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Footy in Mouth

This morning at work, I encountered the sales guy from Ireland in the company kitchen. Our acquaintance had a rocky beginning because I met him a day or two after the infamous France versus Ireland World Cup play-off game, when France earned their spot in the 2010 World Cup at the expense of Ireland — and in spite of Thierry Henry’s unpenalized hand ball. Given the freshness of Ireland’s indignity, I probably should not have blurted, “Don’t hold it against me, but my husband is from France!”

I said it congenially, as a clue that I was familiar with the World Cup and could be a partner to engage in trivial office banter about it in the future. He responded correctly, saying “Sure, I won’t hold it against you” in a very calm voice. Yet, I somehow got the distinct feeling he wanted to gash my eyes out.

So when I ran into him this morning, I wanted to make partial amends for this insensitive encounter. I gave him a big, winning Yankee smile and said “Did it make you happy to see the French team implode at the World Cup?”

Being married to a Frenchman for the past two years, I should have known better than to preface any question to any European with the words “Did it make you happy…?” Because, I mean, how can I, as a primitive American, ever presume to understand the enigmatic happiness quotient of an European? Me, I would be happy to see my hated foe ignite global disdain for their performance on and off the pitch, but an Irishman…

“Happy?” he whispered, his forehead clenching. “Oh, no, quite the opposite. I was irate.” Yes, he really used the term irate. “They stole the spot in the World Cup from Ireland, and then they didn’t even bother to show up. They made a bloody mockery. Yes, I am livid.”

God. I will refrain from mentioning anything about footy with the Irish sales guy starting…. now. It always turns out to be about as socially uncouth as blowing straw bubbles with milk.

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