“Rats Are the First to Abandon Ship”: The Return of a Traitor
Football is full of stories about loyalty and unwavering love. But, as in life, there’s always the other side. The side where a person can go from idolized to ostracized in no time at all—simply because they chose to leave one club for its hated rival. In the various retrospectives on football’s greatest traitors, names like Luis Figo, Sol Campbell, and CescFàbregas usually top the list. But even when we’re not talking about the two biggest leagues in the world, or when there’s no global media frenzy behind a transfer, the hatred and resentment that can arise from such a move are far from negligible.
The PSG–Marseille derby, better known as Le Classique, may have lost some of its competitiveness in recent years due to the dominance of the ultra-rich Parisians, but it hasn’t lost an ounce of the passion and hatred that define it. This rivalry exploded in the late ’80s and continued into the ’90s, an era when both clubs were title contenders and the only French sides with European trophies.Switching sides was never easy or welcome. But rarely did things escalate as they did in the case of Fabrice Fiorèse.
Fiorèse was born in the small town of Chambéry, located far from both Marseille and Paris. He took his first professional steps at Lyon, but made a name for himself at Guingamp, where he spent four and a half years. There, he primarily played on the right wing, though he was also used just behind the striker. In early 2002, he moved to Paris and quickly earned a spot in the starting eleven of a team that, at the time, featured several familiar names: Pochettino, Heinze, Sorín, Pauleta, and of course, Ronaldinho.
During his two and a half years in a PSG shirt, he scored 20 goals and provided 17 assists—ranking second in the league for assists in the 2002–03 season. He created countless more chances for his teammates, using his solid technique and sharp reading of the game to identify the exact moments to slice through opposing defenses with a decisive pass. The 2002–03 season ended with Fiorèse lifting the French Cup. PSG had secured a spot in the following season’s Champions League, and the fans loved him, showing their appreciation both in and out of the stadium.Given all that, what happened next came as a shock to everyone—including Fiorèse himself.
Fiorèse wearing the PSG shirt in a derby against Marseille
Our confidence in the previous statement stems from a simple fact: shortly after the season ended, Fiorèse was called in by the club’s management to sign a contract extension. He did so with a grin stretching from ear to ear, then declared with absolute certainty, “I feel 300% Parisian.” A statement that, in hindsight, earned a place of honor in the “should’ve kept your mouth shut” hall of fame.
Before preseason training even began, Fiorèse started having second thoughts about that bold “300%” claim. His close friend and PSG center-back, Frédéric Déhu, couldn’t come to terms with the club and left on a free transfer after four seasons—choosing, of all places, Marseille as his next destination. The move to the arch-rival didn’t go down well with fans, though the backlash remained relatively muted at first. Fiorèse, however, was rattled. For the first time, he began to question his own future.
A few weeks later, with the transfer window nearing its end, the 29-year-old Frenchman gets into an argument with PSG manager Vahid Halilhodžić. The Bosnian coach doesn’t escalate the issue, but Fiorèse convinces himself that he can no longer work under him. One week before the end of August, he walks into the coach’s office and announces his desire to leave the club, citing disagreements with Halilhodžić’s playing style and training methods.
Déhu and Fiorèse
The club attempts to resolve the matter internally, but Fiorèse has made up his mind—and begins lashing out at other members of the coaching staff as well. Management fines him, and the player starts acting like a man already out the door. Still, most around the club believe a compromise will eventually be found and calm will be restored. After all, the transfer window is closing soon, and his options are limited.That is, until deadline day arrives.
On the morning of August 31, Fiorèse informed PSG officials that Marseille had expressed interest in signing him (an agent would later reveal that initial contact had actually been made several days earlier). The club’s response was unequivocal: under no circumstances would they allow such a move. But as the hours passed, reason began to take hold. Halilhodžić realized he couldn’t keep a player desperate to leave. Fearing the impact on dressing-room morale, he reluctantly gave his approval for the transfer late in the afternoon. Both clubs rushed to finalize the deal before the window slammed shut, and at 11:45 p.m., an agreement was reached: PSG would receive €3.4 million, and the player would sign a four-year contract with Marseille.
