absence of a creative genius, solidarity, discretion, modesty, awkwardness in communication.  And we beat the National Front.  Or at least, if it wasn’t a total defeat for Le Pen and his followers, it certainly gave them no pleasure whatsoever.  They heard the Marseillaise sung by people who are, for them, foreigners.  And that was a joy to behold.  Those who took part in these events, allowing themselves to become immersed in the peaceful crowds, lived an amazing experience. 

Ready for the final - Frnech fans on the Champs de Mars

What can we expect for the future of French football?  Many young children will join clubs.  Perhaps we will surpass last season’s average First Division crows of around 17,000.  But it is not certain that we will see a huge increase.  Because supporting France in the World Cup is a completely different experience – the French team belongs to everyone, even those who are not passionate about football.  As for the clubs, many people are not ready to take up the habit where the territory still seems hostile.  Maybe we will see groups of young fans inspired by the events of July 12.  But the pro-National Front feelings that are present in many grounds will not disappear immediately, and spectators of Arab or African origin, under-represented in the majority of French grounds, won’t suddenly be going to watch Paris St Germain or Racing Club Strasbourg.  Equally, it’s not certain that the increasing number of female fans noticed during the World Cup will be carried over into domestic games.

The realisation of the hopes expressed on the evening of July 12, 1998 will depend on political responses to schooling, youth unemployment, the fight against racism and inner-city politics, but also to football.  But even if those goals remain out of reach, the euphoria of July 12 should never become a bitter memory as a result – it was an experience worth savouring for its own sake.

(Extracts from A Beautiful World by Patrick Mignon, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)

France 98 - In Vision: The champions

France 98 - Dispatch report from Mexico City, Mexico

Mexico went to the World Cup looking to their supporters, like the chronicle of a quick return foretold, but instead ended up with a heroes' welcome after their first qualification for the second round in a finals held in Europe.  Patriotic fervor first turned sour in November 1997, when 110,000 fans at the Azteca Stadium saw the home side draw 0-0 with a ten-man United States side in what should have been a routine CONCACAF qualifier.  The fans got what they wanted as their derisive jeers were answered with the departure of coach Bora Milutinovic.  His replacement, Manuel Lapuente, at first fared little better, even though Mexico finished top of the CONCACAF group.  The fans were less than impressed with draws against Costa Rica and against European league sides.  In the run-up to the finals the film Titanic was doing the rounds of Mexican cinema, offering an obvious nickname for a team which many feared would founder even when confronted with South Korea, let alone the looming European icebergs of Holland and Belgium.

But the newspapers were left clutching at new metaphors when Luis "Matador" Hernandez suddenly refound his killer instinct against Korea.  Previously Hernandez's biggest contributions to the World Cup campaign had been the billboards plastered all over the country with his reclining figure and dyed blonde locks advertising underwear.

Luis "Matador" Hernandez

If Hernandez's two goals got the crowds roaring in front of the big screens in downtown Mexico City's baking colonial-era streets, the Korea match was also memorable for the unveiling by Cuauhtémoc Blanco - named after the last Aztec emperor who refused to surrender and was tortured to death by Spanish conquistadors - of which English-speakers now call the "Blanco bounce."  As it turned out, Blanco's trick of grabbing the ball between his ankles and hopping over opponents' feet proved about as effective when it mattered as the flamboyant displays of defiance by his famous namesake.

The "Blanco Bouce" in action against Germany

Nevertheless, Mexico's bright start whipped the country into full-blown World Cup fever.  Bars advertised special two-for-one offers to entice customers, although the time difference with France meant not a few arrived late for work and unsteady on their feet after liquid breakfasts.  However, they did so in the almost certain knowledge that no one would mind, or even notice.  Dealing on the battered local stock market slowed to a standstill as brokers took a break from dumping shares to watch the national side, the normally smog-laden air cleared as motorists forsook the 18-million strong capital's streets for safer havens by TV screens, and building-site workers downed pneumatic drills and piledrivers to hear the radio commentary.

