ICONS: Zinedine Zidane, the troubled rise of a footballing genius

Zidane's first appearance in the blue shirt was almost accidental. His call-up for the friendly against the Czech Republic was a last-minute decision by Jacquet, prompted by Youri Djorkaeff's injury and facilitated by the fact the match was in Bordeaux, where Zidane played his club football.

When he stepped onto the pitch, he joined a team still dominated by figureheads of the previous generation, such as Eric Cantona, and the contrast was striking. French football was at rock bottom, and this young man, of almost anachronistic elegance, seemed to float above the prevailing malaise.

Zidane’s brace sparked an immense wave of hope. In a country orphaned by Michel Platini's generation, people saw Zidane as the long-awaited successor, the saviour capable of healing the still-raw wounds of the Bulgaria trauma.

But the reality was more complex. While Zidane's individual talent was evident, the French team remained a fragile entity, a collective requiring complete reconstruction. Jacquet understood this better than anyone. Far from succumbing to general euphoria, he didn't immediately hand over the keys to his young prodigy. On the contrary, after that blistering introduction, Zidane returned to the bench for subsequent matches.

This cautious management sent a clear message: Genius, however dazzling, must fit within the collective project. The media, while acknowledging an exceptional player, still portrayed Zidane as being young and green, and far from captain material. The brilliance of his debut created expectations of immediate salvation, but that pressure would prove both a blessing and a burden.

After the promise of his debut, Zidane struggled to find consistency in the national team. His performances were erratic, often described as middling, sometimes without real influence on play. The discreet genius couldn't assert himself, and the media began speaking of a squandered talent as initial hope gave way to a form of disenchantment.

Euro '96 in England should have been Zidane’s tournament, the first major stage where he was expected to emerge as the technical leader of Les Bleus. Instead, he became the symbol of the difficulty the team was facing.

Anonymous, almost ghostly, Zidane drifted through the competition without ever imposing himself, becoming for the international press a major flop. France, built on an iron defence, reached the semi-finals, but their progress owed little to their playmaker. Fans and pundits were left disappointed, and doubts over Zidane’s capacity to carry the team intensified.

What almost nobody knew, though, was that Zidane was playing injured, as shortly before the tournament began he was involved in a serious car accident. Zidane’s rented BMW was, in the words of his friend and team-mate Christophe Dugarry, severely damaged, while in the impact Zidane hit the gearstick violently with his pelvis, causing a contusion and an extremely painful haematoma.

He subsequently played the entire tournament at far from 100 percent fitness, and this hidden injury radically changed perceptions of his performance. It transformed a simple sporting failure into an act of silent courage, and it made Jacquet's faith all the more remarkable given the manager didn't deviate from his plan. His belief in Zidane, which many then deemed incomprehensible, wasn't blind gambling but profound trust in a man he knew was suffering deeply.

Jacquet wasn't simply a manager; he was a builder. When he took the reins of the national team in late 1993, he had a clear vision: Construct a team capable of winning the World Cup on home soil in 1998. His method, contrary to the champagne football of the 1980s, relied on non-negotiable principles of impregnable defensive solidity, iron collective discipline, and meticulous planning so as to leave as little as possible to chance.

To implement his project, Jacquet made the boldest and most controversial decision of his tenure in casting aside the icons of the previous era. As a result, Cantona, David Ginola and Jean-Pierre Papin were gradually sidelined. Jacquet felt Cantona's style didn't fit his scheme and that Ginola disrupted the rhythm he wanted to impose.

This move earned him fierce hostility from the press, who accused Jacquet of killing the beautiful game. But the coach held firm because he knew around whom he wanted to build.

At the heart of this new France was Zidane. Jacquet saw in him far more than simple talent, detecting in Zidane a silent leader and a player capable of elevating those around him. Jacquet told Zidane to his face: "It's with you that I'll prepare for these competitions." The entire team structure was designed to offer Zidane the security and freedom of expression he needed to flourish.

Their relationship was more than professional; it was paternal. Zidane, described as a sensitive young man who needed security and confidence, found in Jacquet the perfect mentor. This trust, deemed blind by critics, proved to be the cornerstone of the 1998 project. It was an act of faith in a man, but also the result of deep analysis. To win, France didn't need kings like Cantona, but a conductor.

On October 11, 1995, in Bucharest, France faced a major test: A Euro '96 qualifier against a Romania team who had gone unbeaten at home for five years. That evening, though, Jacquet's project truly took shape.

In a hostile atmosphere, Zidane delivered his first masterclass in the blue shirt. He was the catalyst for the 3-1 victory, providing a superb assist for Christian Karembeu before scoring the third himself with a sumptuous half-volley. This match was the breakthrough, as the player of immense potential finally became a decisive leader on the international stage.

If Romania showcased Zidane the individual, the new creative identity of Les Bleus was forged around his partnership with Djorkaeff. Jacquet had the intuition to build his attacking play around the pair, and their combination exploded during the historic 10-0 demolition of Azerbaijan in September 1995, a match where between them, Zidane and Djorkaeff were involved in seven of the 10 goals.

