Yesterday, on the green expense of a football field half-way around the globe, under the welcoming South African skies of the Free State, a stone’s throw away from Lesotho, the two countries dearest to my heart were facing each other, a checkered ball between them. One of them made me feel ashamed.
The French lost the previous FIFA World Cup at the last second because of a ridiculous bad-tempered head-butt. They had otherwise behaved and played masterfully. This year, they performed badly from the beginning and now take a shortcut to the Exit. I couldn’t care less. What makes me blush is Domenech’s arrogance in refusing to shake his rival’s hand after the match. No matter what the reasons were, when you are taking part in the world’s biggest professional sporting event, on international television, representing your country, your team and carrying the hopes of millions of fans, you play fair. Pompous ass. Quel con.
South Africans, on the other hand, and despite not having done much better on the winning field, seem to be doing a magnificent job at hosting the Cup despite much initial local worry and slow ticket sales. Kudos to them. The world is watching.
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