American academics are notorious,
sometimes slavish, Europhiles, who
sometimes act as if anything that originates across the pond is
automatically way superior to anything
we can come up with over here. Now don't
get the Ol' Bloviator wrong. He's got a
lot of friends over there, not the least of them being Tony Badger, who is not
only the Master of Clare College, Cambridge, but the world's biggest --and
possibly most knowledgeable--Braves fan. Tony's a big soccer fan, too, of course, but
though I've tried to join him in that camp more than once, I just can't get
there. I swore that I was going to
immerse myself in this year's World Cup doings out of self-defense mostly, since I and
the missus are about to shove off on our annual trek to the French West Indies. I dare not be more specific here, lest one
of those pesky paparazzi pop out from behind a palm tree and snap a shot or two
of me in my leopard-skin Speedo. I've
heard that such a pic would fetch a premium among those desperately seeking a
sure-fire cure for nymphomania. (Note: Probable side effects include irreversible frigidity.) At any rate,
the last time we visited this little corner of paradise during a World Cup season, there were TV's in
places where there normally weren't, and none of them exactly went begging for
viewers. As French subjects, the
islanders were moderately, but certainly not overwhelmingly, disposed to
support the Mama country's lads, but I doubt if there was much mourning anywhere
in the Francophone world at the early departure of this year's team, which not only
managed to reinforce every negative French stereotype out there, but may have
engendered a few new ones. Admittedly, they
had to contend with a wacko coach who reportedly decided who was playing when
and where based on a player's astrological sign. What gives? Channeling Nancy Reagan maybe? Still, this bunch of cheaters , who used an
undetected illegal hand pass to beat Ireland
and get into the competition in the first place, (I bet Irish players were
really pissed after they sobered up and heard what happened) never passed on a chance to appear
arrogant ,selfish, petty and thoroughly unsportsmanlike. When Coach Wacko dismissed a player who had
cussed him out at halftime of their first match, a sleep-walking loss to Mexico, this bunch of incorrigibiles fell back on a
national tradition second only to waving the white flag , by going on strike
and refusing to practice. When, to the
surprise of no one and doubtless to the dismay of only a few, the Frenchies lost to South Africa,
their coach refused to shake hands with his opposing counterpart. Now I read that the anti-immigrant French
ultra-nationalists are blaming their team's abysmal conduct and performance on
the lack of "patriotism" among squad members who emigrated from Africa. I'm afraid you'll have to do better than
that, Francois. Regardless of the accents
or pigmentation of some team members, this crew's problems stemmed from acting
too much in accord with what is expected of your people, rather than too
little. If you're looking for a
world-class athlete whose behavior is out of line with your perceived national
character, check out Nicolas Mahut, who like American John Isner, did himself,
his nation and the sport of tennis proud in their historic marathon fifth set
at Wimbledon on Wednesday and Thursday, and ..... (At this writing, Friday doesn't seem out of the question.)
That the French soccer team should conduct itself in a manner so reminiscent of a surly, indifferent waiter at an overpriced Paris restaurant is unfortunate. Stereotypes can be dangerous and hurtful, though they frequently derive from some kernel of truth or experience. When we spent a month in Italy during World Cup play in 2002, the Italians supported their team with all the exuberant enthusiasm that we had encountered so frequently in our day-to-day dealings with them. (Although, I confess that as the prospect of an Italian-U.S.A. face-off loomed, I began to wonder if our reception might cool off a little). Likewise, as the excitable Italians and Spanish struggle, the stolid Germans simply crunch relentlessly, almost mechanically ahead. It hasn't looked good for the English so far, but just as they did in World Rumble # 2, they survived the first round. Their fan base isn't particularly pleased with what they have seen so far, but I'll bet Mr. Churchill would see it a bit differently. Then there were the Americans who got lucky against the Brits and screwed against the Slovenians and were on track to become the most notorious bunch of sister-kissers in soccer history, only to be saved by last-minute heroics in an ending Hollywood couldn't have conjured up.
I just spent thirty minutes trying to figure out how the U.S. emerges a group winner when it has the same record as England, and I can't help noting that both these outfits are moving into the next round after managing but a total of 5 points each over three games. I know these guys are marvelous and superbly conditioned athletes, but I just don't think I could ever get all that excited about yucking it up with with my mates about all the times that our side almost scored.
One thing's for sure, regardless of who winds up in the finals, they're bound to be deaf as posts. Those damn "vulvalators" or whatever the hell they are have already cost me two or three db in my hearing, and that's with the TV on mute most of the time. Trying to tune them out is like trying to savor Mozart on your ipod while driving a Formula One car at about 18k rpm. By the same token, the folks who keep tooting' nonstop on these things are going to have some of the floppiest, Botoxified-looking lips this side of Goldie Hawn. Frankly, the whole atmosphere seems a bit too uncivilized for my tastes. Thank goodness in scarcely two months' time I'll be back in my familiar, more sophisticated milieu, rubbing shoulders with folks who paint their faces red and black and bark at their opponents don Razorback-shaped hard hats and scream "S-O-O-O-O-E-E!" at the top of their lungs.
