Zidane, Henry, Barthez, Thuram, and Desailly. The mere mention of those names takes you back to a golden era, one that can rival the current dominance of the French national team. A squad feared and respected, with players coveted by Europe’s biggest clubs. A constellation of stars that delivered France’s first-ever World Cup triumph in 1998, followed by a historic Euro 2000 win two years later. And yet, the 2002 World Cup would turn out to be something entirely different — a catastrophic campaign ending in a first-round elimination without scoring a single goal.
How does a team so dominant, so feared, so favored — a team destined to win — end up suffering one of the most humiliating collapses in World Cup history?
Euro 2000 : the peak of Zidane’s generation
Sunday, July 2nd, 2000. Extra time in the Euro final between France and Italy. After 90 grueling minutes of frustration against the rugged Italian defense, supersub Sylvain Wiltord finally equalizes after a long clearance from Barthez. 1–1. Extra time follows, and as so often since 1998, fortune smiles on France. Robert Pires sprints down the left with one of his trademark runs, then lays off a perfect pass for David Trezeguet. Trezeguet inside the box, ball at his feet — everyone knows how that story ends: goal. And in 2000, one golden goal ends the game immediately. Just like against Paraguay in the 1998 round of 16, France once again escapes by the narrowest margin — but this time, they seize the ultimate prize: the Euro 2000 title.
After Raul’s missed penalty against Spain and a hard-fought extra-time win over Portugal thanks to a Zidane penalty, France had proven it could outlast and outfight anyone. Ninety minutes on the edge of disaster, yet the Blues always came out on top. This team had an armor that made it impervious to pressure.
In 1999, qualification for the Euros hadn’t been easy. Roger Lemerre, who succeeded World Cup–winning coach Aimé Jacquet, initially struggled to impose his style. Offensively toothless, France drew too many matches, and criticism mounted. But by July 2, 2000, those doubts were long gone. Forced to rebuild during qualification, France rediscovered what it thrived on — adversity.
Unlike in 1998, this time the challenge came not from the media but from the opponents themselves — teams that had studied France’s style and sought to neutralize it. The French had to push themselves beyond their limits to conquer a brutal lineup of rivals: Raul’s Spain, Figo’s Portugal, and Italy, stacked with stars from what was then the world’s best league, Serie A.
The 16-team Euro was arguably tougher than a World Cup — fewer mismatches, fewer weak links, and more tactical parity. In that era, as the Bosman ruling reshaped European football, France embodied the perfect hybrid: defensive rigor like the best Serie A sides, Premier League–level physicality, and pure French flair. The 2000 France team offered the ideal blend of discipline and creativity — stronger even than in 1998. Deschamps, Zidane, Henry, Barthez, Thuram… all at their peak. They could suffer, endure, and then strike — that was the essence of the 2000 France team.
And so came the next challenge: to mark football history forever. France had pulled off the remarkable double — but what about the triple? What about the back-to-back World Cup crown that hadn’t been achieved since Brazil in 1962?
In 2002, France would confront history itself.
2001 : the begin of downfall
- France become a commercial and political tool
Between the Euro 2000 final and the start of the 2002 World Cup lay two long years of friendlies. Back then, the defending champion, like the host nation, automatically qualified for the next tournament. So France had to fill its calendar with exhibition matches against non-qualifying opponents. From September 2000 to November 2001, the world champions became globe-trotters. Johannesburg, Istanbul, Santiago, Melbourne — a bizarre, exhausting world tour.
In October 2000, they traveled to South Africa, still healing from apartheid, greeted warmly by Nelson Mandela himself. The French squad, symbols of the “black-blanc-beur” multicultural ideal, were celebrated as a living emblem of unity. In Chile in September 2001, then all the way to Australia that November, the welcome was just as grand — though the trips were punishing. A chartered plane carried the entire French delegation across 12 time zones, complete with onboard massages to help with recovery.
Between those two trips came the infamous France–Algeria match on October 6, 2001 — halted after a pitch invasion. “The Blues were being used as a tool to patch up issues of integration and diplomatic reconciliation between the two nations.” The French team had become an instrument of politics and commerce — each friendly negotiated for profit rather than preparation. They played with no tactical coherence, no purpose, and with everyone desperate to beat them.
- Increasingly present fatigue
In Chile, fatigue and aggression from the hosts overwhelmed them. Against Algeria, the symbolic weight of the event overshadowed the football itself. And the Australia trip? It reached the height of absurdity. A 22-hour flight, in the middle of the club season, to face an Australian side brimming with intensity. Kevin Muscat’s brutal tackle on Christophe Dugarry’s knee was a warning shot. Bixente Lizarazu saw it clearly:
“Let’s not kid ourselves — it’ll be the same at the World Cup. Teams will compensate for their lack of talent with pure physical commitment. Forget the image of France soaring like an eagle; we have to become wild boars again, putting our snouts back in the mud.”
Beyond tactics, the players’ physical condition was alarming. Since 1998, seasons had grown longer, matches more intense, and recovery time shorter. The Champions League now had two group stages. Domestic leagues were expanding. The schedule was brutal. Between club and country, players were caught in constant tension. By November 2001, before that trip to Australia, Arsenal managers Arsène Wenger and David Dein — responsible for Henry, Pires, Vieira, and Wiltord — joined Sir Alex Ferguson (Barthez’s coach) in publicly criticizing the tour: “The French can’t complain when their players get injured before the World Cup.”
