Taxi Cab Confessions & World Cup Predictions

Like any sports fan I get a bit sick and tired of pundits. Whether it’s the old bellwether rags like Bob Costas and his incessant canned comments; or the uninformed musings of “experts” like former soccer man Alexi Lalas, I don’t think the famous pundits necessarily know more than you or I about anything.




As a city dweller, part of my life and my transit scheme is taxi cabs. The drivers come from all over the world and varied backgrounds, so I love to talk with them. And if I can get them to talk sports, then the ride is well worth more than my cab fare.

Since I talk to the cabbies, the topic of World Cup soccer came up, admittedly by my prodding. So, what better way to talk World Cup soccer than to gather the predictions of your favorite local cabbies?

Here’s a sample of what I found, recalling the best I can. Like your favorite players, the players names and cab team affiliation are equally important to the roster. But don’t ask me for shirt numbers.


 Geoffrey, from Ghana. Yellow Cab.
When I asked Geoffrey where he was from, I got the usual answer from a West African. “Africa” he said. “Yeah but where?” I said. “West Africa…Ghana”. This guy should have been driving a semi, because he was too tall even for the front seat.

Being from Ghana, Geoffrey knew as well as I did that Ghana has a good team. Facing Germany, Australia and Serbia, he picked Ghana to advance from their bracket with a little effort.

Geoffrey pointed out that Ghana’s BlackStars have some world class players like Michael Essien and Stephen Appiah, but that much their strength comes from team unity, discipline and a fervent work ethic on the pitch. Other African teams, he says, have exciting goal scorers but aren’t well rounded, and for this reason rarely make a major impact.

Unfortunately, within a week from my ride with Geoffrey, Ghana’s captain and midfield dominator, Essien, had been ruled too injured to participate. If Ghana does head to the 2nd round, the knockout stage, they’ll likely play England, the country where Essien plays for Chelsea FC. Again, they’ll likely make it on grit and work ethic. Geoffrey picked Brazil to win it all, based on their talent, speed, and intangible qualities. Probably a safe bet.

Since I couldn’t remember, I asked him who Ghana would play first. He tapped his Bluetooth, asking a friend who he apparently had on the phone the whole ride, who answered.
Ghana vs. Serbia, June 13 @ 9:30 EST. You heard it here first.

 Milos, from Serbia. Flash Cab.
Milos from Serbia, whose first name and the fact that he’s driving a Chicago cab seem counter to him being Serbian, is like many Eastern European fans that follows Germany’s Bundesliga. We got in a conversation about Argentina and their 22 year old dynamo Leo Messi. Messi is considered the world’s best player and if you’ve seen him play you’d tend not to disagree. Like many fans of the German game, Milos claims that only big, strong teams, like the Germans can go the distance. Milos, also a tall cabbie, states that teams of “little men” can score goals but never venture to win it all, like Germany and Holland can.

(Side note: Holland has won the World Cup as many times as Mongolia...zero times)

At 5 foot 7, I’m certain Messi didn’t think about his height when he scored 5 goals in 20 minutes against London’s Arsenal FC this spring. And while Germany is a decent pick, probably odds at 8 to 1, Milos’ rationale may not work. And if he’s writing off Argentina, he’d best stay in his cab.



 Reza, from Iran. Checker Cab.
I met Reza a while ago, and he’s one of my most memorable and least favorite cabbies. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Are you from Iran?’ I asked him, and he replied “How did you know?”

Well, your name is Reza. That’s like being an Englishman named Simon or Nigel. Like a lot of Chicago cabbies he’s got a doctorate, his in Engineering.

If they kicked around personal baggage instead of a ball, this cabbie would’ve beat Brazil by himself.

Anyhow, we talked about Iranian football, which has a good program and nutty die hard fans that belie the Islamic Revolution. Iran also has been in the last two World Cups, one time thrashing the US, but didn’t make it this time around. And this cabbie is a complainer, so there’s a conspiracy behind it.

He complains about hegemony of the West and the Saudis' oil money, implying that this is why Iran didn’t make it to the Cup. Then he goes on about how much he doesn’t really like the US and how, thanks to American Law, his ex-wife took him to the cleaners. Lots of complaining equals a small tip.

I painfully stepped out of the cab slowly having I squeezed him for his prediction: France. If the World Cup kicked around personal baggage instead of a leather ball, this cabbie would have beat Brazil by himself.

