Zini was four when his father first got out the white and black colored ball, with sections split into pentagons. His father retrieved it from the shed out back, then tossed it at Zini with both hands, who caught it with outspread arms.

“No, Zini,” said his father. “No hands. Use your feet. Like me.” And Zini’s father dropped the ball to the ground, and then kicked it back and forth between his feet. “Now you,” said his father, who kicked the ball towards Zini.

Zini’s foot stepped out to stop the ball in mid-roll. He regarded it for a moment, then pulled his foot back and kicked the ball as hard as he could. It rolled halfway to his father.

“Exactly, Zini,” said his father. “Just like that.”

Zinedine was in high school now, and his football coach was surprised more and more every day by his emerging talent. Zinedine loved playing, too– almost every day he was out behind the school, kicking the ball off off the wall and back to himself.

His coach walked out back to go over next week’s game schedule with him, and Zinedine listened, juggling the ball with both feet as his coach rattled off the dates and times to meet opponents on the pitch.

“… And on Friday,” said the coach, “we’re playing St. John’s again.” He looked up from the clipboard just as Zinedine kicked the ball with the back of his right foot, over his head, and caught it with his left. “But before we do that,” said his coach, “I think there’s something else you should learn about.”

Zinedine stopped, held the ball under his left foot. He couldn’t imagine what else he had to learn. He could kick the ball halfway down the field, farther all the time. He could juggle circles around the other students, moving the ball back and forth between his feet like magic. He could keep it in the air, or stop it on a dime, all with just his feet.

“There is another way to control the ball,” said his coach, but Zinedine couldn’t think what it was. Hands were out of the question, as his father had long ago told him. What else did you have besides hands and feet?

“Give me the ball,” said his coach, and Zinedine deftly kicked the multicolored sphere (this was a training ball) up towards his coach’s waiting hands. “Now step back over there, about two feet to your left. No. Yes, there.” Zinedine moved to the appropriate spot. Here, he was too far away to recieve a kicked pass, but he could still jump high enough to kick the ball down and dribble it. What was his coach trying to do?

“Ok,” said his coach. “I’m going to throw the ball to you, just like a throw in. Only this time, don’t use your feet to catch it. Use your head.”

Zinedine stopped for a moment. You could use your head? He’d never considered it. He’d always been told– in football it’s feet, feet, feet. He’d seen player hit the ball with their head on television, but he’d always figured it was a foul, an error, a mistake. You could use your head?

“Here we go,” said his coach. And he tossed the ball with a gentle lob towards Zinedine’s forehead. Zinedine aimed too low, and it bounced off the top of his hair. He turned to watch the ball bounce away behind him, then back towards his coach and laughed.

His coach laughed, too. “Don’t worry, Zinedine. You’ll learn it before long.”

Ever since then, Zinedine had practiced for hours upon hours every single day. He’d bounced the ball off his feet, up to his head, back down to his feet, up to his head. His forehead had hurt at first, but over time, it had hardened, like a thick shell, or a guitarist’s callus. His neck muscles tightened and strengthened every time the ball bounced off his cranium– the stiches in the ball’s leather left marks in his brow.

But he kept practicing, until his feet could fire like machine guns, and his head could explode forward like a grenade. He joined the team in France, and he won, and he won, and he won some more. His teammates looked up to him, and his nation loved him. French sportswriters, with their passionate commentary and their flowery verbs, said his feet moved like lightning, like sparrows in the spring. But Zidane, as he was now called, knew where the power was.

His feet were strong, as was the rest of his body. Running around on a soccer pitch for years professionally will do that to you. But every time Zidane practiced, he felt where his real power lied. It was in his forehead. When he clenched his neck and sprang his back, and the ball bounced off of that sweet spot just above his eyebrows, but slightly below his hairline (former– he’d shaved his head by now, in pursuit of the Cup), he knew the ball exploded forward with a force his feet could never match. His feet were lightning, maybe, but his forehead was the thunder; shaking buildings, frightening children, and echoing throughout the plains and mountains.

Materazzi had been giving him crap all night. He’d had enough of it, and so had his teammates.

But Zidane was on the cusp of winning. He remembered his father, how he’d pulled that ball from the shed and trained Zidane in its use. And Zidane remembered his old soccer coach, how he’d shown him what real power was– how it came from the heights, not from the depths.

But when Materazzi opened his mouth for the last time, Zidane couldn’t handle it. Cup or not, M needed a lesson.

And to teach it to him, Zidane knew where he had to go.

Feet wouldn’t be enough for this plebian, this moron, this stain on the face of sportsmen everywhere.

Zidane went where he knew the real power was. He went with the head.