France 0 Mexico 2: match report

At least Raymond Domenech can console himself that it was, perhaps, written in the stars. France, the team many regard as the most fortunate and least deserving of all those with a place at the World Cup, now stand on the cusp of become its first high-profile casualty.
Impotent against Uruguay, France were wholly embarrassed by Mexico. Two games, no goals, one point. Regardless of how Domenech’s side fare against South Africa in their final group game, a draw between their two prior opponents in Rustenburg on Tuesday will condemn them to an early exit. Their manager’s reign looks set to close in the utmost ignominy.

For that, assuming France’s demise was not the work of cruel karma, Domenech has nobody to blame but himself. He certainly cannot blame the referee, the Saudi Khalil Al Ghamdi, who correctly ruled Javier Hernandez, soon to be of Manchester United, onside for Mexico’s opening goal, and correctly penalised Eric Abidal for tripping Pablo Barrera to earn Cuauhtemoc Blanco’s penalty.
He could, in truth, apportion some culpability to his players, who offered a display entirely disjointed in attack and disorganised in defence, but to his credit, he chose to avoid that unedifying spectacle. “I am not here to condemn anyone,” said Domenech. “It was a failure of the French team. We struggled, but I do not have an explanation for it.”
Plenty of others will offer to come to his aid on that particular subject. His critics will point to his side’s complete lack of cohesion, the absence of shape, their failure to carve an identity. They will point to the fact that this France team, drawn from some of the world’s grandest clubs, contrive to be so much less than the sum of their parts. And they will blame him for it all.
It is the manager’s fault that he has persisted with a central defensive pairing of William Gallas, visibly aged by his encounter with the industrious but limited Guillermo Franco, and Abidal. It is the manager’s fault that Jeremy Toulalan stands alone in a midfield devoid of all discipline. It is the manager’s fault that Franck Ribery, his nation’s best player, has been an observer, rather than a participant, for much of his 180 minutes in this tournament.
It is the manager’s fault that he could not imbue his team with spirit. Patrice Evra, the captain, may have cried at *Les Marseillaises* before the game, but it was he who allowed Barrera free passage before Abidal’s reckless lunge.
It is the manager’s fault that he left Thierry Henry, his country’s record goalscorer, on the bench throughout, despite trailing by two goals to Mexico and having a third substitution remaining.
And it is the manager’ fault that, as his opposite number, Javier Aguirre, scenting blood, threw on his two eventual goalscorers, Domenech leaned nonchalantly against his dug-out, seemingly frozen into inaction. Raging against the dying of the light is obviously not his style.
Aguirre’s Mexico could not have contrasted more sharply with such cowardly fatalism. Driven on by the sea of green in the stands of the Peter Mokaba Stadium, they seized the initiative from the off, clearly sensing France’s lack of gusto.
They produced a flurry of first half chances, Giovani Dos Santos firing against a post - albeit from an offside position - and Franco and Carlos Vela both firing into the Polokwane sky when well-placed.
France required 54 minutes to produce a meaningful shot on goal - Oscar Perez acrobatically denying Florent Malouda - but their threat was fleeting. Mexico’s menace possessed far more purpose.
It was Hernandez who provided the spark. The Chivas striker, who Sir Alex Ferguson has lavished £7 million on, had been on the field for less than 10 minutes when he latched on to Rafael Marquez’s through ball, timing his run perfectly, and rounded the stranded Lloris.
Hernandez’s grandfather, Tomas Balcazar, scored against France in the 1954 edition of the tournament, the striker admitted after the game. Perhaps it was fate after all.
From that point, the result was certainly inevitable. France did not rally, but simply sagged.
When Barrera, as bold and brash a winger as this tournament will see, skipped past Evra, the world’s best left-back offered no challenge, no chase. Abidal stretched out a leg, Barrera tumbled and Blanco, from the spot, sealed a precious victory.
France, perched on the edge of the abyss, find themselves in the hands of the gods, their fate dependent on others. Domenech and his team will not be foolish enough to expect a kindly judgment.