Footbol

One of my favorite pastimes, he considered while sipping an ice cold mini Heineken and munching a panini formage, was watching people be themselves. He was quite fond of the Italians whom always seemed to provide the proper combination of opera and chaos, pleased by the Brits and Aussies who were confident that they (alone) had it all sorted out, in absolute awe of the cultures of the Orient, and amazed by the French. He had spent the day visiting the many streets of Nice, starting at the promenade, taking care of some nasty credit card business (where did it go?), having lunch, shopping, catching a movie (more on this later) and then, as the RCV Nice coupe de gras, having the peaceful sandwich mentioned in the opening sentence. It was a nice day despite the rain.

But these people. What is it that turns them into absolute maniacs when there is a footbol game on? True, I have never played the game, thinking it silly to engage in sport without the use of one's hands, but the level of passion that they show for their team is beyond the superlative.

I am sitting at a sidewalk cafe at dusk, enjoying the gentle breeze off the Med and the smell of clean, post rain nighttime air, with the match on TV across the way, not more than ten feet. They were five deep in the street, yelling, chugging beers, chain smoking, talking on tiny cell phones, gyrating to each movement on the screen and building a crescendo of cheers every time the ball was kicked towards the goal. I sat and smiled as my cook at one point hurried across to see what the roar was about as my pommes frites sizzled in oil. First things first, no? It was a wonderful mix of tourists, locals and everyone in between who cared to share some fun, a fan or not.

The funny part of all this was that there were two Ironman France posters up in the window of the pub where the game was on.

We got a long way to go before we are able to inspire this type of enthusiasm, he thought, wondering who was playing.