Zinedine Zidane has been universally lambasted for his head butt of Italy’s Marco Materazzi during the waning minutes of overtime in yesterday’s World Cup final. Most pundits seem to have chosen “vicious” as their adjective of choice in describing the hit. However, Zizou’s actions were justified, surely from a theoretical perspective and perhaps , although we may never know for sure, from an all-too-worldly perspective as well.

First, Zizou’s actions had wonderful literary and pop cultural precedents. On the literary front, whether you lean towards a slightly more comic Cervantes tilting at windmills or slightly more melodramatic Tennyson’s striving seeking and finding without yielding, Zizou’s head butt was a beautiful but doomed strike against an unyielding world, the old and weary warrior taking one last shot at foes both real and imagined. If he had wanted to put Materazzi out of the game, he knew far better ways of doing so than with a butt to the chest. The quixotic gesture exemplified. But he was also the hardened veteran sailing into the distance for one last battle and digging in for one more red card, knowing he had “Moved heaven and earth; that which we are, we are.”

From a pop culture perspective, the sight of a bald pate lowered and charging across the screen recalls Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. With the arrival of Martin Sheen, Brando’s Colonel Kurtz knew his days were numbered. That climactice scene, Sheen with his long, curved blade, Brando with only his head as weapon, remains a bewildering mix of unsure emotion, nebulous lighting, and obliquely-angled camera shots interspersed with shotsof the native’s ritualized bull sacrifice. The staggering image of a rhinoceros-like Brando are clearly seared into memory. So too Zizou’s pivot and acceleration into Materazzi’s chest. It is acknowledged, as it must be, that Brando in Apocalypse now had a bit more Ronaldo finding one more glorious step-over than Zizou the hard-man dancing with the ball for a few more games, but the rest of the analogy, including the colonial undertones of Conrad’s novel, still resonate.

Which brings me to my final point, the as yet unknown (perhaps because it did not happen) practical reason for Zidane’s outburst. Clearly words had been exchanged between the two combatants, throughout the game and in the bit of grappling during the previous play in overtime. But just what did Materazzi say in the seconds before Zidane decided that frontier justice was the only viable response? We may never have a transcript, but we can make some general circumstantial remarks. Zizou is of Algerian extraction, both his parents having been born there. As we have heard all too often in Jean-Marie Le Pen’s imprecations, France’s national team is a hodge podge of colors and homelands. There is no doubt that this is no longer Platini’s 1986 World Cup team, with a glorious Tigana one of the few to break the color barrier (where is my poster of #14 executing a beautiful Cruyff with Platini in soft focus in the background?).

When Spanish fans make monkey noises to black players and Serie A fans still heil Hitler, when FIFA has to set up an end racism campaign, and when even ABC/ESPN has to acknowledge the dark side of the “beautiful game” by doing a mostly puff piece on Thierry Henry’s all too serious efforts to bring acceptance to minority players, we can acknowledge that there is a nasty undercurrent to world soccer. Was Materazzi guilty of making a racist statement concerning Zizou? Who is to say? I rate the Azurri above the Portuguese national team when it comes to diving, complaining to referees and all-around dirty play, but that is not saying much. Nor is Zizou’s reaction to be justified fully if Materazzi did make such a statement. But it could well be that 110 minutes of goading capped off by an even more below the belt punch led to Zizou’s reaction.

And even if the comment was merely of the Yo’ Momma variety, Zizou’s reaction was in keeping with his on-field persona. Never one to shy away from the hard man’s part of the game (a certain corner stomp in World Cup 98 comes to mind along with the baker’s dozen or so other red cards received during his career) Zizou played a physical game physically. One of the best spitters I ever have seen, it was almost amazing that between his sweat rate and the flung loogies that he did not need an IV after every game. For the small amount of space he covered with the ball (compared to, say, the runs of a Christiano Ronaldo) he held the ball for amazingly lengthy periods in those confined spaces. He was not a moving target for hits as much as an insanely-coordinated marionette that would dance in one place and often be punished for it after dishing off the ball to a teammate. But he certainly could stuck in, too, and tackle with a vengeance.

In this regard, his shaved head brings to mind one more vision, of the silhouette of number 23 of U.S. basketball fame, who also seemed to control the ball as if on a string but also was known to take advantage of the latitude his track record had earned him with referees. The real difference between Michael Jordan and Zinedine Zidane is that while MJ was the undisputed center of attention in the NBA (with an emphasis on the “N” for National) Zizou lowered his head while the center of attention in the world’s game. A miscalculation for which he already has paid in full.

Vive Zizou, Vive Les Vieux.