“I'm not crazy on my paper it says Marseille. Are they my eyes or what? »
We could paraphrase the Michel Blanc of Les Bronzés, looking for the Gare de Lyon in Saint-Lazare.
This Martigues – Laval was to be written in Marseille. In the honorable profession of sports journalist, going to see Stade Lavallois at the Vélodrome, as initially planned, was something. Even in front of stands inhabited by the mistral alone, he was a loser.
Close to Toulon, anyway…
But instead of Canebière, Bonne Mère, the Mediterranean climate, memories of Waddle's dribbles, Papin's shots, we had to go near Toulon. Not Toulon, Toulon. It was too logical and too close to Martigues. No. Toulon-sur-Arroux, named after the local river, postal code 71320, Saône-et-Loire. A few fathoms upstream of Gueugnon, therefore.
Gueugnon. We arrive there via a country road, surrounded by Charolaises grazing on the lush grass. Gueugnon. His factory. His memories. Its Jean-Laville stadium, in homage to a mayor who notably built a footbridge over the Arroux. Its aim was to connect the foundry to the football stadium. The worker went from the turbine to the stand.
Papin, Waddle, Safanjon, Boumnijel…
Gueugnon, its main street. His victory in the League Cup. Its closed stores, which say that all is not rosy in metallurgy. Its other stalls that hang on. The wheel that turns, the Arroux that flows. Instead of the images of Papin, Waddle, the memories of Safanjon, Boumnijel…
It was cold. More than in Marseille.
But it was good.
