AARON GRANDIDIER KNANANG went up for the ball, came down and played hot potato with it for three taps before the hands of Antoine Dupont emerged.

Et soudainement.

A dash. A majestic little skip. He’s propelling forward at Dupont speed. He’s created an invisible force to keep the exact distance he needs between his feet and the sideline to have options for when a Fijian catches him (he was on his own 22 when he started).

It eventually happens, but only just shy of the line.

He stops. Looks. Throws overhead and Grandidier Knanang finishes the try.

It is 21 seconds since he walked onto the pitch.

Over six minutes of the second half left to play and the scoreline is just 12-7 to France. But from that moment, there was only going to be one winner.

Dupont’s magic is not just in the individual. In a frenetic, open, exhausting game like 7s rugby, he raises the ceiling of potential for the players around him. Every single French Olympian upped their performances for those golden seven minutes – looking approximately 1,000 times better at rugby most likely because Dupont gave each of them about 1,000 more options every time they got the ball.

He was always beside them. Whoever they were. Wherever on the pitch they were. Tap and go. Either over the line or at the back of the maul. His hands touched the ball, so his teammates raised their chins, puffed their chests. The crowd, quite simply, lost its shit.

There was zero composure in the press box. I witnessed some of the English press corps smile like their fellow countryman’s Cheshire cats.

When we talk seriously about the power of sport, we say it breaks down barriers. Or offers solutions to geopolitical crises. And creates pathways to success for kids who may not have access to the opportunities of their peers.

Sometimes we forget that its power is transcendent.

Since that little skip, I have been happy. And it’s not just that I’ve been happy. I’ve looked happy. In the way you do when you think about the funniest thing your best friend has ever said or done, or when you realise that the person you love loves you back, or when you remember the delirium of having your first baby.

We can’t dismiss Dupont’s greatness because 7s are treated as the weaker cousin of the 15s game. Here, in Ireland, we know Hugo Keenan’s class. Despite that quality, we saw him struggle to transition back to 7s over the past week. James Topping, Ireland’s head coach, said as much after the competition ended. He simply ran out of days to relearn where on the pitch he was meant to be at all times.

Not so for Toulouse’s 27-year-old scrumhalf. Of course, he had longer – having skipped the Six Nations this year. But the risk of that bold move meant it would be constantly present. Nevermind. His spatial awareness is matched only by his tactical nous to keep that ball for the seconds it matters in a 14-minute match.

Six minutes on the clock. Tap kick. Pass. Beeline to the recipient to help hold the ball in play for as long as possible. Tick tock.

Another tap and go. This time, no pass. Try, Dupont. 

Twenty seconds left on the clock. 21-7. Game over. The bench was celebrating wildly. Whatever fancy machines measure decibels are clinking somewhere as the crowd hit their climax. What does the number 11 do? He throws a lineout. Joins the ensuing maul. Drags it over the line. Try. Conversion. Gold medal.

The GOAT conversations are reductive when it comes to rare humans.

Dupont is irresistible in ways that render rankings crass. His talent is to be savoured.

To witness that seven minutes was euphoric. He himself let go of some rare, non-sheepish, smiles.

The home support created noise levels that reverberated within my body. Ears will be ringing long into the night, to the rotating tunes of Allez le Bleu, La Marseillaise and Non, je ne regrette rien. 

There was plenty of regret last October when, in a quarter final, Dupont’s 15s side didn’t get the job done against South Africa. A broken face, the dejection in Stade de France palpable. 

The fans had gone to that knockout fixture with such high expectations, knowing they also had to bring their A game to make the most of the home advantage. Somehow, this evening they were louder, more engaged and steadfastly adoring of their man. 

Emmanuel Macron’s appearance at the stadium was inevitable once his countrymen had dealt with South Africa earlier in the day. Indeed, we got word he was en route long before kick-off. As the rest of the squad danced their way through celebrations, Macron had his photoshoot with the modern hero. 

Today’s newspapers claimed victory for Paris for their “breathtaking” opening ceremony. Tomorrow, France will say they’ve won the Olympics. And, truly, Rugby 7s at the Summer Games in this rugby-mad city is a match made in heaven. Created not by God, but by one glorious Antoine Dupont.