As long as Didier Deschamps is coach, I have no chance of getting

Host: The night settled over Paris like a velvet bruise — deep, restless, and alive with light that refused to sleep. From the banks of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower shimmered, throwing its golden pulse across the dark water. Somewhere nearby, the faint echo of a late-night football match drifted from an open bar window, mingling with the sound of rain on cobblestone.

Host: Inside a quiet bistro, tucked away from the noise, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another. The table between them was littered with coffee cups, newspapers, and the glow of a small TV screen replaying an old interview — Karim Benzema’s face frozen mid-sentence, eyes hard, jaw set. The subtitles read: “As long as Didier Deschamps is coach, I have no chance of getting back into the France team.”

Host: The rain beat a rhythm against the window, as if the sky itself were listening.

Jack: “You know,” he said, flicking his cigarette ash into an empty saucer, “he’s not wrong. Politics runs deeper than talent. Sometimes, no matter how good you are, someone else decides your ceiling.”

Jeeny: “You sound like him,” she replied, her voice calm but edged with quiet fire. “Always blaming the gatekeeper. Maybe the ceiling isn’t there to trap you — maybe it’s there to test how high you’ll jump.”

Jack: “Jump all you want,” he said with a low laugh, “some doors are locked from the inside. Deschamps made up his mind years ago. No redemption arc, no forgiveness. That’s not a test — that’s a verdict.”

Host: The bistro light flickered. Outside, footsteps splashed through puddles. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the TV — steady, unwavering.

Jeeny: “And yet he still plays, doesn’t he? Still scores, still wins. Maybe exile is its own kind of freedom. You can’t be controlled by a system once it’s rejected you.”

Jack: “Freedom?” Jack’s voice hardened. “You call that freedom? The man gave his life to his country’s jersey. You can’t tell him that playing somewhere else erases that loss. He wasn’t fighting for medals — he was fighting to belong.”

Jeeny: “Belonging isn’t given, Jack. It’s earned. And sometimes it’s refused. France didn’t reject Benzema’s talent; it rejected what he represented — controversy, ego, defiance. You can’t live in rebellion and expect to be crowned by the same throne you challenge.”

Jack: “So you’re saying he deserved it?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying he paid the price of being misunderstood. That’s not the same thing.”

Host: Her words floated in the air, mingling with the faint hum of the television and the scent of rain-soaked pavement. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark with the reflection of the city’s glow.

Jack: “You always side with the poets, Jeeny. But football’s not poetry — it’s politics in cleats. Deschamps built an empire of discipline, of silence, of control. Benzema was too loud for that world. Too human. You can’t blame him for calling it what it is.”

Jeeny: “And yet calling it what it is doesn’t make it just. Nor does it make him right.”

Jack: “You think he’s wrong for speaking the truth?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “But truth without humility becomes arrogance. He might have been right about Deschamps, but when you turn your wound into a weapon, you bleed alone.”

Host: The waiter passed quietly, refilling their glasses with dark red wine, the surface trembling in the low light. The sound of thunder rolled faintly in the distance.

Jack: “You talk like the system deserves respect,” he said. “But you forget — systems survive by crushing those who question them. Look at history: Galileo, Mandela, even Muhammad Ali. They all stood outside the circle first. Maybe Benzema’s just another name in that long line — punished not for being wrong, but for refusing to kneel.”

Jeeny: “Ali fought for truth. Galileo fought for knowledge. Benzema fought for himself. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Self-respect is still a cause worth fighting for.”

Jeeny: “Until it blinds you,” she countered. “Until your pride becomes a prison. Sometimes, you’re not locked out — you’ve locked yourself in.”

Host: A long silence fell between them, the kind that feels heavier than words. The rain outside softened, leaving streaks of silver against the glass. Jeeny looked at him, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “Jack, you of all people should know — bitterness corrodes brilliance. You can spend years building your legacy, and a single sentence can burn it down.”

Jack: “Then why do we remember the rebels more than the obedient?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking. “Why do the outcasts live longer in the world’s memory than the perfect soldiers?”

Jeeny: “Because rebels remind us that truth has a cost. But not every cost is worth paying.”

Host: The TV now replayed Benzema’s highlights — goal after goal, brilliance after brilliance — a montage of what was undeniable. The screen flickered as the commentator’s voice rose: “And yet, despite it all, he keeps proving them wrong.”

Host: Jack stared at the screen, his eyes glinting with something between admiration and sorrow.

Jack: “He proved them wrong. Isn’t that enough?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “Because proving them wrong isn’t the same as finding peace.”

Host: Outside, the Eiffel Tower lights blinked once, then shimmered again, a heartbeat of gold against the endless dark.

Jeeny: “You know, my brother once told me something,” she said. “He said, ‘In every game, there’s a moment when you stop playing against your opponent and start playing against yourself.’ Maybe that’s where Benzema is now. Not fighting Deschamps. Fighting himself — for forgiveness he may never get.”

Jack: “And what if forgiveness isn’t his goal?”

Jeeny: “Then his war will never end.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands — the knuckles rough, the skin scarred from a life that had known its own battles. He sighed.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of the great ones. They never learn when to stop fighting.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe,” she said gently, “it’s the blessing of the human ones — that they fight anyway.”

Host: A distant church bell tolled midnight. The rain had stopped entirely now. In the quiet, the city exhaled — a long, soft sigh that seemed to carry centuries of ambition and disappointment.

Host: Jack raised his glass, the red wine catching the reflection of the lights.

Jack: “To Benzema,” he said. “To every man locked out of the world he helped build.”

Jeeny: She clinked her glass against his, her smile tinged with melancholy.

Jeeny: “And to Deschamps,” she added softly. “Because sometimes leadership isn’t about fairness — it’s about burden. And no one escapes that cleanly.”

Host: They drank. The wine was warm and bitter, like truth swallowed too late. The TV faded into static. Outside, the city lights shimmered across the wet streets, turning them into rivers of gold.

Host: And as the camera would pull away — from the table, from the smoke, from two silhouettes framed in quiet defiance — the echo of Garvey’s old idea and Schiller’s old hope seemed to hum beneath it all:

Host: That even those denied their place in history still shape it,
That even those exiled by pride still belong to time,
And that greatness, once spoken, never needs permission to return.