On day one of the course, I was the centre of attention. Eleven hyped-up kids stared at me, laughing their heads off at the idea that I’d be training with them. Edgar hadn’t told them that I was Louis’s mother, because most of them knew him, and he didn’t want that to interfere with the training. Nor did he want to have to justify my presence to the parents, who might have asked if they too could take part in the course . . . So Edgar introduced me as a journalist doing an article on football. That’s why I’d always be wearing a helmet with a little camera filming my face, to capture my expressions. Everyone should treat me normally, with respect – ‘Don’t forget she’s an adult’ – but should see me as just another student. No preferential treatment; everyone would do the same exercises, with the same discipline; there would be no exceptions. For a second, I saw his eyes burn with that sports teacher’s fire, and I was reminded of Monsieur Ducros, the Little Ninja, and the glint he aimed at deserters – which I was – to warn them of zero tolerance. I gave him a knowing smile, which, for me, meant, We’ve understood each other: I’m not going to do exactly as these children do; I have the right to sit out, if I want . . . But he didn’t return my smile: he was serious. I realized I was up shit creek.

I was among nine boys and two girls. I immediately wondered whether one of the girls was the Isa that Louis mentioned in his precious notebook, but these two were called Dora and Zara – a comic-strip heroine and a clothing brand – so no luck there, even though the pair of them were pretty and smiling. The boys had various wacky names, typical of this generation of parents, who liked to show their creativity by giving their offspring unusual monikers. So I was surrounded by Miles, Esteban, Jean-Rachid, Artus, Leonardo, Amadou, Gabor, Aly-with-a-y and Milou.