Zinedine Zidane booked a seat in the stands 2,000 kilometers away.

I. The Ticket to Kansas City

2,000 kilometers.

That's the straight-line distance from MetLife Stadium in New York to Kansas City. France's opening match against Senegal kicked off six hours earlier than Algeria's match against Argentina—by all logic, Zinedine Zidane could have easily watched France's game first, then flown over to cheer for his son.

He didn't. He booked Kansas City directly.

The entire French football world probably raised an eyebrow collectively. Everyone knew: once the World Cup was over, Zidane would take over from Didier Deschamps. France's campaign in the United States meant every pass, every substitution was the new coach scrutinizing his ingredients under a magnifying glass. The VIP box in the coach's section was theoretically more valuable than any seat in the stands.

He skipped it. Skipped the Paris Saint-Germain stars, skipped Kylian Mbappé's form, skipped the potential tactical blueprint for France's future—he chose his 28-year-old second son, Luca Zidane.

Zidane isn't the type of father who puts family matters on the table. But this time, every paparazzo in France captured it: he took his wife and three sons—Enzo, Theo, and Elyaz—cycling across the Brooklyn Bridge from New York, then flying to Kansas City. A family of five (six, counting Luca), assembling all the male members of the Zidane clan.

The scene of this family portrait felt like Real Madrid's training ground from twenty years ago—except the players had become goalkeepers, the club had become the national team, and the locker room had become the stands.

Adidas was thrilled. The idle French legend, an Adidas ambassador, carries the logo's meaning wherever he goes. But this time, his presence in Kansas City felt more like a father watching his child go to work.

Keep in mind Luca's position: goalkeeper.

This is the position that descendants of legends most dread. A striker scoring is genius, a midfielder threading passes is the core, a defender making a tackle is a workhorse—only for goalkeepers: if your dad is Zidane, a save is deemed "expected," and a mistake becomes "Zidane's son is just that."

Luca kept goal for Granada for a few years, making it to his seventh national team appearance with five clean sheets before he finally earned the name "Luca Zidane" instead of "Zidane's son."

But he almost didn't make it.

In late April, he fractured his jaw and cheekbone. For a goalkeeper, blocking shots with the face daily is an occupational hazard, and fractures are a job-related injury. The doctor's advice was blunt: The World Cup—it's in your hands.

Luca didn't give up. In a friendly against the Netherlands on June 3, he wore a mask that made viewers wince, yet he started anyway. The media used the word "remarquable"—he didn't falter.

That's the real reason Zidane had to fly over. Not for Adidas, not for commercial appearances—it was a father wanting to see his son, masked, make his first World Cup save.

He had no choice. He had to go.

Luca didn't pick an easy opponent. Algeria's group this time included Argentina, Austria, and Jordan—three tough rivals, none of them pushovers. Argentina is the defending champion, Austria is a tough European middle-tier team, and Jordan is a surprising newcomer in the Arab world.

Algeria also came with ambition. Their only group-stage advancement in 2014 relied on that batch of "Algerian Frenchmen" who played in the Premier League, Ligue 1, and Serie A—a similar story to Luca's new blood.

So Luca's debut was never about a "newcomer reporting for duty."

It was the first time the brand "Luca Zidane" was thrown into the global spotlight for testing.

His father's endorsement might have been pre-signed, but whether it counted depended on the opponent's forwards.

That's why the 2,000-kilometer flight was unavoidable.

It wasn't a vacation. It wasn't a sponsor appearance. It wasn't even simple "fatherly love."

It was the Zidane family betting on "how the Zidane name will be discussed for the next 20 years."

If Luca made a stunning save, the story would change—the name Zidane would expand from "father of a striker" to "father of both a striker and a goalkeeper."

If Luca conceded to Argentina, the story would get awkward—especially for someone who might soon sit on France's coaching bench.

So Zidane had to be there in person.

He wasn't just watching his son make saves.

He was ensuring the family narrative didn't crash in the first act.

This time, he didn't separate family from career.

He even let family overshadow career.

That's the most intriguing moment in French football during the first week of the 2026 World Cup.

II. "I Walk My Own Path"

Luca's own voice is worth hearing more.

The Athletic UK's exclusive interview headline read: "I work hard to walk my own path."

Translated into Chinese football slang—"Don't bring my dad into this."

But his choice of Algeria inherently ties back to his father.

His grandparents were born in Algeria. The Zidane family grew up in Marseille's North African immigrant community, the backdrop of the entire family story. As a child, Luca trained at Real Madrid's Valdebebas academy with his father, then came home to eat his grandmother's couscous—filled with the aroma of cumin and lamb. He once wore France's youth jersey, but last autumn, he made a decision: go to Algeria.

A career choice involved a family meeting. Parents, siblings, grandfather—all present. The final decision was Luca's.

