Today is October 3, 2006. It was seven months ago yesterday that I left for France. It was six months ago yesterday that I no-hit the Woodchucks in my final game as a Lion, earning my current gig as a Woodchuck in the process. Time flies, huh? Another 9-hour flight on Friday afternoon. I had […]
Today is October 3, 2006.
It was seven months ago yesterday that I left for France.
It was six months ago yesterday that I no-hit the Woodchucks in my final game as a Lion, earning my current gig as a Woodchuck in the process.
Time flies, huh?
Another 9-hour flight on Friday afternoon. I had to leave early from school, missing a lecture for my class by a Supreme Court Justice. The implicit message: “Hey, Justice Scalia. Buzz off. I got two games with the Woodchucks that are far more important than you.” Disrespect noted, I imagine he’d say.
The joke was really on me, though, because when I finally got to Rouen through my now familiar fool’s march through French public transit (plane to CDG, shuttle bus to train station, train to metro 4, metro 4 to metro 12, metro 12 to train station, train to Rouen metro, metro to a dingy studio apartment) I came to find that no one knew if Marseilles was actually coming. They forfeited both matches against La Guerche just last week, simply because La Guerche is so far out in the sticks that you can’t even reasonably get there by train. As we say in Boston, you just can’t get they-ah from hee-yah.
The prevailing opinion was that Marseilles might not even show, and even if they did, the forecasted rain might wash both games out. In that case, I would have flown to Paris for a combined 150 hours over three weekends for a total of two, count’em two baseball games. Needless to say, I found the news slightly worrisome, but could only do what I’d been doing all year: Hope for the best. That, and load up on scotch, which is sooooooo much cheaper in France.
In a nod to my new “other life,” I actually hit the books Saturday night, crashing at Seb’s place so that the INSEP boys (Quentin and Matthieu) could crash with Matt with a little bit more room. Last week, I slept on the couch while the three of them piled into one bed, which was a bit much even for three guys whose combined age is less than 60.
In the morning, Quentin used his combined cell phone/mp3 player to play us his new favorite song – Ridin’ Dirty by Chamillionaire – roughly 4,200 times. Now if you haven’t heard this particular melodic masterpiece – and I count at least my parents among those readers who have not – it’s important to note that this may well be the worst rap song to attain even a modicum of popularity. Its inane lyrics, which deal with operating a motor vehicle while intoxicated, in possession of narcotics or firearms, or under any other circumstance that would warrant one’s arrest, were therefore stuck in my head for the rest of the day, along with Quentin’s barely intelligible efforts to sing along. It went something like this:
“Zey see me row-leen… Zey Haiti…. (mumbles a few words in French) cash me rye undurree!!!”
Painful. Just painful.
I grabbed a croissant and a pain au chocolat for breakfast, reasoning that I’m running out of opportunities to do so given the relative mediocrity of Chicago patisseries. As we drove up the hill to Bois-Guillaume, I realized that I will only do so one more time in my life: in two weeks when I play my last games in France.
Marseilles did finally show up, and proceeded to take a 45-minute batting practice, although it was more due to general disorganization than a desire to big-league the home team. When we exchanged the lineups at the beginning of the game, I asked what their nickname, the “Meds” meant.
“It’s an abbreviation of the Mediterraneans, because we’re next to the sea.” Their coach responded.
“Ah, like the Metropolitans of New York,” I replied as he nodded. “Ah, that’s clever. I like it.” I think I was just happy I had finally understood a French joke.
Continued Tomorrow!