Watching the final of the African Cup of Nations*, one thing struck me above all else. It was the patent dichotomy in attitudes between the two sides lining up. In one corner you had the Zambians – all singing, all dancing, carefree, riding the crest of Herve Renard’s incessant wave of “Mayukaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!” from the touchline. In the other corner stood the Ivory Coast – introverted; nervy, despite the all-star squad and crippled by the overwhelming fear of failure. We all love a good football story and there are, by and large, a distinct lack of such narratives. Which is a good thing because it makes the really good ones all the more wonderful. Apologies to fans of the Ivory Coast, but I was supporting Zambia, of course. Most were. Singing as you walk up to take a penalty in the FINAL? The immaculately coiffured manager carrying the injured Joseph Musonda to join in his side’s celebrations? Keeper Mweene’s ridiculously cheeky spot kick? Brilliant. Heartwarming. Brilliant.
