Allez Les Verts part II

Introduction

When I first wrote about Saint-Étienne on Le Foot, it was impossible not to begin with 1976.

The image of Dominique Rocheteau limping from the bench at Hampden Park, the square posts that denied history, and the million people who welcomed a defeated team home on the Champs-Élysées remain among the defining moments of French football. The first part of this story explored how a provincial mining city became the heart of a nation and why Les Verts were far more than just a successful football team. They became a symbol of working-class France itself.

Read the article here.... 

But Glasgow was not the end.....

There was still a other chapter to write.

Five years after those famous square posts, Saint-Étienne stood once again at the summit of French football. Michel Platini had arrived. Robert Herbin remained on the bench. Geoffroy-Guichard still echoed with cries of Allez les Verts. Yet beneath the celebrations something fundamental had changed. The mines were beginning to close. The city was changing. The dynasty was ageing. Nobody realised that the club's tenth league title would become one of the most bittersweet triumphs in French sporting history.

This is not the story of another championship.

It is the story of the last championship.

The story of how the greatest dynasty French football had ever known danced one final time before disappearing into memory—and why, forty-five years later, Saint-Étienne is still trying to climb back to where so many believe it belongs.

Allez Les Verts (Part II): The Last Dance

A story of a dying dynasty and a reluctant king, of a city that had grown too used to victory to recognise the end when it arrived, of the last great team of a golden age and a title that would have to last forever.

Prologue: The Weight of Expectation

On 2 June 1981, the Stade Geoffroy-Guichard was not full. It was not even close. Only 22,775 spectators had made the journey, a fraction of the capacity that had shook with the roar of 40,000 just five years earlier when the whole of France had fallen in love with Les Verts. The cauldron was barely simmering. The great green tide that had swept through Glasgow, that had filled the Champs-Élysées with a million voices, had receded.

The match itself was a formality. Bordeaux, the visitors, were not challengers. They were a respectable side, well-drilled by Aimé Jacquet, but they had no stake in the outcome. The title had been all but decided weeks before. Saint-Étienne needed only a point to secure their tenth championship. They were going through the motions, completing the formalities, closing a chapter that nobody realised was about to close forever.

Michel Platini scored twice in the first half, the second a header from a corner that seemed almost too easy, as if the Bordeaux defence had already surrendered . Bernard Lacombe pulled one back late, but it was too little, too late. The final whistle blew. The title was secure. The celebrations began.

But something was missing. Jean-Charles Schuler, president of the supporters' association, remembered the strange, muted atmosphere: "We had become so accustomed to victories that we could not imagine the famine to follow. We were 22,000 in the stadium. We were probably happy, but it was a contained joy" .

Contained joy. That was the phrase. The joy of a city that had forgotten how to celebrate because it had become so accustomed to success.

Jean-Paul Philibet, who was just sixteen years old that day, remembered a different feeling: "I was a high school student in Roanne, my hometown. I went to the stadium with my friend's parents. At the end of the match, I remember a Bengal fire or an improvised bonfire in the centre circle. I also remember Platini's goals, of course. I didn't imagine we would stay on this tenth title."

Forty plus years later, those words would echo with a melancholy that nobody could have anticipated that night. The tenth title would be the last. And the city that had grown so used to winning would spend the next forty years learning how to lose.

St Étienne - The City that Had Everything

Saint-Étienne in 1981 was still a city of industry. The mines were not yet silent. The factories still smoked. The Loire valley still hummed with the sound of labour. It was not yet the post-industrial ghost town that it would become, the city of shuttered factories and abandoned dreams, the place that time had passed by.

But the signs were there. The mines were closing. The steelworks were contracting. The population was slowly shrinking, with the area losing around 3,000 residents per year . The city that had once been the industrial heart of France was beginning its long decline. And the football club that had given it pride was beginning its own slow fall.

The 1981 title was the culmination of an era. It was the tenth championship in the club's history, more than any other French club had ever won . The team that lifted the trophy was the final version of the great Saint-Étienne side that had dominated French football for a decade. It featured the remnants of the 1976 European Cup final team: Jacques Santini, Christian Lopez, Gérard Janvion, Ivan Ćurković. It featured the new generation: Patrick Battiston, Jean-François Larios, Jean-Louis Zanon. It featured Johnny Rep, the Dutch international who had brought a touch of Total Football to the French game. And it featured Platini.