 Muhseen, from Pakistan. independent cabbie.
Muhseen seemed to know quite a bit about soccer, and yet reminded me of all the American pinheads who you’ll hear reminding you that “soccer will never make it in the US.” Not that he was dissing the game. He just didn’t seem think it was a big deal.

Muhseen, a sort of Pakistani B-boy, equipped with hip-hop on the radio, star-and-crescent bling everywhere, and other Pakistan symbols all over his cab seemed to want to talk cricket, which I know little about.

He told me more than I needed to know about the paddle game, probably excited about the Cricket World Cup which comes up next. He also mentioned field hockey, another one of Pakistan’s sporting repertoires. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in the US, field hockey is a women’s sport.

Muhseen’s prediction: Brazil.


 Francois, from Haiti. American United Cab and
unnamed sports fan, no cab affiliation.

When I was about to jump in a different cab on a stunning sunny day in May, the driver was leaning against his cab soaking up the breeze while talking with another dowdy, dusty and older American man with a White Sox cap. Each seemed to know his sport stuff. They were talking about Spain, and I figured it must be World Cup talk.

Francois the cabbie was versed on Spanish soccer pretty well too, talking about Messi but also FC Barcelona’s other home grown Spanish lords, Xavi (pron “Chah- bee”) and Iniesta. This Spanish duo is constructed of the two of the best players in the world on the same club team. They work their passing, style of play and rhythm much like that of the Jordan and Pippen of 1990s Chicago Bulls, if you know what I mean.

Many think that Spain will let these two players, who dominate together in tandem at Barça, run the show. If they do, then Spain is your team and a sensible prediction to win the World Cup. Francois and his passerby pal took Spain to win the World Cup, basing their judgments on raw talent alone. With these two men, and their logic, I agree....I pick Spain to win their first World Cup trophy.

I have to admit that my conversations with Chicago’s cabbies were, as always, fun and fulfilling. It was pretty obvious that I didn’t get a balanced sample of prospects’ opinions, or any scientific data. The again, there are only so many days I can take a cab, and it doesn’t make their predictions wrong.

Four years ago the “experts” as always had their take. too.

Italian soccer was in turmoil and under criminal investigation, so Italy wouldn’t make it. France was too old and would choke again. USA Today picked England, the Czech Republic was a top team, while Germany had the benefit of the Twelfth Man, since they would be playing in front of their home crowd. Yet Brazil was thought to be unbeatable.

One month of soccer told the unpredictable true story. The Czechs choked, and the US won zero matches. England phoned it in lost on penalties. Brazil and Germany got left in the semifinals.

And then, Zidane, the greatest player since Maradona and Pelé, head butted the Dennis Rodman of Italian football in front of 400 million TV viewers. Twenty minutes later, in the end, Italy held it together long enough to win the World Cup.

So one thing comes to mind. You could pick up every magazine and read their predictions. Or you could sit at home and look it up for free on the internet. But your best bet is to jump in a taxi, head to Fadó, The Globe or another local pub, and talk to your cabbie on the way. If you like the conversation, tip him or her like you would your bartender.

After all, you’d enjoy the ride, and get the best value for your buck.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. He’s worth his weight in conversation and cab fare.

Written words © 2010.

Pics kindly borrowed from bluecab.com and subsidesports.com

Attitude: Breakfast of Champions

I used to patronize a little greasy spoon of a diner back when I was single. Despite the breakfast-served-all-day stereotype of it all, it was clean and was the kind of place known for its Vegas themed dishes like Three Aces and Deuces Wild, hobos and chicken fried steak, or country fried steak as they call it now.

Like most guys, especially single ones, I always loved breakfast food, but that wasn’t the only reason I went there. The other was Arlene, my favorite waitress. (Editor’s note: Don’t sweat it, my wife knows this story.)

Arlene was blonde and taller than me (but then, who isn’t?). She had a confident movie star look, without being gorgeous. Sort of a Tatum O’Neal look alike, but a pre-drug bust Tatum O’Neal, she was pretty and a bit snarky with occasional diffidence that might lead other patrons to think her “nothing special”. And maybe so, but there was something that made up for any hint of averageness. To me, what made her stand out was that she was chock full of attitude, and that’s probably what I liked best. Sure she’s a waitress at a diner, but she not gonna take crap from anybody, especially not you.

