First tango in Paris with Serge

SO there I am, strolling through Paris a couple of evenings ago, having collected my accreditation — a slight steam rising from my person, as happens with the well-fleshed Irish male in any continental city — when a sign catches my eye: mojitos available at a swanky Cuban-themed bar on Rue Tilsitt.

The bouncers eye me, and I eye the bouncers, and they manage to stifle their smiles as I approach, as clearly a faded t-shirt with sweat-stains growing from the armpits is not what the well-dressed Frenchman is wearing these days, but then we’re all distracted. Hopping out of a car nearby, gearbag slung over the shoulder, is the unmistakable Serge Betsen of Biarritz and France.

Professional resolve gone, the bouncers descend on Serge with many a “bonne chance” and a backslap. To my eternal regret, I pass up my chance to get inside for the fable mojito and amble along behind them, sticking out a hand and throwing out a “bonne chance” or two myself.

It happened, I swear it (why else would I confess to a weakness for mojitos?). As an indication of the French commitment in the World Cup, of course, you could take it as either expressing outright commitment or a passing flirtation.

The surface indicators are good. All the way in from Charles De Gaulle Airport there are huge billboards and vast posters, marching up the Champs Elysee are banners of welcome and across from the Arc de Triomphe itself one building is draped in a seven-story poster featuring players lurching hither and yon for a hard-to-detect ball.

Advertising agencies certainly seem to have unveiled the French team as the new standard-bearers; certainly anyone glancing up at the Galeries Lafayette to see the vast image of Raphael Ibanez looming over them, clad in just a swimsuit, will be hard pressed to erase that from the memory. Metro stations are wall-to-ceiling in rugby murals. Even the museums are hosting exhibitions and evenings dedicated to the game.

And beyond that?

IN a taxi on Wednesday evening, the radio eventually flipped to the sports news. I asked the driver if he was interested in rugby.

“Eh bien . . .” said the chap, with a shrug of indifference that would make a New York cabbie look like a workaholic Samaritan.

Ahead of the tournament opener, debate in France seems to be focused, adroitly enough, on the legacy of the tournament. The French know what it’s like to win a World Cup, of course, and on home soil as well. What’s interesting, to judge by the debates in the French media, is that nobody is losing the run of themselves to herald a new dawn when rugby overtakes football in the affections of the nation — not when there are 2 million registered footballers compared to 250,000 registered rugby players.

The real goal, according to some informed observers, is to see how the nation reacts if the French get to a semi-final or final, and to judge television viewing figures as a measure of interest among non-traditional fans. The magic figure of 76% viewership, achieved when France played Italy in last year’s World Cup final in football, is being taken as the yardstick, with anything approaching that percentage sure to be accepted as a huge success.

Fabien Pelous and company certainly have the footballers’ support: World Cup hero Bixente Lixaraxu, from the rugby stronghold of the Basque country, has been loud in his praise, while L’Equipe this week carried a picture of Zinedine Zidane being hoisted to catch a rugby ball in a line-out. Frankly, had Marco Materazzi seen that photo, and the way the Z-man’s shorts bunch rather unfortunately, he wouldn’t have resorted to insulting the Frenchman’s sister.

AS I check into the hotel, the clerk looks closer at the booking on the screen in front of him.

“Journaliste! You like rugby?”

“I do.”

“Good news for you. The Samoan team are on your floor.”

And you know the way you suddenly notice something? Yes, in fact there does seem to be quite a number of vast Polynesian gentleman lolling around the lobby. And in fact, heading up to my room, I share the lift with one of them.

“So . . . when’s your first game?” I ask.

“Sunday,” says the big man with what appear to be a couple of grapefruit sewn under each t-shirt sleeve.

His voice is so quiet I have to strain to catch the word.

Then again, I doubt anyone has ever told the chap to speak up or repeat himself ever. As we hit the sixth floor, I try another question.

“Getting boring, just hanging around the hotel?”

I hop out. My pal hops out and the lift rises a few gentle inches to become flush with the floor level.

“A bit. But we’re busy. Look.”

And there, pinned up between the lifts, is the Manu Samoa schedule. Having heard so much about professional preparation and training camps, there’s something endearing about having your plans for the week stuck up on the wall of the hotel (they breakfast early, for what it’s worth).

The French have been paying due attention to tonight’s opponents, the Argentineans, all week, but there’s no doubt what the cloud is on everyone’s horizon (supply your own painful pun working around long white, all black, etc). Yesterday’s L’Equipe had a simple headline: La peur du noir, the fear of the black, over a picture of the All Blacks.

New Zealand are casting quite the shadow here (the French press were agog at a photograph of Dan Carter at training with an eyepatch, for instance, trying to figure out what that means), and Ireland don’t seem to figure in many French minds.

So much the better, says you; if France are focusing on a possible match-up with the All Blacks then maybe they aren’t concentrating on Les Verts.

At least, that’s what I said to Serge the other night.

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