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.