The first trip I took to the Stade de France was in 2001 on a bus whose driver was perhaps the most manic and bravest I have witnessed. We were on our way to watch the Springboks play France. Other journalists decided to catch the train. A sports tour operator from South Africa offered us a seat on his bus.
He told his driver to park behind the Springbok bus and to “follow that bus”. Pierre, I think his name was, did just that. We roared up the highway as the French police cleared a path for the Bok bus, speeding along in their wake past cars slowed by a clogged road. The Bok fans on the bus, well charged, whooped and cheered as we flew along, until a police car slowed down and made a signal that suggested it would be in Pierre’s best interests to slow down.
The Boks lost at the Stade de France that night in the stadium built for the 1998 football World Cup. I remember it being bitterly cold and yet Duif du Toit, my dear photographer friend who passed away a short while ago, was still wearing shorts on the field. I remember my colleague bemoaning that he had just missed deadline. I remember an Afrikaans journalist who had been pickpocketed on the train and had all his money, passport and plane tickets stolen (he didn’t trust the safe at the hotel for some daft reason). I remember how poor Harry Viljoen’s Boks were. I remember thinking, “What a magnificent stadium.”
I returned to the Stade de France six years later to watch the Springboks play there again. This time we took the train. Paris changes shape on the train from the centre of the city to the Stade de France. It is newer and a little duller than the rest of the city. It doesn’t quite feel like Paris until you walk inside the stadium.
The Springboks destroyed England that day, scoring 36 points to nil as Fourie du Preez wreaked havoc upon them. It was magnificent, beautiful and stunning. We left and toured France as the Boks played their way to the final, returning near the end of October to see them beat Argentina in the semi-finals and then England in the final. On the train on the way in for the semi-final, a young man took offence when we could not move and make space for him in a packed train. As the doors closed, he slashed out at my colleague with a blade and cut his lip. The shock from the others on the train was sharp and loud. A young girl gave him a tissue as the blood dripped from him. We had spent almost a month in Paris and in that one moment, it seemed to be less beautiful and stunning.
And now it seems less safe, the world feels a more dangerous place to be. It was bombed on Friday night by people twisted in thought and purpose. The sound of the explosions by the bombers outside as the game carried on is chilling, the cheering by the fans who thought they were crackers, horrifying. They believed they were safe in their national stadium. We all believe we are safe at home, but now that has gone, the fear runs through us. We do not know what, where, when and who to trust.
Sport, the leveller and the unifier, has been targeted, not for the first time and not, you can only assume, for the last time.
The German football team did not feel safe enough to leave the stadium, and so stayed the night in the changeroom at the Stade de France.
An American living in Paris, Joel Dreyfuss, who was at the game, wrote for The Washington Post that “there is no guarantee against terrorism. We still love Paris, and we hope that it will regain its exuberant and graceful approach to life. But the major stores are closed today. Authorities have urged Parisians to stay home. A gathering to celebrate a visiting friend has been cancelled, as well as a lecture at the Sorbonne I planned to attend. Parisians will inevitably eye each other with heightened suspicion. La belle vie seems more like a wish today than reality.”