The first time in my life that I knew an Arlene was around age 7 or 8 when I had a babysitter named Arlene. Arlene the babysitter had a pudgy, snooty and spoiled daughter named Arlene (or Arlene Junior as I called her), and Big Arlene was for sure a big Arlene as you’d picture her. She was stocky with cheaply dyed red hair and always wearing long shorts or Capri pants or whatever was available back then to the unfashionable house women of 1979.

When we were bad sometimes she used to talk about the troll in her basement eating us. Other times, during nap time Arlene would play a recording of her fat plumber husband gurgling and growling while claiming to be the troll. The whole family was a bunch of trolls, actually.

So, yeah, I’ve got negative associations with the name Arlene, which on its own is not a pretty girl’s name. It is about equal to Ruth and slightly more alluring than Margaret or Lois. Like many a working class waitress, her name for me was “hun” or “sweetie” and she was always chewing gum while talking.

But besting the stereotype about her kind, and besting my fears about names, Arlene had little stylish ticks that just worked and did make her special. She was always pleasant to me while keeping other bozos at the diner in line if they got fresh. But really, it was the attitude that sold me. Maybe I was intrigued.

Like waitresses, people of other professions get thrown into a common box. Accountants, insurance sales people, realtors, construction workers, beauticians all get typecast in our society. Athletes are no different.

Over the last half century the stereotype, or archetype maybe, of the professional athlete has gradually moved from the true blue talisman of Ronald Reagan’s “Gipper” to dumb jock, and then onto the loud mouth baller in a Ferrari dropping hundred dollar bills like loose change. The pro athlete, in America's mind, has has gone from humble the Jimmy Stewart type to rabble-rouser.

Yet beyond stereotypes the most intriguing professionals are defined not only by their touchdowns, home runs, points scored or other statistics. They tend to be remembered by how they carry themselves. Furthermore, their style and character often redefines the sport.

Years ago, a good friend of mine referred to Lance Armstrong as “cocky”. I can’t say I’ve ever seen this in Armstrong, but if he is cocky (even a little bit), who cares. I think beating terminal cancer and winning the Tour de France seven times in a row probably affords you the right to strut your stuff and tout your cause. If Armstrong didn’t profoundly affect cycling then I don’t know who did.

In Basketball, Allen Iverson blazed trails for nearly a decade for the Philadelphia 76ers, once leading to the NBA Finals. Referred to as “irresistibly cocky” by one sports lover I know, Iverson, at 6 feet tall, is also the shortest ever player to win the NBA’s MVP award. While his star has faded and his off the court life may pose questions, in his prime Iverson always let his skills and attitude do the talking on hardwoods. Some said he was a thug and wasn’t a team player. I believe Iverson was a team player, though not a perfect one. That said, on the nights he was not in the team spirit or wasn’t getting along with coach Larry Brown, it didn’t hurt that he score 35 points and make all of his free throws to make up for it.

Philly fans, known for their own fervor, had a love/hate relationship both Iverson and another key Sixer, one Charles Barkley. Barkley was an all-star from the start, but often criticized Philadelphia for criticizing him. His physical style of play often led him to stir it up single handedly with other teams like the Detroit Pistons and the especially with their huge tough guy center, Bill Laimbeer.

I remember as a high school kid one Sunday picking up my dad’s Philadelphia Inquirer to find the front page blessed with an image that says it all about Barkley’s early days. The front page showed Barkley from behind, with his name and #34 jersey front and center. The rest showed his fist forward impacting into Laimbeer’s collapsing face. And my parents were worried about what I watched on TV.

Sixers clinch the division and Bill Laimbeer's face too.

Some classic footage can be seen here at http://www.hayag.com/w/f9874868694f490f9280488c154d3383

Barkley once said in a Nike commercial “I am not a role model”. Maybe so, but players like The Round Mound of Rebound make fans of the game pick their sides and stand with them resolutely, while tuning in for more and more games.

Even better yet is one such athlete that comes to mind who never even threw a punch: retired NBA star Charles Oakley. Joining the Chicago Bulls in 1985, Oakley was a 6 foot 9 center-forward who talked a lot and had a lot of attitude. After being traded to the Knicks, Oakley became a centerpiece of that squad and was best known not only for his rebounding but for keeping opposing player in line without ever pushing or throwing a punch. At times he seemed an expert at influencing the game through his trash talk which never came out as trash talk, calling opponents on their trash by labelling them wimps or “pseudo tough guys”.

