We Come Back
- Kevin Cado
- May 16
- 2 min read
Updated: Jun 2
On April 26th, at Le Moustoir, we were up two-nil against Caen, but no one was really watching the match. Not after the 80th minute. Everyone’s eyes were down — on their phones. Bad signal. Too many people refreshing the Pau–Metz score at the same time. Each second of partial loading triggered sighs, nervous laughs, someone muttering “bloody hell, it won’t load.”Then suddenly, a lone voice: “Pau scored.”The stadium shivered without understanding. And when the news spread, I saw people sink into their seats, others stand up in shock. I stood up too. Not out of reflex — out of necessity. Kroupi’s eyes were red. Abergel was in tears. And Soumano, who’d just come on, sealed it with a low, sharp strike in stoppage time. A full stop.Seconds later, the barriers gave way. No chaos. Just bodies drawn to the pitch. Le Moustoir, flooded. Flags, chants, smoke. I didn’t shout. I just stood there and watched.
May 10th. Final matchday. Same seat. Sun full in the face. Martigues on the brink. Lorient played for the title. Kroupi scored just before half-time, and again later. Soumano came in — first touch, goal. And to crown that perfect afternoon: one last from Makengo. Five-one. A statement, without arrogance.
No pitch invasion this time. But the chants lasted long after the whistle. Abergel and Talbi crossed the field to join the Merlus Ultras. They sang, raised their arms, beat the drums. The trophy was lifted on a makeshift stage, in a haze of silver confetti. I took one photo. Just one. Not of the shield. Of the moment before — when the mic crackled, when the players stepped forward. Low light. Smoke, still hanging.
Here, football is the celebration. The celebration is football. It’s a matter of soil, of salt, of held-back silence. In Lorient, we don’t throw parties.We come back.
If football in Brittany means something to you —
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