However, not everyone in Mexico was enjoying the tournament.  The night before the Korea game saw the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, Mary Robinson, express concern over the "alarming situation" in poverty-stricken Chiapas, a state with a largely indigenous population at the southern tip of Mexico, near the border with Guatemala.  Robinson spoke two days after a bloody clash between the army and alleged supporters of Zapatista rebels, who rose up against the government at the beginning of 1994.  Eight Indians said to be Zapatista supporters and a policeman died in the clash at the village of El Bosque, adding a new atrocity to a conflict that has killed hundreds over the past four years.  Several press columnists were of the view that the government deliberately upped the ante in Chiapas while the public's attention was diverted on the World Cup.  Another clash earlier the same week between security forces and alleged guerrillas killed 11 in Guerrero, another poor southern state where many often do not have electricity, let alone televisions for watching football matches.

Whatever the government's intentions, the team were certainly doing their best to keep Mexico's mind off such uncomfortable reminders of reality for as long as possible.  Their 2-2 draw with Belgium, after being two goals down, was widely seen as a moral victory, but still left the prospects of reaching the second round about as certain as clean elections back home - something you can occasionally glimpse in the distance, but never believe will be achieved.

Parish priests around this traditionally devoutly Catholic country began to call on divine help before the final group game against Holland, by dressing wooden figures of baby Jesus in Mexico's green, white and red strip.  Many statues of Mexico's most revered religious icon, the Virgin of Guadalupe, wore a No 12 shirt to indicate her symbolic presence on the bench for the national squad.  The Guadalupe fixation is significant, not simply as a religious symbol, but is also closely identified with Mexico itself - banners of the home-grown cult led Mexico's fighters for independence from the Spanish in the early 19th century.  She is therefore the natural first port of call for payers to assist the national team.

The Virgin of Guadalupe

The prayers seemed to be answered when Luis Hernandez scored his last-minute equalizer against the skeptical, rationalistic Dutch, and Mexico went collectively berserk.  President Ernesto Zedillo was granted an almost instant post-match interview with manager Lapuente and his "matador"," courtesy of the pro-government Televisa network, which has a monopoly on broadcasting Mexico's international games.  Zedillo, in a phrase more than slightly tinged with machismo proclaimed that Mexico's team had shown "they had size" to deal with the competition and that, once more, they had shown the conquering spirit with which Mexico could overcome its problems.

Critics were quick to point out that the Zedillo administration had not been conspicuously successful in showing the same conquering spirit, wallowing as it was in a controversy over $65 billion bank bailout and repeated budget cuts due to dwindling income from oil exports.  Political columnists wondered whether Zedillo was trying to wrap himself in the national team's colours in a bid to bask in a brief glimpse of glory and recover some kudos for his party, which is struggling to retain the office it has held since 1929.  On the very day of the Holland match, police admitted he had taken hundreds of thousands of dollars in bribes from drug gangs for protection.  On that same day, police arrested the family of Daniel Arizmendi, head of a kidnapping ring which gained notoriety for slicing the ears off its victims and sending them to relatives to speed up ransom payments.

But who was going to stay at home worrying about the budget deficit or trivial cases of mutilation when there was a World Cup triumph to celebrate? Thousands poured into the city squares in a mad party as the war cry "yes, we can!" started by a TV station became "Yes, we could!"  But the festivities soured in Mexico's central avenue, Paseo de la Reforma, when crowds battled with riot police blocking the way to the nation's Angel of Independence monument, the traditional site for celebrating national victories.  Three press photographers had to be rushed to hospital suffering from head wounds after they were trapped under a barrage of missiles thrown by rioters.

The prayers of the faithful proved ineffective in the second round, as Mexico tempted fate by taking the lead and ceded the role of comeback kings to the ever-willing Germans.  Still, Luis Hernandez came back to Mexico with four goals from as many games and a feeling that he might yet make a more successful excursion from Mexico than his recent inglorious time at Argentina's Boca Juniors.

Mexico 'keeper Campos in action against Jurgen Klinsmann

With a little more nerve, Mexico might have claimed the prize that fell to Croatia of humiliating the Germans.  On the other hand, they earned the thanks of a grateful football world by eliminating the dreadfully negative Belgians.  And for the vast majority of Mexican fans, that was enough.  Their team went down fighting and honour was restored.  Or, as Manuel Lapuente put it: "We leave with out faces to the sun."

