End of the affair?: the France team look dejected at the end of their game to Mexico
 
Perhaps, Raymond Domenech will console himself, it was written in the stars. France, the team many regard as the least deserving of their place at the World Cup finals, now stand on the cusp of becoming its most high-profile early casualty.

Impotent against Uruguay, embarrassed by Mexico. Two games, no goals, one point. Regardless of how France fare against South Africa in their final group game, a draw between their two prior opponents will condemn Domenech’s side to an early exit, and the manager’s reign to an ignominious end.

Certainly, Domenech will know that if his team’s demise is not the work of a cruel kharma, he has nobody to blame but himself. He cannot blame the referee, the Saudi Khalil Al Ghamdi, who correctly ruled Javier Hernandez, soon to be of Manchester United, onside for Mexico’s opening goal, and correctly penalised Eric Abidal for tripping Pablo Barrera before Cuauhtemoc Blanco’s penalty.

He could attempt to blame his players, disjointed in attack and in disarray in defence as they were, but the nature of their failings is such that the coach cannot be absolved from responsibility.

Domenech has produced a side utterly lacking in shape, in identity. France possess stellar names drawn from the world’s grandest clubs, but they contrive to be so much less than the sum of their parts.

William Gallas and Eric Abidal make for an uncertain defensive pairing, the former ageing almost visibly, the latter hardly comfortable in the centre. Jeremy Toulalan stands alone in a midfield devoid of all discipline. Franck Ribery, drafted into a central role here in the absence of the enigmatic Yoann Gourcuff, was as deeply ineffectual against El Tri as he was against Uruguay.

And, after six years of intense, ferocious criticism, the manager himself seems to have lost the courage of his convictions. True, he brought on Andre-Pierre Gignac for Nicolas Anelka at half-time, but through necessity rather than choice.

As his opposite number, Javier Aguirre, scenting blood, threw on his two eventual goalscorers, Domenech leaned nonchalantly against his dug-out, seemingly frozen into inaction. Raging against the dying of the light is obviously not his style.

Mexico’s dynamism stood in direct contrast to Domenech’s fatalism. Aguirre’s side, driven on by the sea of green in the stands of the Peter Mokaba Stadium, had seized the initiative from the off, clearly sensing France’s lack of gusto.

Giovani Dos Santos, looking the player once seen as one of the world’s brightest prospects rather than the spare part he has become at Tottenham, struck the post as early as the second minute after a searing run down the left flank, though he did so from a narrowly offside position.

The chances came and went. Carlos Vela launched one effort into the Polokwane sky, as did Guillermo Franco, as he twisted and turned a listing Abidal. Carlos Salcido, the rampaging left-back, at least found the target, nutmegging Sagna and beating Gallas, seemingly ageing by the minute, only to fire straight at Hugo Lloris.

It took France, on the other hand, 54 minutes to call the Lyon goalkeeper’s counterpart, the underemployed Oscar Perez, into meaningful action, Florent Malouda producing a dipping drive which required an acrobatic deflection. Scarcely a minute later, Ribery doubled the shots on goal tally, his effort, too, blocked.

Perhaps it was that fleeting, insubstantial threat which pricked Mexico into action. Rafael Marquez, their captain, floated a beautifully weighted through ball into the path of Hernandez, on the field for less than 10 minutes, the striker timing his run to perfection.

As Abidal and Gallas appealed in vain, and incorrectly, for offside, Hernandez - known as *Chicharito*, little pea, in Mexico - rounded the isolated Lloris, and rolled the ball into an empty net.

The goal deflated France. There was no rallying, no renewed vigour about their play. They succumbed with barely a whimper. When Pablo Barrera, as bold and brash a winger as this tournament will see, skipped past Evra, the world’s best left-back offered no challenge, no chase.

Instead, the captain of the French national team watched as Barrera drew a clumsy foul from Abidal and Al Ghamdi pointed to the spot.

Up stepped Blanco, Mexico’s controversial cult hero, to take an exaggeratedly lengthy run-up and power the resultant penalty past Lloris.

France, perched on the edge of the abyss, find themselves in the hands of the gods, their fate dependent on others. Domenech and his team will not be foolish enough to expect a kindly judgment.