It was one of the defining images of modern sport. With eight minutes of extra time remaining in the World Cup final, Zinédine Zidane, the France captain, head-butted Marco Materazzi, the Italy defender, to the ground. A red card ensued, then France’s defeat, followed by collective disbelief.

The timing was bizarre. The final whistle loomed not only for the World Cup final but also for Zidane’s career. He had announced that he would retire at the end of the tournament. His virtuoso performance in the semi-final had suggested that the maestro would leave the sport with one last majestic imprint.

Instead, it was almost as if a great Shakespearean actor, playing King Lear for the last time, interrupted his final soliloquy by punching the dead Cordelia and then announcing his lifelong hatred for producers, directors and — especially — the paying public.

We all like a gracious exit. However, Zidane left us scratching our heads. How could a veteran lose his rag minutes before taking his last bow? What happened to the coolness that enabled him earlier in the evening to chip in a penalty with such insouciance?

Zidane apologised for being a poor example to children but denied regretting his actions. We can never be sure what Materazzi said to Zidane, nor what made Zidane snap. An informed guess is the best we can manage. But I am not convinced by conventional wisdom that someone as experienced as Zidane could have been provoked to end his final match in disgrace by an insult to his family. That might have been the trigger, but the deeper causes lay elsewhere.

Scratch a brilliant sportsman deeply enough and you reach a layer of self-certainty in his destiny. The greater the sportsman, usually the more convinced he is of his predestined greatness. The big stage means it must be his stage, victory has been prearranged on his terms, it is his destiny to win the World Cup or Olympic gold or the Ashes.

If you could bottle that self-certainty you would have the most potent winning drug. That is why champion teams so often have a talismanic force at their centre — someone who believes that the match, the day and the championship have been set up in accordance with his destiny. His self-belief radiates to the rest of the team. Zidane had exactly that quality. When France needed something special, he believed that he would provide it.

In extra time of the final, with Thierry Henry having been substituted, France again looked to Zidane, almost exclusively. We can be sure that Zidane, despite being unusually exhausted and having played longer than he would in normal circumstances, shared that view. The script had gone according to plan. Zidane had taken France to the final and now France needed him to win it.

And he almost did it. In the 104th minute, he made a run into the penalty area, a cross was delivered and Zidane’s soaring header sailed towards the goal. Zidane had again subord- inated the day’s narrative to his own.

Having complied with Zidane’s will thus far, the gods made a mistake. The Italy goalkeeper made an inspired save. What followed was the most revealing image of the World Cup. Aimed at no one in particular — not at the goalkeeper, not at himself, perhaps at the heavens — Zidane’s face contorted into an agonised scream. It precluded the possibility of appeasement or consolation. This should not have happened, cannot have happened, must not be allowed to stand.

Which would weigh more heavily on a champion’s mood — a verbal insult to his family (the kind of insult that sportsmen hear all too often) or being denied, in a state of physical and mental exhaustion, what he considered to be rightfully his: the winning goal, the perfect narrative, his destiny as a two-goal, double World Cup winner? The greater the inflation of a champion’s will-power, the greater the deflation when it is punctured.

It was a narrative we disliked almost as much as Zidane hated it. Something is dearer to us even than heroes, and that is the perfect story. The audience wanted a change of ending. So Materazzi was in the dock; lip-readers disagreed; inquiries meandered along. But although the soap opera could continue, the imprint in history was already made. Deep down Zidane knew that. So did we.

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