His father only said, "This is my dream."—but that "my" was spoken on behalf of his son.

There's an old saying in football: "bloodline." The term has mixed connotations. But for Luca, it's truly written in his DNA: an Algerian goalkeeper, French-trained, playing in Spain's league, with a family story stretching from Marseille to Madrid and back to his grandfather's North African home. His national team debut came last October, an Africa Cup of Nations quarterfinal loss to Nigeria in January, and he stood on the World Cup stage this June.

28 years old. For a goalkeeper, that's just right.

Seven appearances, five clean sheets. The stats aren't flashy, but they're sufficient. Enough for the coach to put him in the starting lineup, enough for his father to fly across the Atlantic to watch him.

But Luca also has shadows. In January, Algeria lost to Nigeria in the Africa Cup of Nations quarterfinals.

This defeat wasn't widely discussed, but it planted a psychological thread for Luca to watch out for in this World Cup: failing the pressure test in a major tournament.

So for his World Cup debut, Luca carried two burdens: the fractured jaw injury and the defeat in the Africa Cup of Nations from January.

But the real issue was never with Luca. The real issue was with Zidane himself.

He went to watch Algeria's game, not France's—this "either-or" stance was dissected by French media under a magnifying glass. Social media fans argued endlessly. Some said it was a private trip, don't make a fuss; others said he was unworthy of being France's future coach for not even showing up at the opening match; and some did the math—round two: France in Philadelphia, Algeria in San Francisco—what would he do? Keep flying?

Crossing the American continent. Crossing three matches in different time zones. Crossing the identity split between a father and a future coach.

That's the part of the 2026 World Cup Zidane story that truly deserves discussion.

He isn't "Zidane."

He's a father.

He's also someone who will likely lead France into the next World Cup.

These two things will clash irreconcilably on the day France and Algeria play in different cities on the same night.

Before that, Zidane first sent Luca—fractured jaw, masked—steadily onto the World Cup pitch.

That step, he got right.

The rest—Deschamps' position, Mbappé's locker room, Dembélé's system, Lloris' successor—are topics for the next 3,000 nights.

But all said, there's a deeper layer to Zidane's support for Luca. He went through it too.

In 1998, Zidane became a legend at the home World Cup. But earlier, he too was "that child of the Zidane family." He too came from Marseille's North African community, had his lineage questioned, was hesitated over by the national team's youth program, and ultimately forced himself into the name "Zidane."

So he understands Luca.

He understands more than any French Football Federation official, any Adidas marketing department, or any football commentator—what it takes to "release" a child weighed down by a surname, at what moment, on what stage, and in what way.

That's the true weight of the 2,000-kilometer flight. It's not emotional impulsiveness. It's a seasoned veteran giving precise support to another "veteran in the making."

Luca himself didn't disappoint his father.

In that The Athletic UK interview, he made a bold statement: "This World Cup, Africa will shock the world."

Coming from a goalkeeper playing in Spain's second division, for someone else, it might be laughable.

But from a 28-year-old goalkeeper with Algerian grandparents, who lost a tough match in the Africa Cup of Nations in January, fractured his jaw in April, returned with a mask in June, and bears the name Zidane—

It's different.

It's a rebound after being underestimated for too long. It's a response from a second-generation immigrant to the universal challenge of "your dad is your dad, you are you." It's also a challenge from an African player to the glass ceiling of "African teams always playing catch-up."

To understand why Luca said that, look at the context. The vast majority of Algeria's national team players are "French Algerians." Riyad Mahrez—born in the Paris suburbs, ultimately chose Algeria.

These people carry a dual narrative: in France, they're "children of immigrants"; back in Algeria, they're "overseas wanderers." But the moment they chose Algeria, the narrative shifted. They were no longer "samples of failed assimilation" but became "dual identifiers voting with their feet."

Luca is the latest link in this chain. His grandfather was born in a small village in Algeria; his father grew up in Marseille's North African community; he himself kept goal at Madrid's youth academy.

He didn't "return" to Algeria—he "went" to Algeria.

"Returning" means acknowledging roots; "going" means active choice. Luca chose the latter.

That's why he says, "I walk my own path."

And now, this night. Kansas City. Father in the stands. Son on the goal line. A freshly healed scar on his face, facing one of the greatest players in history, Lionel Messi.

No one could write a harsher script than this.

No one could make a lighter promise than this.

If he makes a save, it rewrites the map of "the Zidane name" in European football.

If he lets one in, the ticket his father flew 2,000 kilometers on becomes the most expensive slide in French football's PowerPoint for the next three years.

That's the Zidane of the 2026 World Cup.

He's no longer just the one who slid across the grass at Stade de France in 1998.

He's also a father in casual clothes, wearing a baseball cap, blending into the corner of the stands, nervous to the core.

He, too, is waiting for his son to give him an answer.