Vive la France?

I saw a man, maybe similar in age to me, slightly as guapo, but not quite. He was clad in green and yellow and his head swung low. This was a man who had been to battle and lost. I watched him walk down the street while he often looked up at the sky hoping for an answer that wouldn’t come.

He glanced across the street and made eye contact with me. I instinctively put my fist up to my heart and squeezed my lips tightly. The man tilted his head and nodded in appreciation. This wasn’t a time for words.

But then, just then, a taller man came into sight and saw the man in yellow and green. Perhaps he saw an opportunity to kick a proud man when he was down, perhaps he had been slighted in the past by one of his people, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

“Hey, Brasil! Vive la France!” He screamed this while having both thumbs pointed downward and making a sound of flatulence with his lips. It was a ridiculous sight.

Now, imagine my beautiful Guatemalan blood boil at this. I am not a fighter, not anymore, but I did feel my hands become fists.

“It’s easy for you to do that from across the street! Come over here!”

“You arrogant Brazilian. You all thought you were going to win before even playing a game. Serves you right! Now you can go back to cleaning homes!”

The man in green and yellow smiled at that comment while tucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting down. He shook his head in a humorous, agreeing fashion.

“Again, you’re screaming to me from across the street!”

He then went on to describe, in detail, various sexual acts performed with several members of the man’s family. This was a man who could, it seems, also have a verbal agreement from across the street.

“You are vulgar, just like the rest of your country of pigs!”

While I didn’t find this to be a very good comeback from the man who had just heard startling revelations about his mother’s personal life, this seemed to touch a nerve. The smile was gone. He used both of his hands to push the hair out of his face.

“Vulgar? A Frenchman is calling me vulgar? A bald Frenchman is calling vulgar? You won today. Congratulations! The win, isn’t going to make your hair grow back. How does that make you feel fat man?”

He told him how he felt by that.

The man in green and yellow then kicked off his flip flops and ran with his head tilted downwards and eyes firmly fixed on the balding fat man.

The bald Frenchman realized then what the rest of the world seemed to already know: Brazilians are fast. The look of surprise on the man’s face was one that my words will never be able to do any justice. Have you ever seen the look on a pig when it realizes it is going to slaughter? Me either, but I imagine it is a similar look. The man must have reached down, deep down, to his primal instincts to face what was sure to happen. He then did what, well, what I wasn’t expecting. He, well, he started to run the other way. Not just run, dart. He ran/darted as fast as his legs could take him.

“Ha! Are you kidding me? You’re running away? Why don’t you raise your hands and give up like your people usually do? You’re running away? Ha! I love this!”

It was great to see a Frenchman giving up and running away. This was a perfect end to what had been a good week.

It’s too bad that this didn’t happen this weekend. The French team played honorably and beautifully. One of their fans just had to tarnish this, but luckily, he was held in check.

Do not shed another tear Brasil. Your soccer play has made much of the world smile for decades. We look forward to the day, soon, when you will make us smile once again. Just know that in there is a man, in Washington DC, who will quickly shed his footwear to protect your good name.

To the man in flip-flops, gracias. While you didn’t need it, you had a Guatemalan ready to stand by you.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo