This morning, I ran into the Irish sales guy in the company kitchen—a man with whom I share a slightly fraught history. Our first encounter came shortly after the infamous France vs. Ireland World Cup play-off in 2009, when Thierry Henry’s unpenalized handball crushed Ireland’s hopes and sent France to the 2010 World Cup. Given the rawness of Ireland’s loss, my cheery opener—”Don’t hold it against me, but my husband is from France!”—was ill-advised. Though he responded politely, “Sure, I won’t hold it against you,” the look in his eyes suggested he’d gladly have seen me burn in footballing hell.
Fast-forward to today, when I decided to mend fences. With my best winning smile, I asked, “Did it make you happy to see the French team implode at the World Cup?”
Having been married to a Frenchman for two years, I really should have known better than to preface a question to any European with “Did it make you happy…?” Americans might revel in the humiliation of a hated rival, but Europeans—especially Irish football fans—view such matters with far more gravity.
“Happy?” he repeated, his voice low and his forehead furrowing. “Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I was irate.” (Yes, irate—an adjective that somehow felt more damning than a four-letter curse.) “They stole Ireland’s spot in the World Cup, and then they didn’t even bother to show up. They made a bloody mockery of the whole thing. I’m livid.”
So much for reparations. Note to self: Avoid discussing football with the Irish sales guy ever again.
