Sonics Death Watch
As I write this, I am sitting in an internet cafe in Saint- Malo, France, with a gorgeous view of the English Channel. At least I think it's the English Channel. Being an American, my geographic skills are lacking, as are my lingual abilities. This morning my youngest son asked, "Dad, how come all the French people speak English, but Americans don't speak French?"
"Son," I said, "it's because Americans are provincial bastards, which is an ironic sentence because I think 'provincial' might be a French word."
During the French literary festival I am attending, three European journalists, who had obviously done some internet research, have asked me about my Sonics Death Watch column. But before I could answer the question in any detail, each journalist instead detailed her or his obsession with a particular soccer team.
"If they tried to move my team," the Italian journalist said, "there would be many murders."
I confessed that I had murderous impulses, but that I wouldn't actually kill anybody—except metaphorically.
"Ah," the journalist said, "but metaphors have never scored a goal."
Jesus, I flew a few thousand miles to be reminded of this column's impotence, but to also have my sports mania be completely understood.
Imagine that: My Sonics love has made me feel a little less provincial.