Sure, Oakley was surrounded by hall of famer Patrick Ewing and other ‘tude purveyors like John Starks and Anthony Mason. Yet his confidence and commanding presence, his undertoned sarcasm and the fact that you couldn’t get into his head while he got to in yours, indeed made him one of the toughest players in the NBA’s 1990s era, while making him one of the most fun to watch.

Some the lessons I learned for from my favorite childhood sports heroes may be much the same as what I pick up from a favorite waitress. And it doesn’t matter if you’re an athlete or you hate sports. Take credit for your best attributes. Maintain control, strut your stuff, and if you’ve got a drive, go with it.

Andy Frye, forced into a vacation thanks to lousy information technology, is back…writing about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter.

Writings © 2010.

Hoarding Numbers

When I turned 38 a few weeks ago, I did the usual sports nut thing and took to trying to identify --in my head—any legendary (or even notable) athletes who wore number 38 on their jersey. There’s not many, but there are a few.

First off, there’s #38 Curt Schilling who pitched for my hometown club the Phillies. More importantly, he pitched for the Red Sox in 2004, helping them win the World Series less than a month before his 38th birthday.

Less famous and more legendary is #38 Leroy “Chucky” Mullins, who played college football for Ole Miss as a star defensive back before getting paralyzed during a game in 1989 against Vanderbilt. During Mullins’ short life, and since his death in 1991, he’s inspired a lot of people.

The there’s the “Z-Man”, the temperamental, once-inspiring Cubs pitcher #38 Carlos Zambrano, who gave up a 3-0 lead on opening day and might have well just thrown for 38 opposing team runs.

Beyond those three, I can’t think of anyone else, so I hope that this roster – a retired pitcher, and paralyzed and deceased football player and a Cubs pitcher being stereotypically Cublike--- doesn’t bode poorly for my next year of life at age 38.

But if I ever get sick this year, I’ll remind myself that it was with a 103 temperature at “The Flu Game” that Michael Jordan almost single-handedly beat the Utah Jazz. In that Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals, Jordan finished with an inspired 38 points.

It is a strange thing that some sports enthusiasts have a savant-like quality of being able to cough up sports-related numbers; whether it is jersey numbers, the score of a game 20 years ago, or a minor batting statistic of a forgotten about player. We always do this with the assumption that it matters to the rest of the non-sports-obsessed world, like anybody cares. Always terrible with numbers, I am one who is able to remember a player’s shirt number like his face or his stats in a way that suggests that I should have been good at Math. Only problem is, I stink at Math and at remembering other things too.

Yet jersey numbers do help. If I was given an address to a Saturday cookout somewhere, at, say 3144 West Irving Park Road, I would –knowing that I can’t handle numbers on their own—translate this to shirt numbers of notable players. I might remember it as Reggie Miller / John Riggins.

That’s #31 for Reggie Miller, who played with the Indiana Pacers; and #44 for John Riggins who punished other NFL teams with his yardage and won a Super Bowl with the Washington Redskins. Sometimes, this practice pains me, because, dammit, I hate the Redskins.

But it’s not just me…there is some significance to it all…this numbers and players business. Almost anytime you see an autograph of a player from any sport it is usually accompanied by a squad number. Beyond that, even bigger deals are made about numbers by players and clubs.

On June 11, the 2010 World Cup will feature an Argentina squad with a number 10 for the first time in 20-some years. Number 10 will be once again worn by Leo Messi, who is currently regarded as the world’s best soccer player. Yet #10 was last worn in the 1980s by the great Maradona, who now coaches Argentina.

For a long time, Argentina wanted, badly, to retire their number 10 in honor of their best-ever player, but FIFA, soccer’s governing body, wouldn’t let them. Then again, retiring numbers is world football isn’t very common.

Soccer’s only shirt number retired in the last two decades, to my knowledge, is that of Marc-Vivien Foé who wore number 23. Foé was an international from Cameroon who played his club career as #23 at Manchester City. Like Chucky Mullins, he had to die to get that honor of having his number retired, having passed from a sudden heart attack on the field –yes, during the game-- at the 2003 Confederations Cup. Not even Hank Gathers got his shirt number retired.

