France too had its problems, and these Éric couldn’t solve on his own: the France of Henri Michel, that is, not the France of Marc Bourrier. Cantona found himself in a unique position. Still young enough to play for the Espoirs until the end of their two-year European campaign – should it take them to the final – he had also gained by right a place in the starting eleven of the senior squad, and featured in four of the five matches it played until February 1988 (he only missed a 1–1 draw in the Soviet Union because of a slight injury). The contrast between the elation he felt when joining the under-21s and the soul-searching that accompanied every outing of the full international side couldn’t have been starker. Michel’s players huffed and puffed from one depressing draw to another, also conceding a pitiful 0–1 home defeat to the German Democratic Republic in November, which, coming on the heels of an equally pitiful 1–1 stalemate against Norway, confirmed that the European title France had won in such exhilarating fashion in 1984 would not be defended in the final phase of the next tournament. Meanwhile Bourrier’s Bleuets, who dispatched Italy 2–1 in mid-March in the home leg of their European quarter-final, were a joy to watch, and a joy to be part of.
Two years later, in Montpellier, where Stéphane Paille and Cantona thought they could recapture the magic of those days, Éric would say: ‘We had a good atmosphere to start with, which became a fabulous attitude, which enabled us to overcome unbelievable situations, because we went through great moments, important successes. When you live these emotions, you give everything again the next time, so you can live them again.’ Paille felt just as strongly, and there was a great deal of emotion in his voice when we reminisced about these golden days, twenty years after the two friends had worn the blue jersey for the last time together. ‘Our friendship was born on the pitch,’ he told me, ‘when we both joined the under-21s in 1986; and we took it from there. We got on well together when we were playing, we got on well when we were not. We both came from similar clubs, smaller clubs which had a tremendous reputation in terms of producing young players . . . I wouldn’t say these academies were regimented, but it’s true that being with the Espoirs gave us extra freedom. We were professionals, and we didn’t abuse it.’ Here, I could feel a smile creep into Stéphane’s voice – it was obvious that many anecdotes could follow, but not at that time. We had touched on something very private, which I’m convinced was tinged with regret, pain even. He checked himself, and carried on. ‘Marc Bourrier let us get on with it. From the beginning, it was all about the joy of being together and playing together, and Bourrier did nothing to take that joy away from us.’ Could he tell me more about the nature of that joy? ‘Éric and I shared a passion for le beau jeu, le geste [the beautiful game, the elegant piece of skill]. We just clicked. He missed the final because of a spat with Henri Michel, but he was still one of us; his contribution had been immense.’
When Bourrier, a lovely man, had to deal with the odd act of indiscipline, he sought an explanation, not an opportunity to administer punishment; he found his exuberant, generous, hard-working boys a dream to deal with. ‘Cantona? He never gave me a problem,’ he told me from his house in the south-west of France. ‘He gave me pleasure. We trusted each other, and he didn’t disappoint me. I don’t know anything about the “difficult” side of Éric’s character.’
So, by the spring of 1988, almost everything Éric had hoped for when he was smashing cans against the walls in Les Caillols had come to pass. He had become a professional footballer. He had scored for the national team. Under the guidance of two men who appreciated him for whom and what he was, Guy Roux and Marc Bourrier, he had become the leader of a new generation at club and Espoirs level. All that was left for him to do was to make the step up to a bigger club, to challenge for the trophies that were out of Auxerre’s reach. Moreover, he could achieve this by coming home, to Marseilles. He eventually succeeded in doing just that, but the road that took him there proved far more tortuous than anyone could have expected.
4
FAREWELL TO AUXERRE
There wasn’t a single club in the country that didn’t dream of adding Cantona to their squad, but only a handful – four or five, as we’ll see – could afford him now. The whole of the 1987–88 season had been a long, sustained crescendo for Éric, and his value on the transfer market had soared accordingly. He would cost in excess of FF20m, roughly twice as much as Manchester United paid Leeds for their outcast in November 1992. That he was not quite as prolific then as he had been the year before was an irrelevance. A return of 14 goals in all competitions for club and country (compared with 21 in the previous campaign) might suggest that he had withdrawn into his shell somewhat. This was emphatically not the case. Bernard Ferrer’s injury had deprived Éric of his main provider at Auxerre, who were still in the process of finding a new balance after losing a number of key figures in the past couple of seasons: Andzrej Szarmach had retired, the sparkling Jean-Marc Ferreri had been sold to Bordeaux, and Patrice Garande to FC Nantes. Cantona was often switched from his natural position as a centre-forward to that of a playmaker, a role in which he excelled, but which was bound to affect his strike ratio. Moreover, Éric had a knack of shining on the big occasions.
