This poem is part five in a series I wrote about soccer in Ann Arbor over the years. For one reason or another, they’ve remained tucked away in a notebook and have never been shared publicly.
With France punching its ticket to the World Cup semifinal last night, it felt like the right moment to dust one off. This one takes me back to a December afternoon in 20221, when an Irish pub in downtown Ann Arbor became, for a few unforgettable hours, a little corner of France.
O’Neill’s Dream2
December’s chill could not cool the flame,
As France and Argentina battled for fame.
A final so fierce, with hearts on the line,
Where glory was close, but fate was unkind.
Before the penalties, before the tears fell,
Hope filled the pub like a ringing bell.
Loud voices rose, and pints clinked in cheer,
In Ann Arbor’s heart, the world drew near.
Inside the Irish pub, it’s all bleu, blanc, rouge3.
Flags droop over dartboards. Marinières meet Le Coq4.
Fifty French expats5 and the friends they brought
have claimed the room like a forward claims the box.
They are louder than usual: a little plus fiers.
Distance makes patriots of the hesitant.
“On n’a jamais eu de drapeau à Paris,”
one says, painting his cheek with pride.
“Mais regarde-nous maintenant.6”
Word of mouth built this watch party.
Friends of friends. Lovers of Zidane7. Seekers of place.
By kickoff, the bar breathes in rhythm:
a small, temporary France on Main Street.
Someone shouts: “Où est Benzema8?”
Another predicts five goals, at least.
A third debates Giroud’s knee9 with the fervor
usually reserved for Supreme Court nominees.
La Marseillaise erupts: badly, beautifully:
and a waitress squeezes through the crowd
like a winger on a breakaway.
A world away from home,
We are not alone.
Even the Wolverines shout “Allez Les Bleus”:
And in 22 for one December afternoon,
Ann Arbor forgets the cold
and I remember what it feels like to belong.
Also remembered by many French people as that afternoon we collectively aged five years.
A perfectly respectable Irish pub. However, during the world cup it became the French Embassy of Washtenaw County.
Not a personality type but the French flag’s colors.
Striped shirts and the national rooster. Clichés, yes. But proud ones.
A fancy word immigrants invented for themselves when they wanted to sound temporary.
Somewhere between a boast and a group hug.
Patron saint of French soccer. Mention his name in a room full of French people and someone will eventually bring up 1998... or the headbutt.
France's star striker left the 2022 World Cup through injury. Asking where he was became almost as common as asking for another beer.
In France, everyone becomes an orthopedic specialist during major tournaments.