Anyhow, a month later David Beckham subsequently took #23, the unofficial story goes, to honor Foé while switching teams from Manchester United to Real Madrid. Besides, Becks’ old strip at United, #7, was already taken at Real. So in taking #23, Becks not only honored Foé, but took #23 for another reason too. Word has it that Becks took #23 to draw inspiration from another sports hero, one Michael Jordan.

In America, Jordan’s number carries a lot of clout and fanfare. LeBron James, the best basketball player in the world, now and potentially of all time, also wears #23 for the same reason. It’s after Jordan, but maybe also because LeBron is the only player up for the challenge of matching Jordan’s legacy.

Yet, if LeBron ever came to the Chicago Bulls (don’t get your hopes up, people) he would be forced to pick another number since #23 is retired by the club. The Bulls had originally retired Jordan’s shirt number in 1993, but it was resurrected in 1995 when, unannounced and to much fanfare, Jordan ditched the #45 jersey to start a game again as Number 23. Because the Bulls’ #23 was officially retired in the eyes of the NBA, both Jordan and the Bulls were fined to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.

Like His Airness, LeBron, and others, Shaquille O’Neill has worn the same number throughout his career at several teams, number 32. Yet it was as #34 that Shaq won several championships with the Lakers, only because number 32 had been retired in honor of the great Magic Johnson.

One need not be famous to be savant-like and possessive about squad numbers. We’ve all had number 23s on our sports teams as adults and when we were kids. In my generation, most claim it to be like Mike. Although, I have one friend who said his 23 was for someone else; and he would not tell me who, forcing me to figure it out.

Answer: Ryne Sandberg. Not a hard guess, since I’m a Cubs fans and since my pal also has a dog named Prior (after Cubs pitcher Mark Prior). Since then, I have imagined there’s probably some die-hard Oakland A’s fan who has a dog named “Fingers” after Rollie Fingers, the great Hall of Famer pitcher. And why not? Rollie’s number, 34, was retired by two teams, the Milwaukee Brewers and the As, as was his handlebar moustache.

But this ain’t just a guy thing. For all of the sports I’ve played on a coed basis, plenty of women have staked their claim on #23 and #34 too.

One athlete friend of mine has had a lock on number 26 her entire life, and I have a hunch she dresses up her dog as #26, too. As a high school freshman she negotiated the lock on #26 for two sports –field hockey and lacrosse—and probably every intramural flag football game since. Her lifelong obsession, Philadelphia Flyers hockey and their great goal scorer Brian Propp, who wore #26, appears to be what burned this number permanently into her soul.

All in all, we hog our favorite numbers, just like we hog the ball for one reason only. It’s to grab a piece of the skills and good fortune that our favorite players bring to the sport, our team, and maybe, too, for the sake of a little self-inspiration.

And if there’s no Math involved, then hoarding numbers and inspiration is a wonderful thing.


Andy Frye writes a couple times a week about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter.

Writings © 2010.

"Bowling for Comedy in Paris"

‘The following is part of a series called Short Short Sports Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff, quips and things that happened around 1000 words.

“The official French National Past time is wearing a beret while smoking” is a little something I’ve joked before regarding the French. Sports fans think about stuff like national past times, such as Baseball in the US. And we wonder about what else people across the globe –those who don’t have baseball-- do for fun.

Maybe a better question is this: What should we do with ourselves when not in the domain of our own national past time?



The French are as complex we Americans and Brits. But if you’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting France, you know they have a soft spot for American culture whether or not they would admit to it.

The first time I went, in 1990, it was ‘50s this and James Dean that. Elvis was everywhere even amidst tabloid rumors that Elvis was alive and well. So apparently he was alive and well in France all along and probably still is. If only the French had thought to invent the ‘50s diner first, they’d be gazillionaires.

The last time I visited in May '01, the American 1950s was still a fixation in the City of Lights.

Just so you don’t think me a wine-swilling, jet-setting snob –a stereotype affixed to Cubs fans by our brethren on the South Side-- let me point to that this was a guys’ trip. We weren’t in Europe to view the Tintorettos or exchange Rotary club banners. We were there for the fun trip in Europe, that’s all.

I arrived there on the cheapest air tickets, and I couldn’t have cared less where in Europe we had went. Lucky for us, still single, KLM’s flight attendants all looked like models and the six hour flight concluded with a good breakfast and some Mr. Bean videos.

The Sixers were in the playoffs and as usual my mind was on sports, roaming around the city with two friends, Brian, an architect and semi-professional smart ass; and Dugg, a writer who ended up staying in Europe.

