My first article in college — I did write in middle and high school — born out of my frustration trying to understand the rules of American football.
(Photo: The famed columns of the University of Missouri are decked out in the school’s colors and motto to welcome new freshmen. August 2005. By Isabelle Roughol)
13 October 2005: This mademoiselle learns the beauty of tailgating, tiger paws and American football.
By Isabelle Roughol
Vox Magazine
Nothing destined me to be an immigrant. There was no particular reason for me to leave my country. In many respects, my homeland of France is actually quite like America. Each adult produces half a ton of garbage every year, high school is the most awkward time of one’s life, and the average family has two kids, a dog and a mortgage. Yet there are subtle differences that fill my days in America with constant awe and occasional incomprehension.
The first adjustment I had to make was to remember that the word football does not refer to my beloved national sport anymore. Instead it designates a sport that involves little foot-to-ball interaction. My favorite game instead bears the unfortunate name of soccer. The passion for soccer in France, and in Europe in general, is not unlike that for football here.
A typical soccer game day involves unusual amounts of alcohol and indistinct grunts and yells. People have their favorite teams and revere them as if they were a divinity, especially every other year when “les Bleus” — our national team — plays either the World Cup or the European Cup. Fans are recognizable by their head-to-toe bicolor attire according to their respective country. English fans are recognizable by the blood streaming down their faces (Germans too, if they happen to be playing against England). The English are notorious for being hooligans; there is never a game without a major fight when one of their teams is involved.
The most fantastic thing about soccer is you can actually see the ball. It’s white. It might seem a small difference, but the NCAA doesn’t seem to understand how hard it is for a myopic person such as myself to see a small brown ball on a 6,400-square yard field while sitting in the nosebleed QQ section. Besides, soccer players actually move the ball with their feet. In football there’s always some player jumping on the ball — often more than one — so that you would need X-ray vision to actually know where it is. Usually I just end up standing up and yelling whenever somebody else does.
Although soccer will always be my first love, football has me hooked. This homecoming game will be the fourth football game under my belt, and I’m slowly starting to get it. So far I know 11 guys are supposed to run down the field (same number as for soccer; they’re making it easy for me), preferably passing a 10-yard line in four tries or fewer. If you can steal the ball from the other team, it’s good, and if you have to beat up a few guys in the process, it’s not an issue. OK, so I don’t have all the rules down yet, but I have the will to learn, and I’m among the loudest fans when it comes to chanting Z-O-U. If I’m not cheering, I’m the one always asking, “What just happened?” I’m sure you’ll recognize me.
Speaking of chanting, my favorite feature of U.S. college sports is undeniably the amazing feeling of school spirit. In France, school teams are virtually nonexistent, and there is no national collegiate competition. A school is usually just a place where you study, rarely a place where you live, never a place you take pride in — except maybe for a couple of very prestigious ones. Wearing black and gold and cheering for my team are new experiences to me and, I must admit, quite exhilarating.
It’s also a true testament to American entrepreneurial zeal that so many companies and merchants can thrive off that noble pride. In a European soccer team store, you’ll find the typical jerseys and hats, key chains, pens and the occasional tie. But here team stores have everything: license plate holders, tiger ears, hands or tails, golf balls, baby clothes and, most amazing of all, a bottle opener that glows in the dark and plays the Tiger fight song! After all, Americans love their beer.
Along with it comes the most brilliant American invention: tailgating! I could never understand this word when reading it, what with its obscure etymology, but walking across the stadium parking lot before our first game this year against New Mexico was explanation enough. It is said that Latin countries — such as Spain, Portugal and France, believe it or not — are more convivial than Anglo-Saxon ones, such as England and Germany, but you wouldn’t know it from visiting Mizzou on a football weekend. Come to think of it, tailgating is all about profit and efficiency. Back home, we celebrate after the game by dancing in the street and driving around honking if we won. If not, we just stay home bawling. With tailgating, you’re sure to get your drinks in, no matter the outcome of the game. Once again, Americans love their beer.
In my few weeks in Missouri, football has definitely become a tradition that I could get used to. This Saturday you’ll find me in the Hearnes Center parking lot, beer in one hand, hot dog in the other, kicking it American-style. But I’ll throw some crepes into the mix.
