(Photo: A street in Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, France, made ready for the national holiday. July 2009. By Isabelle Roughol)

By ISABELLE ROUGHOL
Columbia Missourian

‘They made it.” The words sound like a death sentence.

Back in my homeland, France, the live transmission to my brother Nicolas’ TV is a couple of seconds ahead of what I see on the screen here at Willie’s Pub and Pool. When Fabio Grosso puts in the decisive penalty kick, Nicolas just has to say those words over the phone and I know we are out. Italy has won the 2006 World Cup.

I don’t care much for soccer, and, as is the case for many French people, I am not particularly patriotic. But when it comes to the World Cup, I’m all blue, white and red and there’s no tearing me away from the TV.

Besides, as an expatriate, I have a newfound affection for my home. I never feel more French than when I am surrounded by people who aren’t.

When it comes time to sing “La Marseillaise” before the game begins, I stand with a hand on my heart and sing aloud the words I learned in elementary school. I can feel my heart pounding. People give me funny looks. I recognize those looks: They’re the ones I give them when they get excited about the Super Bowl. I don’t expect them to understand.

The game has barely started and already Thierry Henry, our genius attacker, is down. I’m not sure what happened, but he looks as if he’s been hit by a semi. I wouldn’t be surprised to see cartoon birds chirping over his head.

The Italians are really aggressive. Three of our players are hit in the first few minutes. Apparently, the referee noticed that, too, because he called a penalty kick that I think was not really justified.

I’m not about to complain. Referees’ mistakes rarely play out in our favor, so we deserve this. This is for the second goal we were denied against South Korea in the first round. This is for all the times the referee kept quiet when Portuguese players kept diving in the semifinals.

Zinedine Zidane takes the shot. He’s my hero. Every time I see him play, I feel history unfolding before my eyes. His legs are magic and magic is just what we need.

Zidane kicks the ball and … is it in? I can’t see. Please, someone tell me if it’s in. The camera angle is horrible. He’s smiling; that must mean it’s in. Why isn’t the scoreboard changing to 1-0? Here comes the replay, from a different angle. Zidane shoots, the ball hits the crossbar and … it’s in.

It’s crazy how much happiness can be caused by 14 ounces of leather and air.

Being in the lead is such a relief, but the Italians are keeping the pressure on. Our defense is tested, and at the 19th minute Italy scores on a corner kick. I’m sad, really sad. Enough said.

The three whistle blows signaling halftime bring relief. Italy dominated most of the first half and my confidence and bravado are starting to wear off. I need to cheer up. My American friends are kind enough to let me draw French flags on their hands and faces. I feel better. I call home. I feel much better.

The French are doing much better in the second half and I’m actually starting to think they could win this. Never mind what I just said — Italy just scored again. Wait, the linesman is raising a flag. It’s offside; the goal won’t count.

This is why I love the World Cup. This is an all-natural high, an emotional roller coaster worth any extreme sport adventure. This is why soccer is the most popular sport the world over. This is why I really don’t get why there are not more people jumping to their feet in this American bar.

There is an Italian fan sitting at the next table. I feel like bragging. [Update: stat edited out] I size him up and decide against it.

By the 87th minute, it’s getting frustrating: My right index and middle fingers are starting to hurt; I’ve been keeping them crossed for more than 40 minutes. I still want to believe we can skip overtime. In the Euro 2000, Italy was leading 1-0 into stoppage time before Sylvain Wiltord scored seconds from the end. One more goal gave us the title. The Italians probably remember that. We sure do.

If Euro 2000 was the best overtime I’ve ever seen, this is the saddest. At the 111th minute, Zidane hits Marco Materazzi in the chest and goes off the field on a red card.

If it weren’t so sad, it would almost be funny. Zidane’s headbutt will probably go down in the World Cup annals as the weirdest off-the-ball fight. My American friends laugh and commend Zidane for defending himself.

I am in disbelief. What on earth were you thinking, Zizou? The red card was completely merited, but watching this world-class player walk off the field in his last game ever with his head down, past the table where the World Cup stands, is the saddest image of the tournament. I stand and applaud him. He’s still my hero.

With no goals in overtime, the game comes down to penalty kicks. I hate penalty kicks. Anyone who likes soccer hates penalty kicks.

I guess it’s not that bad if we lose, right? It’s only sports, after all. At least it’s an all-European finals, which is already a victory. I’ll just keep telling myself that.

The air smells of 1998. The France-Italy quarterfinals had ended on penalty kicks and that day, we had won.

Not today. Trezeguet misses our second penalty kick, and it all comes down to Grosso’s final shot.

“They made it.”

The news takes a second to sink in. Is that it? One kick and it’s over?

I’m crying. I can’t believe I am crying over sports.

“Don’t cry, you’ll win it next year,” my friend AJ says.

The FIFA World Cup takes place every four years. I told you they wouldn’t understand.

(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.