UNDERGRADUATE PAGE
For Love and Country
By MICHAEL GASSMAN (University College, London) E were London University A.F.C. bound for Nimes, capital of Provence, but when we arrived our identity was confused. The processes of journalism had trans- muted us into an England B " or " C " side. " London University," we read aghast, was " en quelque sorte une Academie de-Football.' Most of us, we were interested to read, would, soon be appearing in Cup Finals at Wembley among the Arsenal " cannoniers." Even the most ambitious among us felt that this was a generous estimate of our modest abilities.
This was all very worrying. But being celebrities, we found, makes a fascinating change from being students. The advan- tages for the gourmet need no emphasising, and it brings sights and experiences unknown to the mere tourist. The first evening, for example, we were the privileged spectators of a specially organised exhibition of traditional Provençal dancing. The girls looked enchanting. Their long peasant skirts swished to the music. Their black blouses and the white mantillas worn over them were of deliCately-worked lace. Each boy was dressed in a white shirt and trousers, with a red sash at the waist. The " band " consisted of four men, also in white, with sporting felt hats. In one hand they held the flute they played, while with the other they tapped out the rhythm on What looked like elongated tom-toms. They danced gracefully the intricate steps of the farandole. Their leader was' an old man with a puckish, beaming face, who seemed to possess the accumulated energy of all his forefathers. The spectacle was ended by a Scottish sword-dance, ingeniously interwoven into the pattern of the local dancing. This was contrived in our honour. We didn't spoil it by revealing that the northernmost nick-name we could muster was " Geordie."
The elegance of Provençal dancing was not the only revela- tion that evening. M. Pibarrot, the popular trainer of the French national eleven, was present. Between dances he explained to me the French attitude to football. I knew that the French sensibly treated love and cooking as an art. But I blinked when he averred that they treated football also as an- art. The football, he explained, must fit the character. True Frenchmen would not submit to the indignity of playing to a set pattern. M. Pibarrot would not have his winger, say, invariably race to the corner-flag and centre the ball. Instead, he should provide a scintillating dribble to the far post, beating as many men as necessary to arrive on target, and then slip the ball to the inside-forward running through to have a shot. M. Pibarrot spoke with all the enthusiasm of the expert. To me this new vision of football was like going to Piccadilly and finding Nelson's Column there.
The bull-ring is the focus of Nimes. It is, in fact, an ex- cellently preserved Roman amphitheatre. The season had not started during our stay, but as privileged visitors we were not to be denied a glimpse of a bull-fight--of a kind. One morn- ing our guide led us to a barely-furnished room above a café. Three of the walls were covered with photographs of bull-fights. Our gtiide whispered that this was the local " bull-club." We sipped our drinks. The President of the Club, an ascetic- looking man, rose, and, in a voice shaking with emotion, praised British valour in war, Mr. Churchill, the Atlantic Pact and football. Then came the shock. ne addressed himself directly to some Pressmen in attendance. He spoke more sharply. Bull-fighting, he barked, was becoming commercia- lised. The Pressmen looked as if they had heard it before. They probably had. Their expressions did not change.
We, however, looked suitably impressed. How now the romantic images of blood and sand in glorious Technicolor, on which we had been nurtured ? I noticed the close proximity of vengeful horns to fleeing posteriors shown in the photo- graphs. It seemed to me that any bull-fighter swapping romance for insurance against an early exit from his career knew what he was doing. We went on to a luncheon reception. Ham, steak, chicken, red and white wine and champagne followed m luxurious procession. I wondered what some of the old bull-fighters would be having. But all this was in the future as we arrived at the stadium at Nimes where we were to play. It was three o'clock and hot. The British and French flags hung lifeless on their poles. Five thousand people, off from work to watch us perform, were already roaring at a " curtain-raiser " game. We won- dered apprehensively if any local traditions had been carried over from the bull-ring to the football-pitch. We were soon lined up on the pitch. We received full international treat- ment. The national anthems were played. As a compliment the " Queen " was played at twice the pace of the " Marseillaise." We were presented to local political dignitaries, and the regional army commander.
The French kicked off. Their outside-right ran on to a pass, dribbled to the far post and shot into the net. It was not till the evening that we had that little chat with M. Pibarrot. At least I then had the consolation of knowing that the winger had made a mistake. He should have passed. Or perhaps scoring was even more artistic. Anyway tile crowd were delighted, and howled for a repeat performance. The outside-right generously obliged. The crowd were now quite delirious, and yelled for their men to extract more gloire from this delightfully unexpected situation. Listening to the roar of the mob, I understood a little more about the French Revolution.
A small contingent of British students studying locally had meanwhile been cheering us on. They now brandished a Union Jack high and defiant in the air, to the wild excitement of the spectators behind. The girls in the party had also been practising their wiles in teaching their French boy-friends to shout, " Two—four—six—eight—who—do—we--appre- ciate." This is the gentlemanly British answer to the ferocious chants favoured by Continental sportsmen. For love and for country, both compelling motives, they now shouted in concert. The familiar exhortations sounded to our grateful ears as the relief column must have sounded to the Mafeking defenders. We now swept the ball from man to man, more boldly, more accurately; while the artistry of the French play became con- fused as the lines of a bad futuristic drawing. We penned them into their penalty area, pressed harder and scored.. The flag rose higher. We scored again. The flag waved more imperiously, impeding the view of more people. French voices. English voices, hoarse voices, shouted for more. But there were to be no more goals. Match nul. A fair result._ We were relieved at our recovery; the French delighted at holding the football academicians. That evening the pastis flowed. It burned the throat, but oiled the tongue. In the middle of the proceedings I recollect a voice whispering in my ear, " 'Oo weel win ze Cup zis year ? " " Stanley " I said. " Stanley- will win the Cup. He's duo for his medal."
I remember a huge grin. " Mat-yews. Good ! I would like." If Matthews. the supreme artist, does pull it off in May, the Continent for sure will be one big delighted grin.
Previous page
