At some point somebody finally fucking scored in the Eurocup soccer finals and France lost. It went on for eleven days until everybody was so fucking tired that the one dude who paced his cocaine well waltzed into the opponents goal with the ball and promptly collapsed and died.
It’s the beautiful game because every shitty sport needs a sweet euphemism. The wives are the encapsulated and complete allure of the sport. No athletic endeavor features hotter ladies on the sidelines in their husband’s jerseys. It’s a way to be a winner even if you’re French.