The squad for the 1980-81 season was built around a core of players formed at the club – Lopez, Janvion, and Santini had all come through the academy, part of a tradition that had made Saint-Étienne the envy of French football . Captain Christian Lopez, who had been appointed to succeed Jacques Santini in 1979, embodied the club's ethos. He later recalled: "In the 1970s and right up to the 1981 title, the bedrock of ASSE was made up of players trained at the club" .

As Robert Herbin, the "Sphinx" who had built the dynasty, told the press at the start of the campaign: "On a l'habitude de gagner." We are used to winning. It was not arrogance. It was a statement of fact.

The Reluctant King

Platini was the reluctant king of this dynasty. He had arrived from Nancy in 1979, a prodigy who had already been named French Player of the Year, the best player in the country, and he knew it. He was ambitious, restless, and aware that his talent deserved a stage larger than the French league . He was not a miner's son, not a product of the academy. He was an outsider, a brilliant, mercurial star who had come to Saint-Étienne to win championships and move on.

In 1980, he had played a key role in helping the club to the title. In 1981, he was the undisputed leader. He scored 20 league goals that season, finishing fourth in the scoring charts . Across all competitions, he netted 29 times, the club's top scorer ahead of Rep with 21 . He had become the man who could decide matches with a single moment of magic, the player who could carry a team on his shoulders.

But even Platini, for all his genius, could not stop the tide. The club was ageing. The dynasty was creaking. The investment that had built the great teams of the 1970s was drying up. The city that had once been the engine of French industry was slowing down. The signs were everywhere, if only anyone had chosen to see them.

The players themselves seemed to sense that this was the end of something. Jacques Zimako, the powerful winger, had already left for Paris Saint-Germain. Johnny Rep, the Dutch star, was fading. The replacements were not of the same quality. The famous academy that had produced such talent was no longer producing at the same rate.

Platini would not stay long. He left for Juventus the following season, where he would win the Ballon d'Or three times and become a global icon. He would never win another French league title. But in that final season, he gave Saint-Étienne everything he had. He gave them a tenth title. And then he was gone.

The Season: A Summary

The 1980-81 season was not a procession. Saint-Étienne were pushed hard by Nantes, who finished second, and by Lens, who finished third. The title was not secured until the final day of the season, when the 2-1 victory over Bordeaux confirmed the championship .

It was a season of contrasts. The team that had once been known for its collective brilliance was now increasingly reliant on individual moments of magic – moments that were usually provided by Platini. There were grumblings among the older players, the ones who had been part of the great teams of the 1970s, that the collective spirit was fading. Christian Lopez, the captain, acknowledged the change: "In 1980-81, on the other hand, we relied more on individuals. Especially Michel Platini, a future three-time Ballon d'Or" .

But the grumblings were muted. The title was won. The record was set. Saint-Étienne were the most successful club in French football history, with 10 championships to their name. It was a testament to their dominance, to their consistency, to the vision of their leaders.

Yet even in the moment of triumph, there was a sense of something unfinished. The club had also reached the final of the Coupe de France that season, losing 2-1 to SC Bastia . The treble had been within reach. The dream of matching the achievements of the 1970s was still alive. But it was not to be. The loss to Bastia was a portent, a warning that the dynasty was not as invincible as it once appeared.

The Exile of the King

Platini's departure in the summer of 1981 was the beginning of the end. He left for Juventus, the club that would define his career, the club where he would win everything, and the club where he would become a legend. He was 26 years old. He was in his prime. And he was leaving.

The fans understood. How could they not? Platini was destined for greater things. He had outgrown the French league, the modest crowds, the provincial stage. He deserved the grand stage, the global audience, the recognition that only a club like Juventus could offer. They waved him goodbye. They wished him well. They did not know that they were waving goodbye to their last chance at glory.