(Extracts from Onward Virgin Soldiers by Mike Mitchell, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)

France 98 - In Vision: Brazil v the Netherlands

"The stage couldn't be bigger, and he stands right at the centre of it now.  Twenty-two seconds into the second half, Ronaldo makes it 1-0 to Brazil."

France 98 - A postcard from Paris

Dear Mum,

I'm loving life exploring France 98.  Paris, where I am based, has been the perfect host, and the locals here are ecstatic about the competition.  Footix, the World Cup mascot, is everywhere, and the French population have really taken the little cockerel to their hearts.  Of course, it doesn't hurt the mood that the national team is doing so well, despite being taken to extra time by Paraguay in the second round, and all the way to penalties by a plucky Italy team in the quarter-finals.  There's a feeling here that it's France's year, and they're all looking forward to the semi-final showdown against Croatia, the conquerors of Germany.

Naturally, you can't walk down a single road in Paris without some reminder of the tournament, and this is the same in all the other host cities, for this is a tournament that spans the length and breadth of the country - although sitting in my little Montmartre apartment, it's funny to think that 400 miles away on the balmy French Riviera, the people of Marseille have been enjoying the same spectacle.

So what next?  Well we're moving into the semi-final stage now, and whilst the competition hots up, it's also tinged with the sadness that soon, this fabulous occasion will be at an end. Never mind, there are still four big matches to go: Marseille will see the mighty Brazil take on the Dutch on 7 July, whilst here in Paris the French take on Croatia on the 8th.  We'll then see the last two matches on my doorstep - the third place play-off at Parc des Princes, and the final itself at the magnificent Stade de France.

It's funny now that I sit and write this, to imagine the festival of humanity that we've seen in the last few weeks.  The sounds and colours of the whole world have been brought straight to us, and it has been a privilege and honour to celebrate football with so many others.  In many ways, I feel like this particular World Cup will be so fondly remembered over the coming years - it may even be the best tournament of them all.

France 98 - In Vision: Netherlands v Argentina

"After the second touch I knew this can't go wrong...  You're in the moment.  That's the feeling.  After the first two touches... that moment.  It's like your life had led up to that moment."
Dennis Bergkamp

France 98 - Quarter-final: Germany v Croatia

Saturday 4 July 1998

Stade de Gerland, Lyon

And so the quarter finals bring us here - perennial heavyweight Germany versus one of the world's newest countries, Croatia.  Fresh from second-round victories against Mexico and Romania respectively, the two teams ran out at Lyon's Stade de Gerland, for what looked like being a juicy little affair.

40 minutes
Towards the end of an even half, German defender Christian Worns sees straight red for a high-studded challenge on Coratia's Davor Suker.  Could this be a game-changer?  Germany up against it now.

45+3 minutes
Germany on the ropes and desperate to keep it level as they claw through to half time.  It is not to be.  The ball is squared across the German box, and Robert Jarni takes one touch, before hitting a left-footed peach of a shot into the bottom right hand corner of the German net.  The Croatian bench erupts.

80 Minutes
There have been great chances at both ends of the field, but the Croatian defence holds firm to maintain their lead.  Oliver Bierhoff has a fairly good penalty appeal turned down, and Dietmar Hamann is denied by the post, before Croatia break away four-on-three, spread the ball right to Goran Vlaovic, whose low shot across the goalkeeper finds the bottom left hand corner for 2-0.  Should German 'keeper Andreas Kopke do better?

85 minutes
An iconic goal from the Croatian legend Davor Suker!  He picks up the ball on the left of the Germany penalty area, beats Ulf Kirsten and takes it to the byline, cuts back inside, and hits a low shot through the legs of floundering defender Jorg Heinrich.  3-0.

the final whistle signals the end of the greatest match in Croatian football history, as the newcomers waltz into the semi-finals in the most comprehensive fashion.  No doubt Germany will come back far stronger next time around.

