French authorities are counting the cost of a night of violence after Champions League clashes left 44 police officers injured and 374 people in custody. The trouble erupted in the streets of Paris after the final whistle of a tense match, turning the boulevards around the Stade de France into a battlefield of broken glass, tear gas, and baton charges.
For the fans, the night should have been about football. Instead, it became a flashpoint for a deeper anger. The kind that boils over when ticket prices hit the roof, when the cost of living means a night out is a luxury, and when the gap between the haves and the have-nots feels like a chasm. I watched from behind the police cordon as young men in replica jerseys, their faces contorted with rage, hurled bottles at the lines of riot shields. Was it just football hooliganism? Or the frustration of a generation priced out of their own city?
The French government has been quick to condemn the violence. Interior Minister Gérald Darmanin called it "unacceptable" and praised the "courage" of the police. But for the paramedics treating the injured officers, for the shopkeepers sweeping up shattered glass from their doorsteps, the questions linger. How did this happen? And why?
My colleagues in the press box told me that the trouble began hours before kick-off. Supporters without tickets, or with counterfeit ones, tried to force their way through the turnstiles. The police responded with mass arrests, but the anger didn't disperse. It festered under the floodlights, fed by rumours of ticket touting and a sense of injustice.
I spoke to a young man from Liverpool, here for the match. He was in tears, not from the tear gas, but from frustration. "We saved up for months for this," he said. "And then we get treated like criminals. It's not right." He had a point. The average ticket for a Champions League final now costs more than a week's rent. For many fans, it's about more than a game. It's about belonging, about escape, about a few hours of joy in a life of struggle.
The unions have been quiet on this one. But they know the feeling. When the state pours billions into policing sporting events, when the streets are cleared for the corporate sponsors, the ordinary worker asks: where's the money for us? The cost of living crisis doesn't stop at the stadium gates. It follows you home.
As I file this report, the clean-up crews are already at work. The injured police officers are being treated in hospital. The arrested fans face a night in a cell, and likely a ban from future matches. But the deeper wounds - the sense of exclusion, the anger at a system that feels rigged - those will take longer to heal.
The French government has promised a full inquiry. But what will it find? That ticket prices are too high? That policing is too heavy-handed? That a society divided by wealth cannot come together even to enjoy a game of football? The answers are not simple. But the riot on the boulevard is a symptom of a sickness that runs far deeper than the beautiful game.
