For a few seconds, before the on-field celebrations degenerated into a brawl between football’s newest worst enemies, France and Argentina, it was all about joy. The passionate chorus that had shaken the Stade de Bordeaux non-stop for two hours of white-knuckle football reached a deafening fortissimo.
One man stood apart in the collective delirium. He seemed consumed not by relief or exultation, but by fury. He repeatedly hit his temple with his index finger. Other managers would have sunk to their knees or embraced whichever member of their technical staff was closest, but no, not Thierry Henry.
