disgrace

Zidane prowls the grass. The filmaker consciously captures him as a creature of the veldt, feet picking at the turf like an antelope. At the conclusion, the player hurls himself into the fray, for no apparent reason. He is sent off. The Bernabeu applauds him down the tunnel.

This is a presage of what is to come. He will carry the image of his disgrace for the rest of his days. The bullet head executing its purpose on a seeming whim, which they will call a moment of madness.

This image will live more vividly that his glory, his greatest goals, his achievements. Yet, as he walks off the pitch, he seems indifferent to his disgrace. As though knowing that disgrace is commensurate to reputation. And it is the bearer who owns the reputation, no one else. It is his to use as he sees fit.