And then came the inevitable: March 2002, Robert Pires went down clutching his knee. Torn ligaments. Out of the World Cup. Before that FA Cup quarterfinal, he’d already played 48 matches. Vieira reached 61, Wiltord 59, Henry 55, Zidane 51, Makelele 55 — all far above FIFA’s recommended 45-match limit. Pires’s injury was the inevitable result of greed and overexertion. The French Football Federation had milked its stars for every last cent, and their bodies finally gave out. By May 2002, when the 23-man squad assembled, fitness tests showed alarming exhaustion. Some players were still finishing their club seasons. The World Cup itself had been moved up to May 31–June 30 to avoid Asia’s monsoon season. Preparation time was minimal — and instead of rest, the FFF piled on more games. A farewell match against Belgium, followed by a friendly against South Korea just five days before the opener. That match, scheduled mainly for money and publicity, would prove disastrous. Zidane — already tired — tore his thigh. The French now had to start the World Cup without both Pires and Zidane, their creative engines. Two exceptional players. Two leaders. Two complementary minds — Zidane’s finesse and Pires’s lightning. And in return for its mismanagement, the FFF stripped its team of both souls.
- Roger Lemerre’s system never evolved
For two years, Roger Lemerre had prepared nothing. No tactical evolution, no contingency plans, no plan B. “What’s there to fear? I’ve got the best players in the world,” he told to the rugby France national team’s coach Bernard Laporte. Lemerre inherited a golden team and rode its momentum. After the vicious media treatment of Jacquet in 1998, French sports daily L’Équipe refused to criticize Lemerre, invoking “the Jacquet precedent.” Every defeat was rationalized away: Spain had been “more motivated,” Chile too far a trip, and so on. No self-reflection. No changes. The 4-2-3-1 system worked with both Pires and Zidane, but without one of them, the flaws showed. Russia exposed them. Zidane was forced to cover too much ground, Djorkaeff couldn’t replicate Pires’s link-up play, Henry was exiled to the left wing — a position he hated — and Trezeguet was starved of service. The team looked sterile up front and shaky at the back. Without Deschamps and Laurent Blanc — both retired — balance and leadership evaporated. Desailly, though experienced, lacked Deschamps’s authority and communication. The locker room fractured into cliques — Arsenal’s group, Zidane’s friends, and isolated newcomers. Only Cissé stood out as a fresh face. Between 1998 and 2002, the hunger had faded — naturally, four years later. After a shaky warm-up against South Korea on May 26, France again escaped with illusions intact. Many still believed destiny would favor them. But beneath the surface, their solid certainties had crumbled. Fatigue, injuries, retirements, aging leaders, and arrogance all combined into a recipe for disaster. France entered the first-ever Asian World Cup against Senegal in decline.
The World Cup: the final phase of an already dead team
Canal+’s documentary Les Yeux dans les Bleus 3 captured the tense mood — anxiety around Zidane’s injury, and an atmosphere of denial. France approached its opener against Senegal with shocking complacency. No pitch inspection. No local training. Details the Senegalese took seriously.
The Lions of Teranga were dismissed as amateurs — “most of their players play in France,” scoffed the media.
France lined up in its usual 4-2-3-1, but without Zidane or Pires, and with Djorkaeff “slowing the play,” there was no rhythm. Senegal’s double-teams on Henry and Wiltord neutralized the flanks and left Trezeguet isolated. The Africans’ energy and discipline paid off. El Hadji Diouf, brilliant and fearless, served Papa Bouba Diop for the opening goal.
France threw on more strikers, but nothing worked. To the world’s shock — though perhaps not to close observers — the champions fell. The “invincible” team hadn’t lost since 1996, and now they’d been exposed.
Reality hit. Panic set in. Years later, Christophe Dugarry revealed on French radio RMC in 2020 how the players tried to confront their coach: “Before the Uruguay game, a few of us went to Roger’s room to discuss tactics — just like we used to with Jacquet. We thought we’d agreed. Zidane left the room saying, ‘Everything’s fine!’ But two hours before kickoff, we saw the lineup board — same system, same players. Zidane, Djorkaeff, Desailly — they were furious. ‘He’s mocking us,’ Zidane muttered. Roger was paranoid — he meant well but couldn’t let go of control.”
Against Uruguay, fate kept mocking France. They started well — aggressive, intense, even scoring through Trezeguet before the goal was disallowed. Thuram’s sharp right-side play gave them life, but when Leboeuf limped off and Candela came in, Thuram moved to center back — and Recoba took over that flank. Then disaster: 25th minute, Thierry Henry sent off for a late tackle — harshly judged. France played an hour with ten men. Barthez kept them alive with seven saves. Petit hit the post and picked up a booking that ruled him out of the Denmark match. 0–0. Hanging by a thread.
Only one path remained: beat Denmark by two goals or go home. Zidane was back, barely fit, his thigh wrapped tight. The miracle never came. Denmark 2, France 0, under the blazing sun of Incheon’s Munhak Stadium. The end of a world — and the start of France’s decline.
Defeat carries a distinct French flavor. The same nation that finds transcendence in adversity is also gifted at self-destruction: Bulgaria 1993, Euro 1992, endless European club failures. Arrogance and complacency had doomed a golden team that desperately needed renewal.
Even with the 1998 Ballon d’Or winner, the top scorers from Italy, France, and England (Trezeguet, Cissé, Henry), and a world-class defense, they proved that football is not about assembling stars — it’s about building a collective. Roger Lemerre refused to adapt, clinging to his 4-2-3-1 until it sank him.
Incheon 2002 wasn’t just a defeat. It was the start of a long, painful fall — “the greatest fiasco in the history of French sport.”
Great job