The duo complemented each other perfectly. In Jacquet's 4-3-2-1 system, Zidane, positioned wide left, dictated the tempo. Djorkaeff, in a ‘nine-and-a-half’ role on the right, was, as the more direct and incisive player, the finisher. While the media sought to pit them against each other, the two men displayed mutual respect. The idea they were incompatible? "Nonsense," Zidane would later dismiss.

Between 1995 and 1998, Zidane and Djorkaeff featured together in 34 matches for France; they won 25, drew nine and never lost once. The pair combined for 22 goals and 21 assists. This duo wasn't merely a perfect combination of attributes, but also the tactical translation of Jacquet's philosophy. By distributing creative responsibility across two players, he avoided the trap of dependence on a single star and preserved the collective balance that was so dear to him.

Zidane didn't begin the 1998 World Cup as a conquering hero. His display in France’s opening match against South Africa was decent, marked by an assist from a corner, but he was far from dazzling. France won, but their star wasn't yet shining brightly.

And it was during their second match, against Saudi Arabia, that everything threatened to unravel. With Les Bleus comfortably leading 2-0, a frustrated Zidane stamped on Saudi captain Fuad Anwar. The red card was instant, revealing a dark aspect of his temperament as he became the first French player in history to be sent off at a World Cup. It earned Zidane a public dressing-down from captain Didier Deschamps after the match, though the same dark side would go onto infamously resurface eight years later in Germany.

The punishment was severe as Zidane was handed a two-match ban, meaning he would miss France’s final group game and, crucially, the round of 16. Thus, his position within the squad became extraordinarily precarious.

Against Paraguay in the first knockout round, France laboured against a stubborn defence and owed their qualification solely to Laurent Blanc's ‘Golden Goal’ in the 114th minute. Had that ball not gone in, the story would have been entirely different. Zidane would have become the nation's pariah, the scapegoat for a humiliating elimination on home soil.

His case echoed that of David Beckham in the same tournament. Sent off for a petulant kick of Argentina's Diego Simeone, the Englishman watched on as his team were eliminated on penalties and subsequently became the target of a national hate campaign of unheard-of violence, including death threats and hanging effigies. The Daily Mirror's headline – "10 Heroic Lions, One Stupid Boy" – summed up the fate Zidane narrowly escaped, as a single goal separated redemption from crucifixion.

This trial, this near-fall, paradoxically strengthened the France team, which proved its character in his absence, and set the stage for his redemption.

On July 12, 1998, the Stade de France was expecting a coronation, but not of the hosts. Brazil, reigning world champions, led by the phenomenon Ronaldo, arrived at the final against France as favourites.

The atmosphere was electric, charged with the hope and anxiety of an entire nation, while Ronaldo's mysterious seizure hours before kick-off added another layer of drama to an already historic evening. But by full-time, the headlines belonged to one man.

Zidane, back from his suspension, chose this stage to enter legend, doing so with an unexpected weapon: His head. In the 27th minute, from an Emmanuel Petit corner, he rose and catapulted the ball into the net, causing the stadium to explode. In first-half stoppage time, the script repeated itself, albeit this time from a Djorkaeff corner.

In the space of 45 minutes, Zidane had decided both the final and his own destiny. The talented but inconsistent player had transformed into a ruthless leader, delivering his most important performance at the most crucial moment. He was understandably named Man of the Match.

Petit's goal late on sealed a crushing 3-0 victory, and the first World Cup triumph in French history. At the final whistle, a wave of jubilation engulfed the country. Over a million people flooded the Champs-Elysees in national communion, celebrating a team that reflected the diversity of French society. Zidane's face, projected onto the Arc de Triomphe, became the symbol of triumphant France, with two words engraved for eternity: "Merci Zizou".

The very nature of his goals was symbolic. They weren't individual exploits, but the culmination of set-pieces, the ultimate expression of the collective work preached by Jacquet. The greatest soloist had reached glory through the strength of the orchestra.

The 1998 victory wasn't a culmination for Zidane, but instead a springboard. On the evening of July 12, the shy and sometimes hesitant player of previous years gave way to a global icon, a leader whose authority and charisma were now unquestionable. He himself acknowledged years later, "It changed my life, completely." This triumph was the true starting point of his reign.

Under Zidane's leadership, French football entered its golden age. They followed up their World Cup victory with another title at Euro 2000, where Zidane dominated to be named Player of the Tournament. In 2006, it was again Zidane, having come out of international retirement, who carried on his back a team nobody expected to go all the way to the World Cup final, thus proving his phenomenal and enduring influence.

Zidane’s legacy extends far beyond the football pitch, too. The son of Algerian immigrants who grew up in the La Castellane estate in Marseille, his triumph became a powerful symbol for a multicultural France searching for role models. He became an intergenerational icon, an almost mythological figure capable of uniting a nation.

His journey from 1994 to 1998 offers a universal lesson. Genius isn't born ready-made; it must be forged, polished by trials, nourished by trust and tested by adversity. Without the doubts of the early years, without Jacquet's unshakeable faith, without the near-disgrace of the red card, the Zidane legend might never have existed.

The shadows in his ascent weren't accidents along the way; they were essential ingredients. In a world that demands immediate and flawless success from prodigies, Zidane’s story is a powerful reminder that greatness is often the fruit of slow, painful and profoundly human construction.