France 98 - In Vision: Argentina v England

 "I have nightmares about France 98.  It was humiliating.  
It will always be with me."
David Beckham

France 98 - Dispatch report from Bogota, Colombia

It is never a good sign when your team's goalkeeper is crowned the star of the tournament, and when Colombia's weepy No 1 Farid Mondragon was elevated to hero status after the team's first game - their 1-0 defeat against Romania - it seemed Colombians were already preparing themselves psychologically for the inevitability of a first-round exit.  Something at least had been learned from USA 94.  Their certainty that they would win the 1994 World Cup was a quaint reminder of Latin American patria, the unswerving conviction that nothing could be better, no team could be stronger than Colombia, that no result was more certain or more fitting than glorious victory for the Republic.  It was also a horrific reminder of the danger of living a cycle of impossible hopes.  As Colombia reeled from its undignified defeat, Ricardo Munoz confronted Andres Escobar in a car park outside a disco in the city of Medellin.  He congratulated the 27-year-old defender on his own goal against the US, which had sealed Colombia's sorry fate, and then fired six bullets into his chest.  Helped by a ban on the sale of alcohol in the 24 hours either side of Colombia's matches, fans in 1998 learnt to be humble and soberly realistic about their team's prospects.

But as kick-off time approached, no amount of level-headedness could prevent fans at home from whipping themselves into a feverish excitement.  For a couple of hours before the game, Bogota was brought to a standstill by massive horn-blowing, flag-waving traffic jams, before a deserted hush fell over the city, and the excitement moved indoors.  In fashionable north Bogota, offices and shopping centres erected video screens for their employees and customers, which attracted the largest crowds.  In the city centre, small-time emerald dealers and shopkeepers shut up their businesses and jostled for space outside TV shops with street urchins and heavily armed policemen.  The prospect of 90 minutes with a semi-automatic pressed in the ribs did nothing to dampen expectations and excitement on the street.

In the end, the country's radio and TV commentators could not resist a last minute burst of over-optimism.  Five minutes before kick-off, they were well into their usual pre-match ritual.  This consists largely of picking the other team apart until they are ready to be devoured by Colombia.  The opposing team is made up of ageing veterans long past it, whippersnappers with no experience, and mediocre tacticians.  Imagine the shock, then, when bang on 45 minutes this motley bunch of Romanian amateurs took the lead.  The commentators managed only their weakest rendition of their traditional long-drawn out goool and then fell silent with the rest of the country. Even their relished half time massacre of the referee was downbeat.  By the end of the game, Mondragon's saves were getting louder cheers than the team's stumbling efforts towards Romania's penalty area.  A certain acceptance was already settling in.

The final whistle was greeted, as is often the case, by a remarkable switch in the opinions of the commentators.  Colombia had put up a sterling fight, faced as they had been by a team of ruthlessly trained European football machines who were well on their way to the final.  Back in Bogota, subdued and tearful crowds made their way home.  Among those with their cheeks streaked in mascara was the reigning Miss Bogota, Karen Guaqueta.  "I just adore Tino," she told reporters through her tears.  "It was very wrong of Dario Gomez to take him off with only five minutes to go."

Romania celebrate near Colombia's Freddy Rincon 

The next day, Miss Bogota proved she either had a hotline to Faustino Asprilla or could read his mind.  "I was victimized when I was substituted and there is favoritism within the squad," Tino the Octopus (as he is known, for his flailing gait) told a Colombian radio reporter on a shopping trip to Paris.  Asprilla and his coach have had their fair share of fall-outs, and in the interests of team unity, Gomez sent the former Newcaslte United striker packing.  Back home, the press launched an offensive, and Gomez came out fighting.  "I'm leaving at the end of the tournament, and if you've got a replacement lined up, send him right now," he blustered.

With arguably their biggest star out of the team and divided loyalties within the squad, it was no surprise that Colombia were not exactly at their best against Tunisia.  By now other old-timers were under attack at home.  Even the saint-like figure of Carlos Valderrama came in for some gentle rebuffs.  The team's insipid 1-0 victory over Tunisia was good enough reason for a brief burst of wild celebration among Colombia's goal-starved followers at home.  Some face had been saved, and there was always the possibility that they might just beat England.

