The end of the career of Zinadine Zidane is the most interesting public story of the silly season so far, not only because of its content but because it may be enlightening as to the behaviour of other public figures, writes John Waters.
Much of the analysis has been literal-minded and prosaic - either, "What a terrible example to our young people", or "How, on the brink of glory, could he allow himself to be provoked in this way?"
Many "obvious" explanations have been proffered, some by Zizou himself, but none has seemed as interesting as the at first implausible suggestion of the philosopher Bernard Henri-Levy, who said Zidane had in effect decided to commit the "suicide of a demigod".
"The only explanation," he elaborated, "is that within the man there was a moment of weakness, an ultimate revolt against the living parable, the stupid statue, the beautiful monument that he had become in the past few months."
Dropped into the global media's obsession with black-white hero-villain scenarios, Henri-Levy's explanation fell like a stone.
For if you are successfully conditioned to value celebrity and iconic status, the idea of a man rejecting lifelong glory makes no sense.
The only rationalisation then becomes the "tragic flaw" analysis - a man on the cusp of greatness throwing away the moment because of a fatal flaw in his make-up. Zidane has claimed he was provoked by remarks made by Materazzi about his mother and sister. But since such remarks are an everyday part of a game he has played professionally for two decades, this depiction of himself as a victim of personalised invective was obviously aimed at a form of public discussion in which the truth is often swamped in piety and banality.
If you study the footage of Zidane's head-butting of Materazzi - the way he walked away and then stopped, turned, walked back and aimed his head at the Italian's breast, Henri-Levy's postulation rings truer.
Zizou said the incident happened very quickly, but compared to most incidents on the soccer pitch, it occurred in slow motion. There was time to think and calculate. There was, too, about the methodology of the assault, a certain sense of premeditation.
Head-butts are traditionally aimed at the face, with instant and spectacular results, and Zidane had some form in this regard. If he had aimed for the nose, he would have made an instant victim of Materazzi and an outright demon of himself. But if Henry-Levy's diagnosis is correct, he would have been seeking to avoid those outcomes in favour of a more complex gesture that displayed his human frailty without doing any real damage to, or making a martyr of, the Italian.
For a time, until the fourth official viewed the videotape, none of the officials knew what had happened. During this period, Zidane stood there as though he shared their puzzlement.
When the inevitable emerged, he protested to the referee. It was as if the conscious part of his brain had forgotten or could not believe what he had done. But it is hard to avoid the possibility that, in some parallel part of his psyche, Zizou carefully measured the outcomes and consequences, and decided that this was the best way of beginning his life as a former footballer.
"Do you think that in a World Cup final, 10 minutes away from the end of my career, I would do a thing like that because it pleased me?" he asked. Perhaps.
Leo Abse, in his book The Man Who Lost His Smile, speculates about the role of existential guilt in some of the political actions of Tony Blair. He cites the way criminals sometimes manifest what can only be interpreted as a desire to be caught and punished and argues that a similar kind of thing can happen to politicians. Abse's thesis is that the early lionisation of Blair led him into actions designed to shatter his own halo.
Taking a different view to Abse of both Tony Blair and some of the events he treats in his book, I'm not sure I agree with his broader psychoanalysis of Blair, but his argument is fascinating as a way of seeing political behaviour. Modern media create narratives in which public figures are required to play either heroes or villains, uncontaminated by ambiguity or larger truth.
But each of us, no matter how lacking in self-awareness, knows himself or herself to be no more all-good than all-bad. Just as the media practice of demonising a public figure denies the complexity of that person's humanity, so does the relentless building of celebrities into heroes and heroines.
Materazzi was incidental to the event, and what he said to Zidane was of little consequence. He was a man in the right place at the right time.
Henri-Levy is correct. Zizou had a pain in his neck listening to the lies, albeit flattering ones, being told about him. Remembering his past sins and deciding he couldn't survive on the plinth being prepared for him, the hero wished to submit his resignation.