Zidane looked at the Berlin sky, his mind went blank, gray clouds with blue light, dotted with sporadical white sky, like the endless, changing, windy sky in a Flemish painting. Zidane looked at the sky of Berlin, standing at the Olympic Stadium on the evening of July 9, 2006, and he felt in a strong sentimentality that he was here, just here, at the Olympic Stadium in Berlin, at this definite moment, the night of the World Cup final.

Maybe the night of this final was just formality and melancholy. ……

At this moment, night fell on Berlin, the brightness decreased, and Zidane suddenly felt the sky on his shoulders darken, leaving only traces of black and rosy clouds peeling off in the dusk. The water that melts into the night is an old regret that does not want to sleep.

……

Buffon, the Italian goalkeeper, suddenly appeared, began to speak to him and stroked his head, kneading the crown of his head and the back of his neck, in a striking, gentle, enveloping motion, with a holy oil motion, as one would do with a child, with a newborn, trying to calm him down, calm. ”[1]

Like Tucson many years ago, I don't see the gloom of losers through TV and screens. Far from setting like that night in Berlin, the sun still shines on the earth, telling everyone that everything is now and today. Ke Peiwei gently pushed Li Bin away. What they said, I don't know, just like Tucson didn't know what happened to Zidane, who was destined to finish runner-up, before he left the field for the last time in his life. Li Bin's comfort to him is the same tenderness as it was years ago, and Kopewe is not Zidane. He really is a kid. Instead of looking at the sky, he let them sink to the ground. Like a previous game, or a distant player in front of the TV and computer screens, he didn't get the chance to play against his opponent.

He was still young, still immature. The same goes for his partners and opponents. They will grow up, they will get better, and they will go away one day, just like each of us. He's going to have a lot of time, he can have a lot of time. Time is not a uniform grid carved into a clock, it shortens and elongates in the mind, and we knead it into shapes, framing the language in order to reproduce what is lost. Ko Peiwei failed, he only failed in this sentence, failed in words that were piled up with data or paper and ink, and we saw it. The speaker consciously allows us to see his failures, without describing the sky, the earth, and the sun, and his weariness.

If memory serves, he never cried on the pitch. Maybe he didn't get any reproach. Alas, enough is enough. You don't have to work so hard, you can cry.

[1] Quoted from Zidane's Melancholy by Belgian writer Jean-Philippe Tucson.