The first day was the usual Paris stuff: museums, French palaces of grandeur and Revolution history. We visited Jim Morrison’s grave at Père-Lachaise, and ate lots of fried food with too much dressing. And with the Euro currency in the toilet, we dined like kings but more importantly used our dollars to drink, like drinking alcohol was an Olympic event.

Tourists second, but sport fans first, we stopped in a pub in St. Germain in mid-day to watch soccer, soaking it up with the British expats viewing the FA Cup final. But it didn’t end there.

One drizzling Sunday night we had nothing to do while roaming around the Left Bank, spotting a bowling alley, Le Bowling Mouffetard, named after the street it sat on. So, to avoid getting soaked, we went in to the Mouffetard. There, we bowled to Elvis hits as they do in France.

To this day Brian and I still refer to each other as "moof tard", which indicates either the cultural sophistication we failed to absorb, or just our lack of maturity.

Bowling is one sport that consists of 95 percent predictability, 5 percent who-knows-what. Once the ball drops onto the wood planks you know whether it’s a complete gutter ball or something good. But the final count doesn’t present itself until the ball strikes the pins. Upon impact it could be one pin down, the glory of a strike, or one pin short just to rub it in your face.

In the US, Pro Bowling gets a bad wrap. I can’t for the life of me name the best bowler of all time –the sport’s Michael Jordan or Babe Ruth—and while the game does get its share of TV time and endorsement money, it does seem like Bowling is treated unfairly as if it were a trailer park past time.

Fair enough, most of the game’s “stars” on television are tubby middle aged guys, with greasy hair who forgot to shave. The shirts that pro bowlers wear are a little dorky and the shoes are purely functional and fashionless. Definitely, bowling is an American regular guy’s sport.

That said, Bowling is fun. America regards it fun enough for kids’ birthday parties and Wednesday night leagues throughout one’s adulthood. Maybe like shooting pool, Bowling has its regimented place: it is something for enjoying over a beer, but you don’t read about it in the next day’s paper.

Furthermore, it could be that Bowling is meant to be more fun and less work. After all, have you ever known anyone who has gotten in shape for Bowling? Ever run, stretch, or lift any weights just for Wednesday night?

The worst bowler of the three of us, and possibly the world, I didn’t care much about keeping score, just the having fun part, hitting an occasional spare and many gutterballs. I thought it was weird to be bowling to the oldies, wondering what other weird things could happen.

Right after it had stopped raining and we left to walk a block away up to some plaza where –according to my writer friend-- another masculine regular guy, Ernest Hemingway, had lived and written some masterpieces. In a very un-Hemingway sort of way, a comedy of errors ensued.

Brian, sort of a tough guy, got approached by some old man holding a ferret, who had man boobs, that was trying to bum a smoke off him. Manboobs was annoyingly French; speaking his mother tongue swiftly as if any of us knew what he was saying. He remained persistent, wagging his finger at Brian to reprimand him for being cheap over a cigarette, and Brian, who doesn’t speak French or Ferret got into it with him. Brian played his usual wiseguy game, requesting (in English) that the man who didn’t speak English ask him correctly and politely for a smoke, in English.

Meanwhile, we saw some burly 20-something American guy in a Carhartt barn jacket and a baseball cap wake up next to some other passed out drunks who weren’t American. He must have gotten lost and left behind by the rest of the fraternity, because he seemed confused, and super wasted. Stumbling, stuporing, and leaning forward, the inebriated American with the barn jacket then dropped his pants and did his business right there in the public grass, before stepping in it and walking off toward us.

About two minutes later Manboobs and Barn Jacket walked toward each other, but both in their own little world, didn’t notice each other. Staggering slowly, the two collided in the square, lost their balance and almost went into a table full of tourists eating dinner. What an interesting metaphor for a clash of two cultures.

Both drifted into the darkness, which was probably a good thing. And just like in European Vacation, the Chevy Chase film, some bell started ringing.

We took that as a sign of enough past times and culture learning for the evening. After all, we too were tourists, and with ringing bells we decided it was it was time to get the hell outta there.


Andy Frye writes a couple times a week about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. He’s horrible at bowling on every continent.

Written words © 2010.

Check out Le Bowling Mouffetard at www.bowlingmouffetard.fr | 73 Rue Mouffetard 75005 Paris, France