Platini was not the only departure. Dominique Rocheteau, "L'Ange Vert," the man who had come off the bench in the 1976 European Cup final, left for Paris Saint-Germain. He was 26 years old, the same age as Platini, and he too was seeking a bigger stage. Pierre Repellini, another veteran of the 1976 campaign, also departed . The great team that had conquered France was being dismantled. And nobody seemed to notice. The signings of Patrick Battiston and Bernard Gardon from Monaco helped in the short term , but they could not stop the tide.

The city's industrial decline was mirrored by the club's sporting decline. The mines that had once powered the city were closing, and the football club that had once been its pride was entering its own long winter.

The Long Famine

The years that followed were hard. Saint-Étienne, the most successful and most storied club in French history, could not maintain its dominance. The stadium was still full, the songs were still sung, but the trophies stopped coming. The decade of dominance, the era of Platini and Rocheteau, the glory years of Hampden Park and the square posts, had ended. The tenth title would have to last a very long time. The drought that followed would be one of the longest in French football history.

The club fell on hard times. They were relegated. They fought back. They were relegated again. They struggled to compete with the new financial powers of French football, the PSGs, the Marseilles, the Lyonnais. The city that had once been the industrial heart of France was now a post-industrial ghost town. The football club that had once been the greatest in the country was now a club of memories. The trophies were no longer coming. But the love remained.

In 2013, the club, by then back in Ligue 1, finally won another trophy: the Coupe de la Ligue. It was not the European Cup. It was not even the French championship. But for a generation that had only known failure, it was a moment of redemption. The drought was over. The city could celebrate again. The great green tide could flow once more.

Jean-Charles Schuler, the president of St. Étienne's supporters association who had been present for the 1981 title, was also there for the Coupe de la Ligue victory. He described the emotions of that night: "I was at the Stade de France. I cried. It had been thirty-two years, I was a grandpa, but I cried like a child" . It had taken a generation for Saint-Étienne to win another trophy. And when they did, the tears of joy were the same as the tears of grief.

But the Coupe de la Ligue was a minor trophy. The championship, the only trophy that really mattered to the old guard, the prize that separated the great clubs from the merely good, that remained elusive. The tenth title is still the last.

The Legacy of 1981

The 1981 title is the final act of a golden age. It is the last trophy of the team that conquered Europe, the team that made France fall in love with football, the team that defined an era. It is also the beginning of a long, slow decline, a reminder that even the greatest dynasties eventually fall. The 1981 title is the end of one story and the beginning of another.

What makes the 1981 title so poignant is that nobody knew it would be the last. The fans celebrated that night with a joy that was not tempered by any sense of finality. There was no hint, no warning, no sense that they were saying goodbye to something that would not return.

Jean-Charles Schuler later reflected on the strangeness of it all: "We were so accustomed to winning that we couldn't imagine what would follow. Today, the pitch would have been invaded. We would have celebrated differently. We would have known that it was the last time."

That is the tragedy of Saint-Étienne. The city that had grown so used to winning did not know how to celebrate a last victory. It accepted it as routine. It took it for granted. And when the victories stopped coming, when the decade of dominance turned into decades of drought, the city had nothing left to remember but its own complacency.

Epilogue: The Star That Still Shines

Platini's double on that June evening in 1981 is still remembered. The museum displays the memories, the photographs, the programmes, the shirts. The tenth title is still celebrated. Every year, the club commemorates the anniversary, and the fans remember the team that won it .

The city has changed. The mines are gone. The factories are silent. The people have left. But the football club remains. The stadium still stands. The songs are still sung. The green shirts are still worn. The hope, that stubborn, irrational hope that defines every football fan, that one day, the glory will return.

But the glory has not returned. The tenth title is still the last. The dynasty is still a memory. And the city that had everything is still waiting.

Postscript: The Next Ascent

If the story of Saint-Étienne's tenth title is about an ending, then the story of 2026-27 is about beginning again.

The green shirts will once more walk out beneath the concrete arches of Geoffroy-Guichard, but this time not to defend a championship or chase European glory. They will do so as a Ligue 2 club, beginning yet another campaign with a single objective: returning to the place where so many supporters believe the club belongs. Their opening fixture away to Sochaux is a reminder that French football's second division now contains some of the country's grandest names, a league of fallen giants rather than forgotten clubs.

