This can’t have done much to improve the general French attitude towards their national coach.
Choice bits from Steve McManaman (and it really says something about the behavior of the French team that I am choosing to quote McManaman, seeing as he has the worst hair, the worst suits and some pretty bad ties as well. He is also occasionally unintelligible, but that’s a story for another day):
“Awful, abysmal, terrible… I could go on… They look unorganized, they play whatever they want, they look selfish. Uck.”
“There was no passion, no power, no nothing.”
“They should have scored in the first half.”
McManaman goes on to say that they might have, if players hadn’t been being “a little bit selfish,” and could have been bothered to, oh I don’t know, maybe pass to each other?
And I had such hope as I heard the familiar strains of La Marseillaise before the game. You know, all that stuff about snuffing our enemies, using the blood of the enemy to water the fields of France, general fury about being masters of their own destinies, avenging themselves, being heroes, et cetera, et cetera.
Am I the only one who knows the lyrics? For God’s sake.
Je suis en grande détresse, grâce aux Bleus.
As a disclaimer to the general tone of this post: I love the French, I love all things French, I have lived in France, and I have studied France and French due to my love of said place and people, for which you can thank my mother.
It was repulsive. It made multi-tasking nearly impossible. I had been stalwart in my optimism. I had been confident that the dull and disjointed game against Uruguay was no reason for writing off.
I mean, don’t they even want to have a go at winning the right to wear another little star on their jerseys?
I shall have to resort to discussing the French uniforms and then using them to mock the team. There’s no way around it.
First of all, aside from the astounding photographic quality available to us in this delightful modern era, and aside from the amazing athleticism in that amazing leap by Evra… let us take note of a special element of the French uniform: those delightful gloves. A good number of Team France chooses to sport dainty blue gloves throughout the game.
Let’s just go with the most historically popular slur against the French and just call them fancy dandies, running about being generally useless.
I mean, I know it was cold out and all, but the other teams did not appear to be wearing gloves. And it’s one thing to bundle up on the bench, it’s one thing to wear extra layers but I take issue with those royal blue gloves.
Hmm… what to decry next?
How about how tightly much of the French team choose to wear their jerseys? Perhaps the tightness was cutting off the circulation to their brains, thus rendering them incapable of communicating and functioning as a team?
Dear Sagna, that is a very tight shirt. I think the lack of circulation also caused him to select his current hair-do. Love the blond tips to your cornrows…
I am sorry, but I am very upset!
Although to be fair, probably not as upset as Sagna and Diaby in that photo. At least they know they should be ashamed; those expressions are just rank with despondence mixed slowly boiling rage.
Not like the sheer infectious joy of the Mexican side. I was clearly having myself a fit during the game, but upon reviewing the images a few hours later, I must admit… I feel a little happy for them.
How can you not? Just look at that face. Also, the Mexican side actually functions as team, so they actually deserved to win.
Unlike Les Bleus.