“This is a place where the first embers of the brightest stars of world football began to burn.”

Skirting the Bays of Monaco

Skirting the bays of Monaco’s dramatic, sea-kissed and mountainous coastline, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I only knew that I was “meeting a man in a bar, who is a big Monaco fan.”

What transpired over the next few sun-soaked hours perfectly encapsulated how football connects us — and exactly why it’s so important.

A Warm Welcome

The welcome I received was more fitting for someone returning from war — handshakes, hugs, and kisses on the cheek.

I was immediately aware of how British and emotionally stifled I am.

The man I was here to meet was called Marsou. He confidently extended his hand and said something that sounded very friendly.

We sat down, and over a few espressos, quickly established that neither of us spoke the other’s language.

But we knew football — and that is normally more than enough.

The Local Hub

The bar was a local hub. A place where famous players sat down with local punters.

One man, a former referee, excitedly produced his notepad, wiping off the dust as he prised it open. He showed me pictures of himself refereeing at big games — World Cups, French Cup finals, and Zidane’s debut season at Cannes.

Mr Monaco

It was explained to me that Marsou had spent years amassing an AS Monaco football collection.

“You name it, he has it,” they told me. What sounded like a casual invitation was, to my mind, overwhelmingly exciting — too exciting to pass up.

Marsou himself was regarded by many as “Mr Monaco.” Walking with him down the streets, it was clear he was known by almost everyone in some way.

Each person we passed shook his hand, shared a story, and laughed with him. It took us about ten minutes to cover 200 metres from the bar where we’d met.

But it was midday, the sun was out, and everyone we encountered was — by this point — half-cut, so there was really no rush.

The Community Centre

Suddenly, Marsou stopped. After turning to me excitedly, he realised he couldn’t explain what he wanted to ask.

He tutted and simply ushered me into a building. It turned out to be a community youth centre, closely linked to the club.

Of course, Marsou knew everyone in there by name — and probably by blood group.

I was introduced to a community leader who showed us a small room with walls proudly adorned with donated match-worn Monaco shirts.

A Development Club

It’s worth noting that, in some ways, Monaco is very much a development club.

This is a place where the first embers of the brightest stars of world football began to burn: Henry, Petit, Mbappé, Trezeguet, Lilian Thuram, Tchouaméni…

There is rarely resentment about how players leave, or even where they go.

The Hidden Treasure

Before we left, Marsou began rummaging through a desk — one that I assume wasn’t his.

After a few moments, he pulled out two mangled scraps of paper, each with a black-and-white image.

He lifted the first up to my face — a photo of him with Zidane.

And on the other? A picture of him with R9 — the man, Ronaldo — in 1997. Fishing. Just before the 1998 World Cup.

The Garage of Dreams

After a five-minute walk, we arrived at a garage. A beige door. Packed with boxes, step ladders, and the gentle whir of an old fridge freezer.

It could have been any garage, anywhere.

But this was not any ordinary garage. It was a gateway — a portal to a land of footballing dreams.

Behind a rusty door and down an overgrown garden path lay all the footballing memories of one man’s life.

For Marsou, this was a personal, autobiographical monument. A love letter to his club.

This wasn’t just the story of AS Monaco, it was the story of AS Monaco as only Marsou could tell it. Through his eyes.