That is perhaps the greatest measure of how much French football has changed. Saint-Étienne, Nantes, Reims, Montpellier, Sochaux, Metz, Red Star – clubs that once shaped the history of the French game now find themselves battling each other simply for the right to return. 

Promotion is no longer merely a sporting ambition; it is an economic necessity. Television money, sponsorship and recruitment all depend upon escaping the increasingly unforgiving world of Ligue 2. 

For Saint-Étienne, the pain is still fresh.

Only a few months ago they came agonisingly close to preserving their place in Ligue 1. After missing automatic promotion the previous year, they fought their way through the play-offs, survived a dramatic penalty shootout against Rodez before earning a relegation play-off against Nice. It was one final opportunity to save themselves. Instead, the return leg on the Côte d'Azur ended in defeat. Another relegation. Another season beginning with disappointment rather than hope. 

And yet there is something strangely familiar about this position.

Saint-Étienne have spent much of the last four decades rebuilding themselves. Every promotion has been described as the start of a renaissance. Every relegation has been presented as a catastrophe. Reality lies somewhere between the two. The club has become a survivor. It no longer measures itself against the giants of Europe. It measures itself against its own history.

That history can be both a blessing and a burden.

Few stadiums in France possess an atmosphere to rival Geoffroy-Guichard. The Chaudron remains one of European football's great arenas, capable of producing an intensity that players speak about years after leaving. Nearly forty thousand supporters still turn up for decisive matches in the second division. Few clubs outside the elite can command that loyalty.

But history also creates impossible expectations.

Every new coach is compared to Robert Herbin. Every gifted midfielder becomes "the next Platini." Every academy graduate carries the weight of Rocheteau, Lopez, Janvion or Battiston. Every promising season is measured against the impossible standard established during the 1960s and 1970s.

No football club can permanently compete with ghosts.

Perhaps the greatest challenge facing modern Saint-Étienne is not tactical or financial. It is psychological. The club has spent so long looking backwards that it sometimes struggles to imagine a future that is not simply an attempt to recreate the past.

Yet there are reasons for optimism.

French football has become increasingly cyclical. Clubs rise and fall faster than they once did. Intelligent recruitment, modern coaching and financial discipline can transform fortunes remarkably quickly. Saint-Étienne still possesses one of the largest supporter bases in the country. It still fills Geoffroy-Guichard. It still carries a name that resonates far beyond France. Those are advantages many rivals would gladly exchange for larger budgets.

The task, however, is not simply to return to Ligue 1.

The task is to stay there.

The history of recent French football is littered with clubs that escaped Ligue 2 only to return immediately. Saint-Étienne know that cycle better than most. Promotion without stability simply postpones the next crisis. Perhaps there is another lesson hidden inside the story of the tenth championship.

The dynasty that culminated in 1981 was never built overnight. It was created patiently, through an academy that produced generation after generation of footballers, through continuity in management, through an identity that every player understood before pulling on the green shirt. Robert Herbin did not inherit greatness. He constructed it.

That may be the model worth rediscovering.

Supporters often speak about "getting back where we belong." It is an understandable sentiment. Clubs with Saint-Étienne's history naturally believe their rightful place is among France's elite.

Football, however, has no memory.

It does not award points for European Cup finals played half a century ago. It does not promote clubs because they once won ten championships. Every August the league table is empty. Every season begins from zero. That reality can be cruel. It can also be liberating.

Because it means the next great Saint-Étienne side will not emerge from nostalgia. It will emerge from the same qualities that built the old one: patience, courage, intelligent planning and the unwavering support of a city that has refused to abandon its football club through forty-five years of disappointment.

The tenth championship remains the last.

But perhaps that is no longer the point.

The challenge facing Saint-Étienne today is not to recreate 1981. That moment belongs to history. The challenge is to ensure that future generations have their own memories to tell, rather than borrowing those of their grandparents.

The green shirts no longer play to defend an empire.

They play to build another one.

And somewhere beneath the roar of the Chaudron, among supporters who still sing as though nothing has changed, there remains the stubborn belief that football's greatest sleeping giant is quite not finished yet.