Eric The King

"More than any history or philosophy, football teaches me to be European. Born in Nice in 1952, I found myself 40 years later in Manchester, mingled in the crowd at Old Trafford. Even before his achievements in Manchester, I had recognised in Eric Cantona many of the values and qualities I admire.

"When he first started playing for Manchester, I used to wait at the entrance to the Theatre of Dreams. There were 4 or 5 of us. Six years later I could no longer even glimpse the King due to the human barrier blocking my view. Between Platini and Zidane, he was our Number One. No World or European Cup was needed to prove to his talent.

"The day after the match against Southampton, 20th February 1993, he met me at the Novotel in Manchester, a stone's throw from a roundabout and under a flyover. I had never been so thrilled about a meeting, except with my wife. I was as nervous as a young boy making his first communion. In real life was he like the player, a mixture of elegance, confidence, improvisation and force?

"At the appointed time, he was waiting for me under a Van Gogh print, carrying peanuts and water, lots of water. His graciousness struck me immediately, a far cry from the clichéd bad boy image maintained by the press who exaggerated his troubles to create an almost fictional character. His view, 'If I played water polo, nobody would be interested in me' and 'Journalists think I am crazy because my dad was a psychiatric nurse. (Laughs) In fact, I owe them a lot as they ask me questions I would never ask myself.' Then, suddenly 'What is important is on the pitch' He worries about Maradona. 'What will he become without football?' He is almost like a father concerned about his son.

"Around us, customers ask for autographs on the back of cheques, cigarette packets, and the edge of a newspaper or even a flyer. They approach him shyly with a pen. Each one thanks him for signing for Manchester. The Mancunians are hoping for the league title. They will not be disappointed.

"With his athletic figure, his finesse and technique, Cantona ought to revolutionise British football. Such was my prophecy. His response, "Do you think so?" I did not leave my wife and children to get on a plane and shatter his dreams. I want to witness first hand one of the great sporting stories of my time, to anticipate the marvels, to be the bird of good omens, haunted by the ghosts of Marcel Cerdan* and Fausto Coppi*, my earthly gods. Too young to witness their journey, I was the right age to follow that of the man from Marseille.

"This subtle bond, born in the Novotel, would never break. It would only strengthen as Cantona climbed to the top at Manchester. From France, I could see tiny advances, and sometimes giant leaps. At other times there were glitches. But Cantona brought the club out of its lethargy. His coach, Alex Ferguson, had found his trump card. You might have said Jean Vilar* directing Gerard Philipe*.

"In the role of 'Mystic Meg', I had seen correctly. Eric Cantona became champion of England, right under my eyes. This coronation erased the nightmare of France-Germany in 1982 in Seville. Brought up on Italian football by my father and grandfather, I was invigorated by the British version, happier than a born and bred Red. The beauty of English football excited me more than the careful and unattractive game across the Alps.

"Each season I came to see him many times of my own accord, outside of work. On the pitch, he was as huge and as fragile as a piano. Twenty tonnes of tension are contained in this musical instrument, a mixture of steel stings and wood which work according to the beat. The stadium was captivated by his every move. With one touch of the ball, he could change the game, overwhelming 40,000 spectators with pleasure. His vision was noticeable to all those fans of the art of football. I wanted to stop the clock on the scoreboard ticking by.

"'Enjoy the match?' Steve Bruce asked me at the door to the dressing room, the inside of this small room looked like the over peopled cabin of the Marx Brothers. Yes, I had enjoyed the game. After making his debut for the first team, David Beckham, accompanied by his mum, was good as gold. Shy, retiring, unassuming. After training, with his young friends Scholes and Butt, he polished the boots of Mark Hughes, Cantona and other senior players.

"During his last season, Eric Cantona still dominated, but in a different way. Less obvious to novices, he often played off the ball. Stylish but effective, the number 7 split open the opposing defence to leave the way free for his attacking partners. Suddenly the British press decided he was having a lesser effect than in previous seasons. A gross misconception. The public still reserved a hero's welcome for him on each appearance.

"Thinking he had nothing more to prove in professional football, he left his job of virtuoso of the pitch. His performances paved the way into English football for other French players and coaches. Before him, modern football was not interested in the Tricolour. As Alex Ferguson said, on the evening of Cantona's return for a game which raised money for the families of the victims of 1958, 'When Eric was playing, I waited for him to win the game for us; without him, I wait for luck to do it.'"

*Marcel Cerdan - b. 1916. Algerian-born French world boxing champion, considered by many to have been Europe's greatest ever fighter, he died in a plane crash in 1949 and was succeeded as champion by Jake LaMotta

*Fausto Coppi - b. 1919. Legendary Italian cyclist, nicknamed the champion of champions. He succumbed to malaria in 1960

*Jean Vilar - legendary figure in French theatre, he founded the Festival of Avignon

*Gerard Philipe - great actor, he died from cancer aged 37

Bernard went on to become acknowledged as the French media's leading Cantona expert and eventually wrote an exquisite book about us all, 'Manchester Memories', in which appears the following extracts:

"5.55 pm, 28th April 1996. After beating Nottingham Forest, United are virtually Champions of England. In the maze of Old Trafford corridors, Madame Leonor Cantona passes in front of Alex Ferguson's office, at the precise moment the manager was coming out. They size each other up in a couple of glances: a double-take, as one would describe it in the dramatic arts. She recognising in him someone who considered Eric for his true worth; he thanking her for having brought into the world his 'bringer of happiness'. The pair embrace without the need for anyone to have introduced them. The manager had straight away recognised the family resemblance. They have so many things to say to each other that they will actually manage to say nothing.

