YOU imagine that Zinedine Zidane saw the football field as his very own chess board. Coaxing his pawns this way and that, exploiting space, mounting attacks, out-thinking and out-manoeuvering the opposition until they could no longer maintain a resistance: checkmate.

Last Monday's documentary about arguably the greatest player of his generation followed something of a familiar template for Gallic subjects, portraying Zidane as half sportsperson, half philosopher. Maybe it's French directors who like to paint their subjects as pseudo-intellectuals, or maybe that's just the way they are. But when the great one muses about the art of controlling a ball before trailing off mid-sentence and staring into the distance you don't think he's an idiot, you think he's actually too intelligent for mere mortal conversation. It's as if he's saying, "If you don't understand me, it is you who is weak. I will nutmeg your feeble intellect with my football of enlightenment, mon ami..."

It would sound very cool in French, but maybe not so much with a Cockney accent. Which, we are certain, is at least half of John Terry's problem. Anyway, it's natural to extrapolate from this that many things French are weighted with an air of superiority whether it's deserved or not. French cinema? Non Monsieur Truffaut! French toast? Un petit soggy. French music? Joe le taxi, get me out of here. Zidane, however, deserves his reputation and to watch clips of him in action – his control, his movement, his balance – is to watch a grand master toying with novices.

The documentary stitched together interviews, highlights from his last game for France – the 2006 World Cup final – and some interesting footage of Zidane with his family in the days before his last game for Real Madrid. Very much the "authorised biography", he comes across as a family man. One minute he's doting over his infant son, the next he's playing football with his elder sons in the garden, then he's keeping his mind off the next big game by joking around with his brothers.

One of the most interesting insights came from Marcello Lippi who was his coach when he arrived at Juventus. Lippi recalled how Zidane seemed to struggle early in his career with the Old Lady, but from the moment he scored his first goal for the club he blossomed. He became the man. It was as if a weight was lifted, he realised that he really could dictate games in the big leagues and from then on he dominated.

His family all seem to have their feet firmly grounded with his father – an incredible dignified individual – recalling how he was determined his family would gain an education so that they wouldn't have to work as many hours as he had to in order to make ends meet. Then his son explained that he had to work twice as hard as a player to justify giving up on his education for football. His mother spoke about seeing her son as neither a star nor a hero, but only as her child. With such a close bond it's no wonder Marco Materazzi got his comeuppance if he insulted Zidane's kin.

The strangest thing about the piece is that the headbutt to the Italian's chest was never shown. There must be a full five minutes of clips from the game – including that brazen penalty – but the coup de grace is left out. All that's shown is the referee sending Zidane off as he explains that he knew he would face "injury" at some stage in the game. Deep.

You wonder if Zidane is any good at the game of chess what with its appreciation of space and timing and the infinite outcomes of a given move. The BBC were certainly painting the game as a philosopher's dream in How To Win At Chess. But the coolest part was the names the game has for opening moves: the Ruy Lopez, the Pterodactyl, the Hippopotamus, the Queen's Gambit. You have to hand it to them for dramatising the rich man's draughts in such a way.

Much like football, you occasionally have a young prodigy who scorches onto the scene. They probably call it a Pele '58. One such genius is a young English man called David Howell, who became Britain's youngest Grand Master aged 16 in 2006. When he was just eight he became the youngest player ever to defeat a Grand Master when he beat a guy called John Nunn. But to see Nunn try to explain away his defeat was pure comedy. Clearly still irked all these years later he protested with more than a hint of indignation that he was only beaten on time rather than in a checkmate. Of course, the rest of the talking heads agreed that he was conquered fair and square.

If you sat him down and asked him to come up with a name for the defeat he'd probably call it the Zidane Headbutt. Just because it happened doesn't mean he has to accept it as a philosophical truth. And whatever you do, don't make him watch the footage.

jfoley@tribune.ie