If the team was respectfully wary of the encounter, Colombian fans were by all accounts terrified by "los ooliganes."  My efforts to point out that not every English fan in the stadium was a mindless thug were greeted with great amusement.  "Aha, now the boot's on the other foot," they laughed.  "It's not nice to be branded a nation of violent brutes.  And, of course, we are all drug traffickers too."  They have a point.

When Mondragon shouldered away Paul Scholes' shot in only the second minute, my adversaries in front of the telly crossed themselves frantically.  There was an anguished howl when Anderton hammered home England's first after 20 minutes, and another which seemed to echo round Bogota, nine minutes later, when the Colombian wall flinched, allowing Beckham's curling free kick to fly past Mondragon's outstretched hand.  From then on, the scene was set - Valderrama and his flaccid crew were on their way home.  But Colombian fans still found one last reason to celebrate the acrobatics of their keeper.  Farid Mondragon did indeed prevent an English romp, and when the final whistle blew he collapsed in the goalmouth and wept.  Back home, millions shed tears with him and warmed to the sight of first Michael Owen and then David Seaman trying to comfort their new hero.

David Beckham's free kick seals victory for England

The papers the next day paid homage to the valiant Mondragon and bade a series of farewells, not only to France 98, but to a ten-year era in Colombian football, and to the team built by the ebullient Francisco Maturana.  Invited to give an international lecture, Maturana once promised to show his audience a video which contained all the secrets of great football.  After playing 20 minutes of a classical concert, the former national coach got up and walked off, pausing only briefly to declare: "Gentlemen, football is a feeling, and those who don't live with the same intensity of passion as you see in those musicians will never make it."

Francisco Maturana

The World Cup was always obliged to share centre-stage with politics in Colombia, where presidential elections fall at the end of June.  Comparison between the fate of the football team and the state of the nation were inevitable, and this time around they are particularly apt.  Colombia is in a mess, with an escalating civil war and crumbling economy.  The country's new president Andres Pastrana was elected on his "back to the drawing board" reform proposals to put the country on the rails, and the press is convinced their football team needs the same treatment.  Pastrana promises to end political corruption, and here too football commentators see a parallel.  Gone are the days when drug barons picked Colombian teams in return for their sizable patronage, but many still complain that the national team's legitimate sponsors, not the coaching staff, run the show.  Fans and critics alike echo Tino and Miss Bogota's observations that old allegiances have led to favoritism in the squad, and all seem to agree that new blood on the pitch and a foreign coach is the only way to clean up and revitalize the Colombian game in preparation for 2002.

(Extracts from Changing of the Guard by  Jeremy Lennard, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)

France 98 - In Vision: Brazil v Norway

"I know that Kjetil Rekdal scored the winning penalty two minutes from time, he said he'd dreamt about it the night before.  It was a good penalty and an important penalty.  It was a great night to beat Brazil."

Henning Berg

France 98 - Group B: Italy v Austria

Tuesday 23 June 1998

Stade de France, Paris

And so we reach the third round of group matches, where both matches in each group are played simultaneously.  Over in Nantes, Chile play Cameroon, whilst on the outskirts of Paris, heavyweights Italy meet Austria.  Everything is up for grabs in this group - Italy lead on four points, Chile and Austria sit below on two, with Cameroon propping up the group on one point.  Anybody can still qualify - and anyone can still go home.

48 mins

After a cagey first half, Gli Azzurri draw first-blood after Peter Schottel puts in a clumsy tackle on Alessandro Del Piero on the left.  Del Piero delivers a perfect free kick into the Austrian six-yard box, and with the Austrian defence is disarray, and goalkeeper Michael Konsel seemingly caught in no-man's-land, Christian Vieri meets the ball with a firm downwards header, his fourth goal of the group stages.  Over in Nantes, Jose Luis Sierra's smashing free kick edges Chile closer to the second qualification slot, before Cameroon's Rigobert Song is dismissed for a senseless claw at the face of Marcelo Salas.  unperturbed, Cameroon level through Patrick M'Bomna a few moments later- it's all to play for there.

