Today Russia beat the Netherlands in double overtime, thereby advancing to the next round of the European Cup. Because I hate it when members of my family rattle on about end zones and face-offs and field goals without telling me what sport they’re discussing, let me first clarify that I’m talking about soccer. For all my European readers, that’s the same as hockey. This afternoon both teams played well, and handsomely (in a preppy, Aryan sort of way). The Swiss stadium crowd was alternately painted, shirtless, exulted, devastated, and drunk. When I wasn’t reading the paper at the bar, I hung on the television announcer’s every word.
European sportscasters are a different breed than American sportscasters. They’re content to be informative and not intrusive. They’re staid and earnest and they have great accents. But this afternoon, in the midst of heroic and impassioned play, the European Cup announcer was forced to say the following: “Make sure to tune in tonight to Camp Rock, the feature film debut of the Jonas Brothers on the Disney Channel!” It’s like all of a sudden the Ultimate Fighting Championship was interrupted by an advertisement for Snapple Light or flavored mascara.
I laughed, I cried, then I went back to reading the clinical trial ads in my newspaper. But suddenly I could sense mens’ hairdos growing longer and silkier and more perfumed all around me. I could sense the Zinedine Zidanes of the world turning into David Beckhams. And I wanted to smell the anguished sweat of defeat on the Dutch soccer jerseys before buckets of Axe Bodyspray drowned it out.
I guess I am old-fashioned.