This guy, or rather about 3000 guys like him, were running around my neighborhood last night. They set off bottle rockets, screamed, sang, danced, cheered, mooned people, waved flags, whistled, and, of course, honked their horns. They sang a little ditty I'm beginning to recognize "Oh, oh, where are the (insert name of nationality you have just beaten in the World Cup)?" My earplugs are becoming my greatest friends as France continues on to the final round.
It wasn't pretty, but the French did win last night. This sets up an almost mythic final World Cup game, France vs. Italy, to ironically be played in Germany, the country still considered suspect 60 years after The War by those countries who were invaded.
The glamour and adrenaline of France's win on Saturday over superheroes Brazil was missing from last night's tough scrap over Portugal. It seems that with their team that much closer to the end things got more serious and, when people take themselves more seriously because they have more to lose, they become more cautious and less interesting. Such was the case for Les Bleus last night, but no matter, because the dirty-playing Portuguese shot themselves in the foot with a penalty kick, masterfully handled under extraordinary pressure by none other than The Greatest French Hero, Zinedine Zidane.
Our 11 pm stroll thru the port and around town last night wasn't as fun as Saturday. Maybe it was the lacklustery game, maybe it's the fact that my sister-in-law catapulted me into reality on the phone yesterday saying "You could go any day now. I was 2 weeks early with Wayne", thus placing me into momentary panic over every little twinge and pain which happen so frequently now.
I mentioned this to my husband last night during our walk, who stopped chanting "Where are the Portuguese?" mid-sentence and said "You don't think it will be THAT soon? Like not Sunday, for example?"
I smiled and pointed up above the sea at some high flares just shot off by a group of face-painted men on the beach. I didn't have the heart to point out to him the obvious - that 2 weeks early, for me, is exactly, dead on, this Sunday.
Here's hoping this baby holds on a little longer, along with the French team - long enough to beat our neighboring Italians.