90 mins
It looks like Italy have shut the Austrians out for another classic 1-0, when Filippo Inzaghi breaks down the right to a lovely ball from Roberto Baggio.  Inzaghi brings the ball into the box, draws the goalkeeper, before a simple square ball back to Baggio, who seals the win with a tap-in.  Lovely stuff!

90+2 mins
Hannes Reinmayr powers into the box, and in the tangle of legs that follows, is brought crashing to the ground by Alessandro Costacurta.  Referee Paul Durkin has doesn't hesitate in pointing to the spot, and Andreas Herzog has no problem in slotting home the spot-kick.  It's Austria's third goal of the tournament, although strangely, all three of their goals have come in added time following 90 minutes.

Italy are through as group winners, and are rewarded with a tie against Norway.  But with Austria out of the picture, it would be winner takes all in the group's other match.  Drawing 1-1 and into the last two minutes, Cameroon's hopes of victory all-but disappear when Lauren loses his head, and flies in on the stationery Salas, catching him with all elbow on the way, sending Cameroon down to nine men, and putting them on the plane home.  It's Chile through to the second round, where they already know their fate - an unenviable tie against the holders, Brazil.

France 98 - Dispatch report from Johannesburg, South Africa

It's the morning after a 3-0 whipping by France in South Africa's first-ever World Cup game, and everywhere you go there are murmurings and mutterings of treachery.  What was Philippe Troussier, South Africa's charmless French coach, trying to achieve with such a defensive approach?  And how could Pierre Issa, born in the former mining town of Germiston, east of Johannesburg, but raised in France, stick the ball in his own net not once, but twice?  Eventually lame jokes will raise a smile, like: "Knock knock.  Who's there? Issa.  Issa who?  Issa goal."  But not today.  Of course, nobody knows now that South Africa have just lost to the team that will win the World Cup, by the same score that will sink the mighty Brazil.  But then in South Africa nobody shows much interest in any other team in the world except the all-singing, all-dribbling, all-conquering (but oh-so-seldom straight-shooting) Bafana Bafana.  "The Boys."  Our boys.

South African journalists sent to France don't exactly help to broaden the perspective.  The country's biggest newspaper group, Independent Newspapers, for instance, has four writers at the World Cup, but not one goes to the French camp to check out the opposition ahead of the match in Marseille.  They don't bother visiting the Danes or the Saudis either.  Instead, they faithfully relay and amplify all the pre-match promises of the country's heroes.  "I believe we have a realistic chance of reaching the quarter-finals and after that don't write us off going all the way," says striker Benni McCarthy, who was tipped by former coach Jomo Sono to challenge for the Golden Boot alongside Ronaldo, Batistuta and Del Piero.  "We could cause a huge upset and reach the final," says midfielder Helmann Mkhalele.  "My belief is that France are in for a big wake-up call," says Issa.  Anything anyone says about the South African team is reshaped into cheer-leading headlines.  An "umm, er, perhaps" sort of comment from Iceland's coach Gudjor Thordasson - who drew with Bafana Bafana 1-1 in a dismal pre-France friendly - appears as "Bafana can do it, says Iceland coach."  So too with Pele's pre-tournament Mastercard press release, which includes the line "I don't think South Africa, who played very well last year, will be easy to beat."  This bit of non-committal politeness earns the headline "Pele: Get ready for some surprises and the biggest could be Bafana Bafana."

Kick-off against France is at 9pm local time, but the city starts emptying and businesses wind down from mid-afternoon.  A broadcast of the match on a massive screen at a drive-in perched on a mine dump above Johannesburg draws 15,000 people, who start packing the place long before the sun sets, and warm up by dancing to a string of top bands playing kwaito (the latest hard-edged township sounds.)  There is no Mandela magic this time around - the President is otherwise engaged - but the players, according to the front page of The Star, have received a "huge boost" with the arrival of deputy President Thabo Mbeki and sports minister Steve Tshwete.  The French, no doubt, are really worried now.

