Stupid Boys.

Nope, I’m not going to rail on the male species. I rather like them, especially my husband and dad. Believe it or not, what follows is a story of Franco-American relations in an Anglophone pub where E and I went to watch the U.S.-Ghana quarterfinals. After the Internet troubles we’d had earlier in the day, we really just wanted to sit somewhere fun and watch the game. Since we were going to be cheering (in English) for an English-speaking country, we felt it only fitting to choose an English-speaking pub. We made our way out to Vieux-Lyon, the old part of the city, and ambled into an Irish pub called the James Joyce. We’d heard it had a good atmosphere, and besides, on an English-language schedule of the day’s games, it said, “Welcome, Americans!” underneath the U.S.A.-Ghana game info. Perfect choice.

Unfortunately, within moments of choosing a table, we rued the decision. An already-inebriated Frenchman dressed in a bright blue polo and a plaid kilt turned from the bar and started speaking some very loud French in our direction. Nothing offensive, just the noisy, opinionated ramblings of a late-afternoon drunk. “My father, he was Scottish, and my uncle, he was French. But I, I learned how to dance the Riverdance!” Frenchman bellowed. Regrettably, he felt the need to demonstrate his paltry talent. E and I tried our best to ignore him and just keep up our conversation, but he did not take kindly to that. Before long, she and I were practically yelling at one another over the ruckus he was creating. Finally, we simultaneously made unsmiling eye contact with Frenchman, hoping he’d see the general lack of mirth he was causing.

Moments later, he silenced. But it wasn’t because of our scathing nonverbal message; it was because two more men entered the pub, an American and a Brit—looking rather stereotypical, I might add. American was in cargo shorts and a T-shirt and spoke with a Texan accent. He ordered himself a glass of dark ale and settled heavily on a barstool. Brit, in his pressed khakis, followed suit (no pun intended). Frenchman watched all of this with a sparkle in his eye. He hurried back over to his barstool and eavesdropped on the two men for a few minutes, trying, I suspect, to pick up a nugget to start yelling about again.

American and Brit wondered aloud why the word “football” is used to denote both “soccer” and “American football.” American said, “We mostly throw the ball in football. In soccer, you actually kick the thing around, so it would make more sense to call soccer ‘football.’” Brit agreed, of course. He said he was accustomed to using the term “football” for “soccer.” American continued, “I prefer the game of football, though.”

That was all Frenchman needed to hear. He turned around and boomed, “Stupid boys! American football is stupid boys!” He reverted to his slurred, loud French for the rest of the insult. “You throw the ball, you make the scores, you throw the ball, you make the scores. So easy! This is something any person can do! In soccer, you never stop running, kicking.” He held his index fingers and thumbs in the shape of two tiny circles. “This is what stupid American football boys looks like,” he said in thickly accented English. “Little, little.”

As any football fan knows, it is never safe to trash talk another fan’s team. But to trash talk the entire sport? That, citizens, is anathema. Predictably, American seethed. “Oh yeah?” he replied in English. “Where’s your ‘football’ team, huh?” he asked, air quoting the word. “They’re at home, watching the game on their TVs because they lost. Because they’re no good. My team is still in the running, even though it’s soccer. So who looks stupid now?” He looked at Brit, and both rolled their eyes.

But Frenchman wasn’t done. Although he seemed not to have understood much of what American said, he was busy decrying football again. This went on—literally repetitions of the above conversation—for ten minutes. It was frustrating to watch: two adults who couldn’t even understand each other arguing about games. It was as if one had insulted the other’s family; they were fighting with that much vehemence. Stupid boys.

And then it hit me: they had insulted each other’s families. For many of us Americans, football is a major part of our lives, whether we’re fans or not. The vast majority of us watch the Super Bowl (or the ads). From August to February, we see commercials for games regardless of the channel we watch. Our spouses, parents, children, friends, cousins, and siblings talk football. We remember the glory days in high school of marching band, cheerleading, or playing on the gridiron…or being the best friend or significant other of someone who did. Most of us claim allegiance to a college team. Pro football players are in the news, on magazine covers, and referred to by DJs. You have to admit that it’s a big part of our culture—and that much more for someone who is a fan, like American. Football is a part of his identity as much as being a husband or being an international traveler.

Of course, it’s the same for the French with their soccer.

So as the sports insults kept flying—to the point that Frenchman was eventually escorted out for public drunkenness—I started thinking about what (not so much “who”) started it. Clearly, Frenchman was looking for a battle from the beginning, but American did us no favors by insulting Les Bleus, the French soccer team. It reminded me of something another Frenchman said to me eight years ago. His name was Jean, and he was the father in one of our host families. I asked Jean what the most surprising thing was about American culture. He told me, “The movies. In French movies, we solve problems like difficult relationships. We see how families work and how couples work. At the center of every French movie is a relationship.” (By the way, he wasn’t exaggerating.) “In American movies, you’re usually saving the world. Yes, I can go see American romance movies if I want to, but usually you’re saving the world. And you don’t usually let people of other countries help you. Just a team of Americans saving the world.” Jean was right. Perhaps that’s why Frenchman was picking a fight: he’s tired of teams of Americans.

On the other hand, American is probably tired of being despised just because he’s from America. E told me that the other day she was in a bakery and the woman at the cash register, upon hearing E’s French, asked her where she was from. E told her America. “Oh, well, that’s not that bad,” the woman commiserated with a watery smile. No, it’s not! It’s not bad at all because no nationality is inherently bad or good…or even better.

I lack the words to conclude this post because I’m still thinking about it all.