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| Photo by Steve Drolet |
It was the evening of June 27th, and I will remember it always as the night of game number 56, France vs. Spain. I had just finished my moules-frites with Canadian friends in a tiny bistro in the 4th arrondissement. It was a beautiful night in Paris but there wasn't a soul on the streets -- everyone was packed like sardines in tight clusters around tables in front of widescreen TVs in bars, bistros and cafes for the big round-of-16 match. There was a sudden hush that could have stopped your heart from beating. And then -- France scored her third and final goal in injury time. People jumped from their seats, utensils clattered and bills were paid. Everyone rushed onto the streets, singing Allez Les Bleus! Allez Les Bleus!
Like the instinctive forces of nature that cause birds to migrate, crowds came from every direction filing into lines making their way to Place de la Bastille. There was a whir of traffic and then suddenly everything -- and everyone -- was covered with French flags. The steps of the Opéra La Bastille grew crowded with young Parisians of every ethnic background. Men still in their workday business suits did La Corrida with the French flag with strangers, shouting Ole! It was safe to tease Spain, just for one night. Later, the metro was full of Arab, black and white youth, arm and arm and waving French flags at us as we passed by.
During the 1998 World Cup, France won in a spectacular final game and Zinedine Zidane, the son of Algerian immigrants, became a national hero. As Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano points out, this was despite polls showing that four out of ten people in France harboured racial prejudice. In his book, Soccer in Sun and Shadow, Galeano describes how someone had anonymously written Zinedine for President on the Arc de Triomphe, but he remarks: "President? There are many Arabs and children of Arabs in France, but not a single one is a member of parliament, much less a minister." A poll in spring 2006 (six months after the October riots in the Parisian suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois), showed that roughly two-thirds of French adults believe racial tensions in the country are rising. If this is true, I didn't see any of it the night of game 56. But it did make me wonder, like in 1998, if the sweet feeling of victory can momentarily erase all difference.
I spotted a middle-aged Portuguese man wearing a flag sandwich: the Portuguese flag draped over his chest, a Canadian flag on his back and a baseball cap with a fleur-de-lys on the front.
ON THE MONTREAL SIDE
I arrived back in Montreal the day of the quarter-finals on July 1st, Canada Day, and in my neighbourhood the only flag I expected to see in large numbers was the fleur-de-lys left over from St-Jean Baptiste the week before. Driving through Plateau Mont-Royal, however, I was reminded of just how multicultural we are. Anyone unfamiliar with Canadian cultural diversity might have thought that they had just been plunked down into the centre of a UNESCO Potemkin village. That day, Portugal had just won against Britain and France had beaten Brazil. The streets were crawling with fans representing all four countries. People in Brazil team shirts congregated at métro Mont-Royal; when French fans passed with their whistles and flags, they simply shrugged and smiled at each other. Closer to St-Laurent, there were pockets of Portuguese families on just about every street corner waving at passing cars. Outside a Mexican restaurant I saw a few Italian flags and some lonely British couples with England team shirts and caps around Schwartz's. Sure, the Brits they were outnumbered, but people cheered them on anyway as they walked past. There were more Italian flags on the other side of the Main, which showed prescience considering we all know how the World Cup ended.
But where was Canada? It was Canada Day after all, and in many countries, including that of our neighbours, such a national holiday would eclipse every other event. I wondered to myself whether I would spot a single Canadian flag. As if on cue, I spotted a middle-aged Portuguese man wearing a flag sandwich: the Portuguese flag draped over his chest, a Canadian flag on his back and a baseball cap with a fleur-de-lys on the front. How funny, I thought, that so many of us here have triple-hyphenated identities.
Until we qualify for the World Cup we will always be rooting for the other team. Or it could be that ethnic pride in this country is so strong that we will always be rooting for the other team. But would that be so bad? For the rest of the year we are Canadians, and during the World Cup we are still proud of being Canadian, but support the countries of our origins, or our parents' origins. Does France have it in reverse? What makes Canadians mediocre patriots seems to make us excellent global citizens, tolerant of other people's origins. While it makes the World Cup in this country confusing and a bit chaotic, it also makes it a whole lot of fun. |