He hit a magnificent streak of form in the spring, when such games came in quick succession. There was the Spanish side’s visit for a friendly played in Bordeaux (whose Girondins were keen to secure his services), which France won 2–1 in convincing fashion. Three days later, on 26 March, the ambitious Paris club Matra Racing (another potential buyer) were dismantled 3–0 at the l’Abbé-Deschamps, with Éric orchestrating the slaughter, just as he had done five months previously when the other Parisian team, PSG (who were also interested in him), had visited Burgundy. Nantes fell 1–0 in the French Cup. Then, on 2 April, it was Marseille’s turn to come across a fired-up Cantona, who scored one of his team’s two goals, to which OM could find no reply. At one stage or the other of the season, and especially towards its end, every one of Éric’s suitors had been reminded of his capacity to raise his game further when the quality of the opposition warranted it.
Éric was now vital to his country’s chances as well as to his club’s. How much so was made plain by the comical manoeuvring which followed his on-field outburst in the return leg of the Nantes tie, on 5 April. The spectators of the Stade de la Beaujoire witnessed something extraordinary, even by Cantona’s standards – the first public demonstration of Éric’s ossoto gari flying kick, which would land him in far greater trouble when he launched into it again in south London, six-and-a-half years later.
Throughout the whole game (which ended in a goalless draw, sending Auxerre into the last sixteen of the French Cup), Cantona had been harried by Michel Der Zakarian, a player he had had previous disagreements with and with whom, according to Henri Émile, who was at the match, he had promised to ‘have a word’ at some stage. Actions speak louder than words, of course, and, on that day, Éric didn’t speak so much as scream at the top of his voice. He gathered speed like a long-jumper on the track and hurled himself horizontally, studs first, at poor Der Zakarian, who had long since passed the ball. Fortunately for his victim, Cantona had spread his legs, which caught the Nantes player on each side of his chest. While Der Zakarian lay prone on the grass, apparently knocked out (which he wasn’t), Cantona calmly walked away, making straight for the dressing-room. The referee brandished a red card at the back of the departing player. To be frank, despite the violence of Éric’s judo kick, the whole episode was hilarious. It was clear that he had taken care not to hurt Der Zakarian – it would have been a different story if his legs hadn’t been spread on impact – and that instead he intended to teach his tormentor a spectacular lesson. Once in the dressing-room, the comedy went on.
Auxerre’s chief executive Gérard Bourgoin was there, together with a club attendant who, Guy Roux told me, ‘had a right go at him’. A bad idea. ‘Canto took the guy and threw him 15 metres away, against the wall!’ A ban was unavoidable. But Rou
x, cunning as ever, had an ace in his hand, and played it shamelessly. ‘The disciplinary commission had given Éric a three-match ban,’ he recalls. ‘Platini [Roux might have meant Henri Michel, whom Platini would succeed later that year] was there. He was furious. And he was even more furious when I told him: “If Canto is suspended, he won’t play for France . . . because he’s unworthy of the national team! I’ll start a national campaign if need be!”’ Eight days later, on 13 April, Marc Bourrier’s Bleuets were playing the first leg of their European Championships semi-final in Besançon, and against formidable opponents – an England team in which a young Paul Gascoigne was accomplishing miracles.
Roux’s arm-twisting amounted to blackmail, and he knew it. The French FA chairman Jean Fournet-Fayard phoned the manager of Auxerre and told him: ‘You haven’t got the right to do that!’ Roux replied: ‘Right or wrong, what about ethics? He won’t play for France as long as he is suspended.’ Shaken, Fournet-Fayard suggested an appeal. Roux purrs: ‘And we appealed. There were cameras everywhere – Canto was delighted with that. They ask him: “What have you got to say, M. Cantona?” “But Michel Der Zakarian . . . he’s from my neighbourhood! He’s a friend! [The two players were reunited at Montpellier a year later.] We’ve been teasing each other ever since we were that high!” . . . and the ban was reduced to two games. Éric played for les Espoirs against England!’
