France vs Ireland

So before everyone wonders why Torie's grammar has gone down the tubes and why she is swearing like a sailor, this is one of Erik's rare contributions to the blog. This past saturday marked my first real international rugby game (as a witness, not a participant). Although we have previously attended the Canada vs New Zealand Maori game up at York (also described as "The Father-Son Game" or "The Headmasters Schoolboys Game), an afternoon standing in the rain behind 6 foot tall female locks and watching Canada demonstrate how to get pummelled gracefully does not quite compare.

A capital R "Researcher" at Ecole Polytechnique - Dr. Laurent Philippe - had two tickets available as he is a rugby referee (and receives copious bribes to make unsubstantiated calls against me, I am sure). I picked them up from him and asked Francois (a buddy who had come to Canada for a year and played for the Dragons) if he wanted to go. I am still quite indebted to Francois for checking out our apartment in France before we came, and he is also a good guy with whom to watch a game and tip back a plastic cup. So I arranged to meet him at Gare du Nord on saturday afternoon.

But before I met Francois, Torie and I went for a run around our neighbourhood, and received the first notice that it was a rugby day. At one of the Irish bars near our house, people were lining up to get in.

At 11am. The game started at 2:30.

Now I'm not one to let likely explanations get in the way of long-standing cultural stereotypes, but it has been pointed out to me that the Irish pub was probably selling tickets to the game as you can't buy tickets in Ireland to Stade de France. I prefer to believe that this was the first of many displays of enthusiasm that you only see because of rugby or due to the publishing of deitical cartoons. That is a word now.

So I met Francois at the Gare du Nord an hour before the game, and did my Good Samaritan deed of the day by guiding some Irish fans to the correct train to the Stade. They were visibly shocked when an unprompted stranger stopped them from descending the stairs to the wrong train and showed them the right way with a Canadian accent. ("You're aboot to get on the wrong tren") No explanation asked, so none offered.

Francois and I piled our way on to the correct train and were joined by approximately three times the design capacity of the train. I spent an uncomfortable four minutes face to rosy face with a 65 year old french rugby fan. There is no small talk for when two straight men have their faces less then 10cm apart, and there is definitely no eye contact. There is only a shoulder-shrug and a wave of relief when you get off the train and join the flood of people flowing into the walkway towards the stadium.

Luckily, french vendors know their market (the Irish + Francois + me) and so had set up a number of beer stalls between the exit of the subway and the stadium, about a 200m walk. The crowd was thick with the irish colours - green jerseys and red faces. These guys get started early. We made our way to the front gates, discussing Francois' dismissal of the French team as a bunch of upper-class military types (he prefers the Welsh blue-collar style, his grandfather's homeland, fought at Normandy, met a french girl, etc etc), and finished our beers while the security staff frisked us. It is amazing Donna, how much more relaxed security staff are when you unbutton your shirt to reveal the home jersey, thanks for the great gift. Here are the pictures of the stadium from the outside as you walk up the stairs to the upper deck.





So we got up to our seats just in time for the kickoff, and we were in for a treat. Both teams play their best rugby the way the best of their countrymen live life. The French wait with infinite patience and skill, and then when their opponents make the tiniest of errors, they capitalize with what can only be called brutal flair. At the time when the opposition is at its most perplexed, recovering from a mistake, they launch into their greatest displays of skill. The Irish, however, throw themselves headlong time and again into impossible odds. Even the look on their faces as they run into multiple tacklers is "well, this is going to hurt, but this might be my lucky day". Before I forget, here are the shots from inside the stadium.




The crowd was decked out in their teams' colours - the Irish fans in green and the French fans in black. Because who would wear anything but black to a rugby game, les sauvages irelandais.

So the first half went according to script. The french, embarassed by last week's defeat at the hands of the lowly Scottish, took it out on the available whipping boys. They ran up a nice set of four tries to one or two before heading in for the half. To the informed observer though, they weren't really mounting any attack of their own, just counter-attacking. In the second half, the Irish cut down on their risky play, and mounted a surprising comeback. They got within two tries of tying it up, but some dodgy-decision making and an extended goal line stand allowed the french to hold on to victory.

After the game, Francois and I decided that trying to immediately get on the train was folly, so we headed back to the post-game analysis area. The beer tents had begun to play irish tunes, knowing what was good for them. We sidled up beside the drunkest non-monk frenchman who has ever convinced a beer tent worker that he is okay for one more. He picked up on my use of conditionnel present instead of indicatif futur simple to order beer and immediately identified me as an anglo-saxon. He was friendly enough to attempt his only english phrase "Good game". I said "Thanks, I thought I played well". My hilarious joke was greeted by his flustered response "Je suis desole, I don't speak Irish". Turns out neither do I, so rather than fling myself against the impossible odds of a successful conversation, we finished our beers and I headed home.

I'm sure Torie's posts will fill out the details of the rest of the day, but it was an amazing time, and I can't wait until Kerry and Roman show up for the World Cup. By then, I'm sure Torie will have learned to appreciate the game for more than short shorts.