World Cup turns expatriate into France fan

‘They made it.” The words sound like a death sentence.

Back in my homeland, France, the live transmission to my brother Nicolas’ TV is a couple of seconds ahead of what I see on the screen here at Willie’s Pub and Pool. When Fabio Grosso puts in the decisive penalty kick, Nicolas just has to say those words over the phone and I know we are out. Italy has won the 2006 World Cup.

I don’t care much for soccer, and, as is the case for many French people, I am not particularly patriotic. But when it comes to the World Cup, I’m all blue, white and red and there’s no tearing me away from the TV.

Besides, as an expatriate, I have a newfound affection for my home. I never feel more French than when I am surrounded by people who aren’t.

When it comes time to sing “La Marseillaise” before the game begins, I stand with a hand on my heart and sing aloud the words I learned in elementary school. I can feel my heart pounding. People give me funny looks. I recognize those looks: They’re the ones I give them when they get excited about the Super Bowl. I don’t expect them to understand.

The game has barely started and already Thierry Henry, our genius attacker, is down. I’m not sure what happened, but he looks as if he’s been hit by a semi. I wouldn’t be surprised to see cartoon birds chirping over his head.

The Italians are really aggressive. Three of our players are hit in the first few minutes. Apparently, the referee noticed that, too, because he called a penalty kick that I think was not really justified.

I’m not about to complain. Referees’ mistakes rarely play out in our favor, so we deserve this. This is for the second goal we were denied against South Korea in the first round. This is for all the times the referee kept quiet when Portuguese players kept diving in the semifinals.

Zinedine Zidane takes the shot. He’s my hero. Every time I see him play, I feel history unfolding before my eyes. His legs are magic and magic is just what we need.

Zidane kicks the ball and ... is it in? I can’t see. Please, someone tell me if it’s in. The camera angle is horrible. He’s smiling; that must mean it’s in. Why isn’t the scoreboard changing to 1-0? Here comes the replay, from a different angle. Zidane shoots, the ball hits the crossbar and ... it’s in.

It’s crazy how much happiness can be caused by 14 ounces of leather and air.

Being in the lead is such a relief, but the Italians are keeping the pressure on. Our defense is tested, and at the 19th minute Italy scores on a corner kick. I’m sad, really sad. Enough said.

The three whistle blows signaling halftime bring relief. Italy dominated most of the first half and my confidence and bravado are starting to wear off. I need to cheer up. My American friends are kind enough to let me draw French flags on their hands and faces. I feel better. I call home. I feel much better.

The French are doing much better in the second half and I’m actually starting to think they could win this. Never mind what I just said — Italy just scored again. Wait, the linesman is raising a flag. It’s offside; the goal won’t count.

This is why I love the World Cup. This is an all-natural high, an emotional roller coaster worth any extreme sport adventure. This is why soccer is the most popular sport the world over. This is why I really don’t get why there are not more people jumping to their feet in this American bar.

There is an Italian fan sitting at the next table. I feel like bragging. I want to remind him that Italy hasn’t beaten France since 1986. I size him up and decide against it.

By the 87th minute, it’s getting frustrating: My right index and middle fingers are starting to hurt; I’ve been keeping them crossed for more than 40 minutes. I still want to believe we can skip overtime. In the Euro 2000, Italy was leading 1-0 into stoppage time before Sylvain Wiltord scored seconds from the end. One more goal gave us the title. The Italians probably remember that. We sure do.

If Euro 2000 was the best overtime I’ve ever seen, this is the saddest. At the 111th minute, Zidane hits Marco Materazzi in the chest and goes off the field on a red card.

If it weren’t so sad, it would almost be funny. Zidane’s headbutt will probably go down in the World Cup annals as the weirdest off-the-ball fight. My American friends laugh and commend Zidane for defending himself.

I am in disbelief. What on earth were you thinking, Zizou? The red card was completely merited, but watching this world-class player walk off the field in his last game ever with his head down, past the table where the World Cup stands, is the saddest image of the tournament. I stand and applaud him. He’s still my hero.

With no goals in overtime, the game comes down to penalty kicks. I hate penalty kicks. Anyone who likes soccer hates penalty kicks.

I guess it’s not that bad if we lose, right? It’s only sports, after all. At least it’s an all-European finals, which is already a victory. I’ll just keep telling myself that.

The air smells of 1998. The France-Italy quarterfinals had ended on penalty kicks and that day, we had won.

Not today. Trezeguet misses our second penalty kick, and it all comes down to Grosso’s final shot.

“They made it.”

The news takes a second to sink in. Is that it? One kick and it’s over?

I’m crying. I can’t believe I am crying over sports.

“Don’t cry, you’ll win it next year,” my friend AJ says.

The FIFA World Cup takes place every four years. I told you they wouldn’t understand.