Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

When the high and mighty powers fall, their descent is often hard and fast. There’s no need to look any further for our latest examples than this year’s World Cup in South Africa. In the 2006 tournament, the Italian and French teams played one another in the final. The match ended in a draw, or, as the Brits prefer to say, “level,” with the Italians eventually winning the penalty shoot-out, 5-3.

According to Wikipedia, 715.1 million fans around the world watched that game, which is a mere 27 shy of the number of shoppers I tangle with at my neighborhood Home Depot on any given Saturday morning. This year, however, neither team made it past the first round. To make matters worse, the French exited the tournament with their collective tails between their legs.

First, a player was dismissed from the team for insubordination and refusal to apologize to the coach following a shouting match. The next day, the remaining players went on strike, refusing to practice two days before their next win-or-go-home match. Of course, anyone who has traveled to or through Paris, usually during peak tourist season, should not have been at all surprised. “Striking” is to the French—be it airline pilots, baggage handlers, grounds crew, rail operators, bus drivers, or taxi drivers—what baseball is to Americans: a national past-time.

When asked his opinion about the players’ decision not to practice, the French coach, drawing upon the rich French heritage of diplomacy, was quoted as saying, “An imbecility, a stupidity without name.” In French, it sounds much worse!

Then, just prior to the match against South Africa, the French Minister of Health and Sports, not to be upstaged by the coach, gave one of the most memorable pep talks in the history of athletic competition. Expecting a rousing version of “Come on, guys, let’s win one for the Sarkozy, or at least for Carla Bruni,” the players must have been mortified when they heard her tell them: “You have tarnished the image of France.” They went on to lose to the South Africa side, 2-1, which eliminated "Les Bleus" from the competition. To top it off, the French coach refused to shake hands with his South African counterpart. Mon Dieu!

Hoping to limit the blow to his country’s national honor, President Sarkozy took immediate and firm action. He called an urgent meeting with the Prime Minister and the Minister of Health, Sport and Inspiration to consider options. He consulted with Thierry Henry—the former captain of the French team and guy who no one in America recognized in those Gillette shaver ads a couple of years ago with Tiger Woods and Roger Federer. What was the marketing division thinking? Finally, he ordered instructional videos on motivational speaking for all his cabinet members.

It didn’t used to be like this. I happened to be in Paris in 2006 on business, when the French were at the top of their game and on top of the world. The highlight of that tournament came well before the final match: in the quarterfinals, the French beat Brazil 1-0. I watched the game on television in my hotel room and ran down to the Champs-Elysees immediately after to witness the massive and exuberant celebration that followed, a merrymaking second only to the outpouring in Philadelphia in 2009 following the Phillies World Series triumph. Interestingly, both celebrations had one thing in common: lots of cops trying to keep people from lighting themselves, their fellow humans, and random four-wheeled vehicles on fire!

Of course, there’s far more to do in Paris at this time of the year than watch soccer matches. The Eiffel Tower was way bigger than I expected. The Mona Lisa was way smaller than I expected. The Parisians were way nicer than I expected. Going for a walk in Paris, particularly on the Champs-Elysees, is a serious pre-meditated affair, requiring exquisite preparation. I felt as though I had been dropped into the middle of one continuous, outdoor fashion show, where people are most definitely walking to be seen.

There are far too many attractive women squeezed into one city—like a concentrated epidemic of beauty—far too much kissing in public, and an over-abundance of delicious wines and cheeses—the French may be on to something here. The motorists drive and park curiously, far more peculiarly than their counterparts in New Jersey. I didn’t think it could be possible, but I’m afraid it is true.

I still don’t understand why any woman would pay $500 for a Louis Vuitton handbag or $300 for a microscopic-sized purse that won’t even hold a pair of magnifying glasses. I may understand, however, why any woman would feel obliged to buy a new pair of shoes, even if she didn’t need them. (Come to think of it, when did “need” become a criterion?) There is a well-appointed shoe store about every ten steps, or so it seems, each with a dazzling array of fashionable styles and colors featured in the window. The pressure is enormous!

Paris is also home to the best-dressed and best-groomed salespeople in the universe. It’s far more entertaining to look at them than at the over-priced merchandise. I’m guessing that the salespeople in the stores on the Champs-Elysees outnumber the shoppers 2 to 1—and there are a lot of shoppers!

As for the World Cup, I hope former President Clinton is successful in his advocacy to bring the tournament back to the States in 2018 or 2022. I do have one piece of advice, however, for the US World Cup organizing committee. Please don’t schedule any games in Florida in June. My son, who was ten years old at the time, and I drove from Atlanta to Orlando to see Belgium play Morocco in the Citrus Bowl on June 19th, 1994, when the U.S. hosted the tournament.


The air temperature was about 98, it was about 110 on the “pitch,” as the Brits would say, and 120 in our section of aluminum bleachers! The North Africans ran the Belgians crazy all day but could not overcome an early goal and lost 1-0. Partly out of sympathy for the Belgians, and partly to stave off my and my son’s own dehydration, I spent about $200 on drinks alone that day! Once again, I should have listened to my wife and followed her lead: she and our younger son spent the day at Sea World.