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Marseille mobilizes against Eyraud

Eager to support the supporters of Olympique de Marseille, several Marseille personalities signed a column published in La Provence to send a message to Jacques-Henri Eyraud.

The mobilization continues in Marseille. After the politicians, quick to react, and the supporters, the wind is headlong against Jacques-Henri Eyraud following his decision to give notice to the supporters’ associations and threaten to break the agreement concluded between theOlympic Marseille and the groups of supporters, they are personalities from Marseille who are stepping up to the plate this Friday.

Initiated by the academic Médéric Gasquet-Cyrus and the former sports journalist Patrick Fancello, a column was indeed published in the columns of Provence in order to shout their love for OM, support Marseille supporters and send a high message and strong to Jacques-Henri Eyraud. A column entitled “OM does not fit in a football club” while “The revolt” bars the regional daily.

Signed by several former players including Manuel Amoros, Patrick Blondeau, Eric Di Meco, Joël Cantona, Jean Tigana, Marius Trésor, but also the former trainer Gérard Gili and several artists such as Faf La Rage, Patrick Bosso, Jean-Pierre Foucault , the Massilia Sound System group, Titoff… all shout their love for OM. And through this text multiply the messages to JHE.

OM does not fit in a football club.

“OM does not fit in aligned columns of numbers.

OM can’t stand still. OM occupies all the space of Marseille and overflows. OM spills over from the stadium, day and night, from North to South, from East to West. OM from Noailles to La Plaine, from Belsunce to Saint-Charles, from Caillols to L’Estaque, from Bonneveine to Aygalades, from the docks to the cities. And beyond. OM is beyond, from the Massif de l’Étoile that it wears on its jersey to the one that shines in the eyes of the kid the first time he looks up on its overflowing turns.

OM does not hold in 90 minutes.

It is, every day, until the night, the words which vibrate between friends and colleagues; it’s the pre-match drinks, the sandwich swallowed up on the stadium steps, it’s the rise in the stands, the fervor, the clamor, the “YEAH! »Sprang from 67,395 mouths when the ball whips the goal net… It is, on the way back, the words that we exchange like smiles, it is sometimes tears and silences too; it’s never to finish the game.

OM is singing and singing again. It is the music of hearts beaten in unison. It is the cries of exhaustion that nothing exhausts. It is Michelet deafened with horns on the days of victory; it is the Old Port, black with people on triumphant evenings; it is what founds us and overwhelms us.

OM is that city. It is its popular culture.

It is theater, cinema, song, paintings, dances, drama, tragedy, comedy; it’s life.

OM is that city. And its strength. Overflowing and noisy, disorderly, mixed, engatsée, moaner, aiolized.

OM is the oaï in the bends, bright red smoke which set the air charged with fiery ablaze, scarves which swirl, sky blue and white thrown over the city. OM does not fit into two letters: it is the soul of Marseille.

It is not a logo, it is a logos, a word that circulates by word of mouth, from one turn to another. It’s not a logo, it’s figures, faces, faces, people.

It’s not an ego, it’s an us that doesn’t give a damn about skin colors.

There is no accounting balance sheet: only in the flesh and heart of its supporters, handed down from generation to generation, from the quarter-turns of a Velodrome where children let themselves slide to the walls repainted with the outlines of Depé .

OM is its own legend: it cannot be bought, cannot be programmed, cannot be decided.

OM does not fit into a project.

OM brews in its furies all those who come from the open sea and find themselves in its den: all classes dream of it, all elsewhere belong to it.

From Monday to Sunday, his groups of supporters devote their days and their strength to him, before taking to the road as one takes to the sea: to chase horizons. They will raise the flags and sing louder than themselves. OM is them – and everyone else.

The only agora of OM is our streets, our bars, our lounges in front of the TV, our bodies massed in front of the pizza truck and our bends.

OM does not fall into line. He doesn’t come home to bed. It does not fit into the new language of accountants, into the calculated investments of entrepreneurs. It does not respond to any algorithm.

Only to the songs returned from turn to turn on the hills which surround it. OM knows no wisdom except its sweet madness; it has measure only in excess.

OM does not belong to the players, nor to the presidents, nor to the managers, all passing through.

OM is in its city, in its history, in its people.

And no one, no, will “normalize” OM.

It belongs to those who wear it and transmit the love for it.

It belongs to those who love it. For what it is.

Imperfect, human.

Like us.”

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