One of the best things about being back in Oz is decent winter sport. I speak of Aussie Rules, of course. The Sochi Winter Olympics earlier this put me in mind of those looooong winters we spent in France, when for
months it seemed the sun had been liquid papered out of the sky and you had to
dress up like the Michelin man just to go to the letter box. The compensation (supposedly) for it being winter was that you
could watch winter sports on TV. If you understood them, that is ...
My French husband Maxime spent most of his undergrad studies
skiing in Grenoble (much more interesting than chemistry lectures), and so he
is a keen skier and winter sports watcher. He would do his best to explain
winter sports to me, but without much success. People appeared to get medals
for going down a slide! Then there was a sort of lawn bowls on ice consisting
of someone slowly pushing a large Edam along while two assistants were
frantically sweeping brooms before it, as if they were cleaning up after a
Dutch party. And the French TV commentary was so bad. Firstly, there was rather
a lot of silence. None of the banter of a Bill Lawry and Tony Greig exchange.
'Why aren't they saying anything?' I'd
ask.
'They’re probably drunk,' Maxime would
say.
Eventually a commentator might manage an 'Oh la la.'
'Oh lalalalalalala,' his colleague would
add, but only if what happened was really impressive.
Other than that, the commentary team would
make noises such as 'Pfffff' or 'Bof'. It had about as much depth and
analysis as watching the big game with a Tellytubby.
No wonder there's no cricket in France ...
nothing happening AND no one saying anything! Not the best telly. Actually,
being made to sit through hours of 'sports de glisse', (sports where you
'slide') was salt in the wound to me, because I really did miss the cricket. Not
to mention Aussie Rules. I tried explaining Aussie Rules to Maxime when we
lived in France, and even showed him a video of the '84 Grand Final. He loved it.
That is to say, he rolled around laughing at the punch-ups, the '80s hairdos
and the microscopic shorts.Then he took himself off to the computer to Google
'Australian Rules Football shorts' and the phrase 'packing your lunch', which I
had foolishly introduced him to.
He stayed on the computer a long time ...
and I began to wonder why he was spending quite so much time looking at men's
crotches. He had a surprise for me. No, he wasn't gay, but he had stumbled upon
the site of an Aussie Rules team in France, in Strasbourg. Don't believe it?
Here's the link:
Since then, we discovered little footy
clubs had mushroomed all over Europe, often started by Europeans who'd seen a
match on TV by chance and fallen in love with the game. Shame it doesn't happen
to all Europeans, i.e., Maxime ... but more on that next time!
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