The shock among PSG fans was immense. Just weeks earlier, the same player had declared his happiness living in Paris. Surprise quickly turned to fury—and then to seething hatred—when Fiorèse posed in a Marseille shirt for the first time and made comments that could have enraged even the most composed Buddhist monk: “At Marseille, I feel like I’ve joined a family. It’s like I’ve escaped from prison and found my freedom.”
In early November, Marseille traveled to Paris for the big derby. The whole country had the date circled, waiting to witness the public reaction to the two “traitors,” and especially to Fiorèse. Everyone expected a hostile atmosphere—and they weren’t disappointed. The tamest banners reminded him that rats are always the first to abandon a sinking ship. Others drew crude connections between prisons and… soap, while some hinted at a more intimate relationship between the two defectors. The hostility was so intense that Marseille staff suggested, “Maybe it’s best if you warm up inside.” Fiorèse’s reply was blunt: “No. I’m going out.”
As the match kicked off, every time Fiorèse approached the corner flag, the insults and deafening boos gave way to a hail of projectiles. Police shields were needed to protect him while taking corners, and most of his former teammates—just months ago his comrades—treated him like a criminal. The climax came in the 20th minute.
In a harmless phase of play just past midfield, PSG left-back Sylvain Armand clattered into Fiorèse from behind with a tackle that even Paolo Montero would’ve applauded. The stadium erupted as if a goal had been scored. While Fiorèse writhed in pain, the referee didn’t hesitate—straight red card. Armand strolled off the pitch with the kind of calm you wouldn’t expect from someone just sent off in a derby. Fiorèse managed to get back on his feet and return to the game, but despite being a man down, the momentum had now clearly shifted to the home side.
PSG opened the scoring shortly after with a goal from Pauleta and ultimately secured a 2–1 victory—a result doubly celebrated by the home fans. The next day, L’Équipe hit the newsstands with a brutal headline: “The Crucifixion of Fiorèse.” Years later, the French attacking midfielder would look back on that infamous night: “When I returned to the Parc des Princes, I thought I was mentally prepared for anything. Later I realized I wasn’t ready to withstand that much hatred. And I never expected what that bastard of a left-back did—he wasn’t even involved in the whole story, he had just transferred there.”
The cruelest part for Fiorèse was that all the anger, hatred, and upheaval surrounding his transfer amounted to almost nothing. His decision to leave Paris—a club where he had found a perfect fit—proved to be a catastrophic mistake. Of the four years in his Marseille contract, he ended up playing only the first season. And even that was underwhelming: 18 appearances, two goals, zero assists.
As if the wrath of PSG supporters wasn’t enough, Fiorèse also faced hostility within his new club. Marseille fans had been suspicious of the signing from the start. After all, this was a player who had scored a 90th-minute winner at the Vélodrome just a season earlier—handing PSG a dramatic away victory. He remained, to many, “one of them.”
“I remember it took me two months to score my first goal there. It didn’t help that I had taken the No. 11 shirt—Drogba’s shirt. Looking back, I realize that my transfer to Marseille ruined my career. But I can’t blame anyone else. It was my decision.”
The most infamous traitor in French football of that era would quietly end his career in 2009 at Troyes, in the second division. A few years later, his name reappeared in the headlines—but this time, for non-football reasons. Three masked men broke into his home in southeastern France, held him at gunpoint, and demanded all the cash he had. When they realized the money they were looking for (from a recent house sale) wasn’t there, they forced him to go with them. What began as a robbery escalated into a kidnapping—only for the plot to unravel unexpectedly when their SUV got stuck in traffic.Fiorèse seized the moment, broke the window, leapt out, and ran for his life.
When police investigated the case, they managed to identify two of the three criminals—and the mastermind behind it all: GhislainAnselmini, a former footballer, one-time teammate of Fiorèse at Lyon, and a close family friend. The two kidnappers were sentenced to 10 years in prison, while Anselmini received five. Fiorèse’s family needed time to recover from the shock. Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers north, PSG fans couldn’t help but smirk at the irony—and how life sometimes comes full circle.
