The Story of France vs. Morocco
A quarterfinal between France and Morocco: Where to begin? In the banlieues of Paris, the cradle of French soccer—and the birthplace of one of Morocco’s best young players, Ayyoub Bouaddi? Or in Rabat, the city established by France as the administrative and political capital of Morocco, during its forty-nine-year occupation of the country, and the home of a gleaming new soccer academy, a symbol of the nation’s sporting ambitions? Or we could start with the million-plus Moroccans currently living in France, many of them first-generation immigrants; or with the ninety-nine French-born players in the tournament, only twenty-three of whom represent France; or with the nineteen foreign-born players who play for Morocco, six of whom are from France. Perhaps we could begin with the story of what victory might mean for either team—the affirmation of a glorious legacy for the defending champions, or the emphatic establishment of the Atlas Lions as one of the game’s true powers.
And then there’s the story on the pitch. This is a rematch of a 2022 semifinal, which was comfortably won by France. It’s a match between the top-ranked team in the world and the team ranked sixth, a match between a dazzling offense and a disciplined defense. France came into the game having scored fourteen goals across the tournament, several of them exquisite demonstrations of the team’s style and vitality. Morocco, meanwhile, had conceded only four goals so far. And Paraguay, in its match against France, had provided a potential blueprint for an upset: they were physical, nearly beating France by beating them up, and losing only on a penalty by Kylian Mbappé, who bore all the bullying with a big fat grin. Morocco had more talent than Paraguay, more menacing technique and tactics, and, presumably, could mount more dangerous counterattacks. It hadn’t lost, officially, in thirty-four straight matches. (A loss to Senegal in the Africa Cup of Nations in March was, after the fact, controversially overturned.)
For all these reasons, the match figured to be one of the highlights of the tournament. But, through the first half, it was the only thing no one could have imagined: a snooze.
Fine—it was hot. Oppressively hot, lie-down-and-take-a-nap hot, hydration-break hot, the kind of hot that deadens feet. And France were pressing, not reverting to the old, pragmatic, highly structured style that had characterized manager Didier Deschamps’s teams for years. They were still flowing across the field, still playing attacking soccer, but it wasn’t working. Crosses were fired a little long; shots were off target; the ordinarily unbridled midfield was quiet. Morocco weren’t giving the French much to work with, but neither were they threatening much themselves. Rarely did the ball get anywhere near France’s goal; by the time Morocco took their first shot, in stoppage time before the end of the first half, France had taken thirteen. The only real drama came when Mbappé was hauled down in the box, an obvious penalty. But a V.A.R. review stretched on for more than three minutes, and, by the time he sent a weak ball into the stomach of the Moroccan goaltender, Yassine Bounou, the excitement had drained out of that moment, too.
Maybe we’d been spoiled. Was every World Cup game supposed to be like England’s win over Mexico at the iconic Azteca—mythic and elemental? Or operatic, like Argentina’s comeback over Egypt? Or as karmic as the U.S. loss to Belgium, as satisfying to his critics or as sad to his supporters as Ronaldo’s defeat? France and Morocco seemed to drift along, Morocco letting France control the game without scoring, in the hopes that they might find a crack of opportunity and slip the ball in.
Then, ten minutes into the second half, Michael Olise got the ball and spun down the left channel. He evaded Morocco’s talented young midfielder Bouaddi and danced through several other defenders before sending a beautiful pass to a streaking Mbappé, who skied his shot. The match remained scoreless, but, in that moment, the champagne cork popped.
A few minutes after that, in some loose clearing at the top of Morocco’s box, the ball landed at Mbappé’s feet. Morocco’s burly defender Issa Diop was nearly on top of him, but Mbappé didn’t give him time to challenge. Instead, he struck a quick, ferocious shot that swung around Diop and curved into the corner of the goal. It was the twenty-seven-year-old Mbappé’s seventh goal of the tournament—and the twentieth time he’d scored at a World Cup, in twenty World Cup matches.
It was also a 1–0 lead for France, and the match felt, somehow, already, like a romp. Morocco looked demoralized. Six minutes later, Mbappé redirected a pass from Olise to Ousmane Dembélé, who carried the ball up—and then kept carrying it. Mbappé's hard charge past him drew the defenders. Dembélé saw his opening and hammered a shot into the goal. We have seen comebacks from two goals down in this tournament, but Deschamps felt comfortable enough with the lead to pull several starters well before the game was over—including Mbappé, who appeared to have tweaked his ankle. The outcome was beyond doubt.
After the final whistle, Mbappé, ignoring his injury, started to dance about. And why not? He has been preparing for these moments, France’s moments, his moments, since he was a child. For weeks, a meme has circulated of Mbappé as a warlord, dictating his teammates’ roles. The image became so pervasive that Deschamps, the French coach, felt compelled to declare that Mbappé is actually a lovely teammate, not a despot. But Mbappé’s teammates seemed to be in on the joke, calling him Mobut—as in, Mobutu. It’s funny not because it’s true, but because it’s so absurd. Mbappé is sometimes criticized for arrogance, but whenever he speaks, it’s with a humane je ne sais quoi.
Earlier in the week, after France’s bruising win over Paraguay, a Paraguayan senator launched into a series of vile and racist attacks against Mbappé, questioning his intelligence, his manners, and even his Frenchness. He was, she wrote, “a colonized Cameroonian.” Mbappé responded without hesitation: “Through your recklessness and your brazen racism, the entire world has already forgotten the journey and the historic effort that your players accomplished during this World Cup, making way for an incompetent woman who gives the worst possible image of her country.” He added, “I will never allow people like her the freedom to spread their hatred and racism across the world.”
There are reasons a man might want to wear a nation’s jersey and embody a place, and reasons a man might want to leave it. Mbappé is not perfect, of course, but there are times when he perfectly represents his country. And, if he had chosen to represent his father’s country, Cameroon, or his mother’s country, Algeria, he could have stood beautifully for them, too. Some stories can seem animated by opposition, by rivalry and conflict. But some land simply where they should. ♦