Éric duly showed what France would have missed if the original ban had been upheld. Bourrier’s irrepressible youngsters thrilled the whole country with a 4–2 win in Besançon, in which Cantona scored a vital goal. But nobody took a place in the final for granted. There was still a return leg to be played in the intimidating surroundings of Highbury. For Éric, it was a first visit to a country whose football he did not know much about and had little affinity with. Arsenal’s narrow pitch was extraordinarily close to the stands, the crowd deafening. Right on cue, torrential rain beat down on the turf, while an unearthly fog settled in the old stadium. Everything seemed to conspire against Cantona and his teammates. Their bus was stuck in the London traffic, and the players entered the visitors’ dressing-room a mere 45 minutes before kick-off. But what followed was unforgettable, one of the highlights of Éric’s career. It had to be.
Five days earlier, Auxerre had exited the Coupe de France, losing out to Lille on the away-goals rule: the Dogues had hit the target in extra time after Cantona had scored. Éric could accept defeat, but the tone of his mentor’s post-match talk rankled with him. Guy Roux had put their elimination down to a lack of experience, not of talent or of ‘gnac’ (the French equivalent of bottle). They should not be ashamed of themselves, the paterfamilias said. Nobody had died. They had done their best. And they had won, dammit! Not well enough, that’s all. To Cantona, this generous speech sounded like an admission of weakness. A professional footballer who had clocked 116 competitive appearances for club and country before his 22nd birthday couldn’t be satisfied with excuses of that kind. He wanted out, and didn’t hide it: he passed on a transfer request to the club on 25 April. The press got wind of it. In these circumstances, as Éric told Pierre-Louis Basse, ‘it would be preferable for me to pass my English exam’. With more than a hint of self-satisfaction, he added: ‘Live, in front of Canal+’s cameras, I came up with an excellent paper.’
In the England game at Highbury, Cantona’s understanding with Sochaux’s diminutive striker Stéphane Paille verged on the telepathic, much as his understanding with Ryan Giggs would at Manchester United. Twice, Paille sent him on his way to goal. Twice, Éric scored. A fine England team, which featured Martin Keown and Éric’s future Leeds teammate David Rocastle (then at Arsenal) alongside Paul Gascoigne, was held to a 2–2 draw which had France enthralled, and Cantona was hailed as the hero of the ‘miracle de Highbury’. Éric might have already been thinking of what lay ahead of him. The Espoirs’ English triumph was a glorious parenthesis in his career. The decision to leave Auxerre would open a whole new chapter. But where?
To start with, Éric was thrown off balance by the multitude of proposals that were made to his agent. Auxerre paid a high cost for this. When the French FA had handed a two-game ban to Éric for his assault on Der Zakarian, AJA still had a chance to qualify for the UEFA Cup for the second year in succession. But Cantona’s disaffection had a destabilizing effect on the whole squad. Roux sighs. ‘Canto’s transfer exhausted me . . . He was impossible to live with at the end. He wasn’t playing any more.’ And neither were the friends he had made over the past five seasons. Auxerre, unsettled by the uncertainty surrounding Éric’s future, collected a mere three points in their last eight league games – three draws, five defeats – a desperately poor return that gave them their lowest finish in the league (ninth) since the 1982–83 campaign. Followed by the cameras of Canal+, Éric had brought the French under-21s to the final of the European Championships, scoring three goals in two games against England. Were Trevor Francis, Howard Wilkinson and Alex Ferguson watching, I wonder?