"We all met up at the Four Seasons, usually United's pre-awayday meeting place. We bump into Bryan Robson there. Having returned to breathe in a blast from the past on the terrain of his greatest exploits, the current Boro boss asks Eric: 'So, the French national team, you're not getting back into it: why?' The current Number 7 shrugs his shoulders. The meaning is understood: 'They no longer select me? Well, then, there's nothing left to add.' Robson was preparing to play United on the last day of the season. 'Tell me Eric, how much would you give me to let you lot win?! Nah, we're gonna put four past you…' May 5th - and that was almost the score, though the other way around: United won 3-0. Eric had regained the title of a Champion of England.

"A few days later, Eric drove me to a bookshop in the centre of town: Waterstones in Deansgate. We rummage around the shelves. looking for Andre Breton's 'Nadja'. Eric bought 'Rue Traversiere And Other Dream Stories' before stretching out down on the floor to leaf through Ezra Pound's 'Drafts and Fragments'. Before we leave, he signs several copies of his biography for customers. We cross over to the quarter where Verlaine stopped off in 1894 ("All I saw of Manchester was a corner of Salford…and kept the most beautiful memories…") Some friends from Bordeaux had brought over a good domaine wine which we went to taste at the Forte Posthouse near the airport. The hotel boss came over to our reserved area: 'A gentleman outside is asking if, at some point tonight, you wouldn't mind posing for a photo with his son, who's celebrating his 16th birthday.' Eric looked at me, then replied: 'We can't make him wait for three hours; please, invite him to come in and see us.' The man and his boy enter. The Number 7 poses for immortality: a second for him, eternity for them. Meanwhile, outside, vandals have smashed the windows of his car. Without saying a word, Eric brushes away all the debris from the seats and simply says 'please, get in.' And then when we get home, he finds Isabelle cursing the latest gossipy tales of a newspaper… 'Leave it,' says the husband. 'If I was a water polo player, do you think anybody would talk about me?'"

"11th May 1996. Cup Final Day. My wife went with me to London where Isabelle was waiting for us at the Royal Lancaster Hotel. 'It's important that you should be at Wembley,' said Isabelle as she handed me the white ticket envelope marked with Eric's black script: I had never, in person, seen Eric lose. We all had a feeling as though we were getting together for a communion.

"Five minutes to go. A corner rebounds. Lying in wait, Eric pulls back a notch on his supporting leg and fires. His straight shot forces its way through the intertwinings of legs and bodies, feet and heads, fears and hopes - and ends up in the enemy's net.

"In the madding crowd of victory, Ferguson heads towards Eric, arms open; he wants to embrace Eric as though he were Charles Lindbergh upon his descent from the 'Spirit Of St. Louis'. The Frenchman suggests to Steve Bruce, the usual captain, that he should go to collect the trophy but the team's absentee refuses to appropriate the honour. Climbing the staircase, the new captain wipes off the spit from the Liverpool supporters without turning a hair. Eric presents the cup to the stadium and embraces the scintillating reward which returns his own reflection to him. Isabelle is crying in the arms of her brother Bernard Ferrer. Her husband has reached the zenith."

"April 1997. United lose to Dortmund. The bad-mouthers are jubilant: 'Eric missed two goals'. Can he possibly succeed 100% of the time? Must he score or make a goal every appearance? Eric tells me: 'it's one or the other, but not one and the other. And everyone forgets my successful final passes if they aren't turned into goals… People don't know what it is to go home with the feeling of having played badly. The nights after a defeat, I throw up.' Eric still has 11 goals in 1996/97, second behind Solskjaer. The Number 7 predicts a great future for the Norwegian but he still deplores the absence of two big signings, one up front and one in defence. Every close-season, the directors dangle in front of him the names of possible arrivals: da Souza, Romario, Salas, Zidane, Batistuta, Kluivert. But the manager cannot force the decision of the chairman. The richest club in the world doesn't want to pay the big salaries…"

"15.51, 18th May 1997. 'Tout est fini.'"

"26th July 1997. My wife, children and I are in the Haute-Alpes with the Cantonas. Eric tells me: 'Since the testimonial at Lille on May the 25th, I haven't touched a football once.' But still, we start to knock it around a bit. He showed me a 'Careca'. 'I know this one thanks to Laurent [Blanc]. You make the ball slide down from your tibia to your foot, then once the ball is flicked into the air, you turn around, then keep the juggling going…' As the day ends, we'll play boules together, me and Eric making a team. And father Albert says: 'you know, he ought to have played on for another four years….'
My family spends the night at their family house, in the trophy room. I daren't touch the Player Of The Year trophy. I spy two or three medals in their cases. And there are three photos of Eric at Old Trafford. Memories. Such memories. I would wish this for my epitaph: 'Here lies a man who saw Eric Cantona play.'"

From "Manchester Memories" (2000) by Bernard Morlino, Le Castor Astral, 11.89 euros

(Coming next: that fateful May week; the farewell notices; the hidden truth behind his decision to quit; and his life after 1997.)