Strutting Cantona shines in the sand

Old Trafford legend is as inspiring as ever as England are humbled by Frenchmen.

Looking for all the world as if he had just surfed in off the Serpentine, Eric Cantona bade farewell to London for possibly the last time yesterday. He did it, moreover, with his customary sense of theatre, kicking sand in English faces by scoring France's final goal in a 10-2 humbling of the host nation in the Kronenbourg Cup beach soccer tournament in Hyde Park.

Only 58 seconds of the three-day extravaganza remained when Cantona collected his only goal of a sweltering afternoon by angling his shot beyond the former Charlton goalkeeper Bob Bolder. Poor, embarrassing England, reduced to the dual objective of denying the Manchester United legend a goal and the French double figures, had conspicuously failed to adhere to the Churchillian exhortation to "fight them on the beaches".

The raucous knot of 20 or so United followers in a 3,000 crowd (1,000 below capacity) who had paid £15 a head for a close-up of Cantona, cavorted as if he had just clinched another Double. They mocked England, singing: "Are you City in disguise?", bowed in homage to the French captain and kept up such an expletive-strewn cacophony that they probably missed the riposte from the allied ranks of London-club fans: "You only live round the corner".

The United legions, wherever they come from, always believed Cantona could walk on water; now they know he can play on sand and in bare feet. Four years on from his retirement, since when he has taken several bit parts in the French cinema, he looks only slightly heavier than in his prime. The head remains stubbly, the eyebrows Heathcliffian, and he is still wont to perform that most Gallic of shrugs when something does not quite come off.

Not that he resorted to it much here. Whereas an England team staffed by ex-pros like Chris Whyte (a colleague in Leeds' championship class of '92), Paul Walsh, Neil Pointon, John Scales and Clive Walker played a largely static game, struggling unintelligently to work the lightweight ball through the sand, Cantona and his compatriots were perpetual motion personified and attacked through the air.

Cantona was at the heart of their most incisive moves on the 40yd x 30yd pitch, either flicking or volleying balls to colleagues with his back to goal or setting himself up for spectacular overhead kicks. When his bicycle kick thudded against the underside of the bar, he put his hands on his hips in a trademark gesture against the unfairness of it all. France were, after all, only 6-1 up.

Earlier, in the best traditions of Sunday park football, Spain arrived late for their meeting with Switzerland. They had been held up in a traffic jam allegedly caused by a Hindu procession and sprinted to the changing-room as their opponents warmed up. The Swiss, having doubtless honed their beach skills on their country's miles of golden coastline, commendably avoided the defeat which Spain inflicted on France and England by drawing 6-6, only to lose on penalties.

Their involvement is a sign of the spread of the beach game. Perhaps appropriately, the first pro event was staged in California, after an entrepreneur called Giancarlo Signonni spotted commercial potential in the age-old ritual of young studs showing off to the opposite sex. He held further tournaments in Miami and Brazil – where John Barnes once said that the kids on the Copacabana had skills that put him to shame – and managed, crucially, to attract television coverage.

The European version, launched in 1998 and already featuring on Sky's schedule, has eight member countries, with a second section featuring Ireland, Italy, Germany and Portugal. The French leg takes place the weekend after next in Marseilles – Cantona's birthplace – and there is a further round in Italy before the top two from the respective groups convene in Monaco for the finals at the start of September.

There is also talk of applying for Olympic status. And why not? It is no less valid than clay-pigeon shooting or synchronised grinning. Now there's a thought: one last hurrah and maybe a medal for Le Roi d'Old Trafford before he discovers whether his career in movies is built on sand.