And that has been
be wacky, bonkers, cuckoo and to go bananas; to yelp, shriek, howl and yowl; to have beer for breakfast; to bounce up and down together so vigorously in the Metro it seems carriages could jump their tracks; to walk around with stuffed cockerels on their heads, with faces painted red, white and blue and in body-hugging skin-tight suits that unfortunately leave nothing to the imagination.
In short, football has again enabled the French to not give a damn, at least in 90-minute bursts. And that has been wondrous. Unbridled joy on French faces that were so etched with pain has been the best legacy of this four-week breath of much-needed fresh air, better than spectacular goals, shots, saves or any of the other on-pitch dramas.
Tomorrow, as I cannot help but do since November, I will walk to the stadium to report on the final, thinking again about the chauffeur who was killed outside after dropping clients off for the friendly match against Germany that France won 2-0, a victory no one celebrated. Although I would much rather not, I will probably puzzle for the umpteenth time about what the suicide bombers were thinking.
But then the clouds will be blown away by the sight of people making merry, something that in November seemed might never happen again. – ANA- AP
Leicester is an international sports columnist for The Associated Press.