To Guy Roux, qualification for the UEFA Cup in the previous season had represented a triumph – and Roux was right: it had been a personal triumph, and a triumph for the minuscule club he had built almost on his own, from not-for-profit association to finalist of the Coupe de France, and which now boasted the very best academy in the whole country. An older, wiser Cantona might have understood that, despite its old-fashioned, conservative image (which Roux spun in the media with something approaching virtuosity), Auxerre was the closest thing France had to an ‘anti-establishment’ club. The values he consistently claimed as his own – humility, loyalty, indifference to wealth – had a far greater resonance within the confines of the Stade de l’Abbé-Deschamps than almost anywhere else in France. Awash with television money, a number of the country’s biggest clubs had become the playthings of powerful businessmen adept at bending the rules in their favour, some of whom were using football to further their commercial or political interests – the very men who were coveting the new superstar.
Nobody would have called Cantona a king at the time; a prince, maybe, a dashing cavalier, a poster boy for the après-Platini generation; but also a desperately naïve and easily impressionable provincial who was nowhere near as knowing in the ways of the world as he ought to have been. (It shouldn’t be forgotten that Éric never lived in a capital city before his retirement, and that Manchester would have been the closest thing to a metropolis he had known in his playing days.) According to his former Auxerre teammate Michel Pineda, Éric had envisaged leaving France for Spain, to join his friend at Espanyol, the working-class club of a city – Barcelona – with which his mother’s family had an old and cherished bond, and which Isabelle and he regularly visited during summer vacations. That particular dream would come back to him again later, as we shall see. Prompted by his Auxerre teammate Pascal Planques, and encouraged by Stéphane Paille, he had taken on an agent, Alain Migliaccio (Paille’s brother-in-law), who would later become a prime mover and shaker in the football microcosm as Zinédine Zidane’s key adviser. The sails of the rumour mill were spinning as if in a hurricane. It was universally agreed that Cantona seemed to have outgrown AJA in almost every respect, and huge pressure was put on reporters to find out which club he had picked to accommodate his ambitions.
My friend Jean-Marie Lanoé had been assigned by France Football the task of reading Cantona’s mind at the time. ‘It was insane,’ he told me. ‘It had become a competition between every single publication you can think of; the most contradictory rumours were leaked. There were constant denials, but you knew that, the evening before, Canto had been invited to this or that chairman’s house – the very person who was swearing on his daughter’s head that there had been no contact with the player. It was a circus. In the end, I decided to ignore all that, and follow my intuition.’ It had become a case of calling heads or tails – Matra Racing and Olympique de Marseille were the last men standing – and hoping the coin would fall on the predicted side. Jean-Marie got it right. Very f
ew others did.
Everyone who was anyone had wanted Cantona. Jean-Marie Campora of Monaco, Claude Bez of Bordeaux, Francis Borelli of PSG, Jean-Luc Lagardère of Matra Racing, Bernard Tapie of Marseille: a mix of old and new money, of the respectable and the objectionable, of hubris and true ambition, five men with eyes fixed on the same trophy. A helpless Guy Roux watched the tug of war from his tiny office at l’Abbé-Deschamps, reconciled to the idea of losing Éric one day – but not just yet: ‘In 2008, [when] a guy sneezes, you let him go. Auxerre didn’t at the time. We had a very strong argument: every time you play a game on a Saturday, it’s as if you are taking a plane. If the plane hasn’t gathered enough speed, it can’t take off. Yes, you’re internationals, you’re going to multiply your salary by five or ten in a big club – but if you haven’t gathered enough speed, you’ll be in the reserves or on the bench. You’ll wreck your career. But if you listen to us, you can be sure we’ll let you go at the right time, because we need the money – but only when you’re at your maximum value, and when you’ll arrive in your new team like a nabob, not like a ball-boy.’ Roux’s wise words made absolutely no impression whatsoever on Cantona, who behaved like a satellite that has lost its orbit and is pulled this way and that between the attraction of various planets.
Characters appeared and vanished on the scene like cuckolds and lovers in a Georges Feydeau farce. Éric was paying frequent visits to Paris, where he and his most trusted friends set up camp in a hotel. Four rooms had been booked: one each for Cantona, Migliaccio, Paille and Didier Fèvre, who held war councils to discuss the proposals slipped under the player’s door. Didier was in a very awkward position. Information his colleagues at L’Équipe were desperate for had to remain a secret that was getting heavier to carry every day.
Cantona: The Rebel Who Would Be King Page 9