From the top deck of the Stade de France came a tricolor, a shimmering butterfly of red, white and blue, floating through the sultry Paris night, catching the disco lights as it fell to earth. Then another. And another. Then – a little less poetically – a can of Coke Zero, spraying little droplets of brown liquid across a dozen rows. The air was thick with joy and sweetness. Nobody was leaving. In an unfathomable September heatwave, France was having a scorching summer party, and even though the game was over, all eyes were on the dancefloor.
Damian Penaud, the man who shook this game open in the second half, now shook a fist at his adoring public. Grégory Aldritt’s face was bright red, not out of embarrassment but out of sheer superhuman effort, the face of a man who had given his body to the cause and had nothing left to give.