Pierre Issa

It was always expected that South Africa would look to weather an early storm from Les Bleus, so the cagey, somewhat jittery play of Bafana Bafana gets some measure of sympathy at first.  But the second half is dismal - not just Issa's two own goals, but the complete absence of a team pattern and the glaring inadequacy of far too many players' technique.  Back at base camp in Vichy, reserve striker Jerry Sikhosana says: "I appreciate what Philippe Troussier is doing for us, but at the end of the day we are not European players.  It's time to do our own thing and show the world what we are capable of."

The players, according to one newspaper headline, are planning to toss overboard the fancy ideas Troussier has tried to impose on them, and play it South-African style against Denmark.  No two people, of course, can quite agree on what South African style actually is, although the verve of the Nigerians continues to be invoked as an example.  The Danes score early and come close to adding a second before the break.  When Mkhalele misses an open goal it looks like bye-bye Bafana Bafana.  But in the second half, South Africa come back.  McCarthy, at last, turns hype into reality with a sweetly taken goal from close range.  The Danes flag in the heat, South Africa press forwards.  Two Danes are sent off, Alfred Phiri joins them for using an elbow, and then with virtually no time left, Quinton Fortune drives forwards and shoots.  The ball flies, swerves, dips, sets the crossbar shaking.  It finishes 1-1.

On the Sunday before the decider against the Saudis, one of the newspapers broke the cosy conspiracy around the camp and reported that ten of the players had gone and got plastered after the France match.  A couple of days later, another daily reported that some of the squad had hired a couple of rooms which they used to screw around with the long queue of ever-willing Vichy groupies.  Then it got worse.  Striker Phil Masinga, initially ruled out of the Denmark match with an ankle injury, said Troussier forced him to play for the last few minutes of the match, despite the fact that he could hardly move.  Striker Brendan Augustine and aptly-named midfielder Naughty Mokoena were sent home for breaking curfew and disco-crawling until dawn.  "In this squad there are only five players who don't need a father, a teacher or a policeman," said Troussier.  "The team is not mature.  I have received a message back from South Africa that they don't want a foreigner as coach.  Perhaps it is time for me to go now."

Philippe Troussier

"Yes Boys You Can" says the front page headline of The Star on matchday.  But soon after Shaun Bartlett puts South Africa into the lead, Issa give Saudi Arabia a penalty.  Then Issa gives Saudi Arabia another penalty.  The Bafana Bafana performance is spiritless, directionless, dispirited and lifts only briefly when Delron Buckley, a youngster based in the Bundesliga, comes on for his first World Cup appearance and tears repeatedly through the right side of the Saudi defence.  What on earth has he been doing on the bench all tournament?  

The silence over Parc Lescure in Bordeux is pretty much matched by the gloom in the Bass Line Bar in Johannesburg.  With the Saudis 2-1 up, and not much left of the 90 minutes, the punters have long since stopped imploring and beseeching, and all but given up grumbling.  All that can be heard - via the tinny sound of two TVs the owners have managed to borrow from some regulars - is the sound of a man in the stands, singing a wailing Arabic dirge through a loudhailer.  "Can't one of our fans go over and smack that singer?" says a morose-looking man.  A late penalty gets South Africa a second World Cup point, but Troussier's post-match words are blunt: "I was not only disappointed by the attitude of the team during the match, but also after the game.  Instead of their heads being down after just being knocked out the World Cup, everybody was fine.  They were probably wondering where they were going to go out tonight."

It is three years to the day since a South Africa united in exhilaration and some disbelief watched the Springboks win the rugby World Cup, watched Mandela dressed in a green and gold jersey hand the trophy over to the captain Francois Pienaar, both national icons wearing No.6.  Mandela magic we all called it, a nation of miracle junkies always looking skywards for our next consignment of manna, as the ground at our feet grows more cluttered with tasks undone.  As Bafana Bafana troop off the field, one punter in the Bass Line Bar looks down into his beer and mutters: "Mbeki magic.  We've got it."

(Extracts from The Lost Boys by John Perlman, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)

France 98 - In Vision: USA v Iran

"We did more in 90 minutes than politicians in the past 20 years."
Jeff Agoos