By Gil Dorowicz
Listen, we’re the City of Champions. We know what it takes, what they’re made of. We can smell ’em from a mile away—the sweat, the tears, maybe with a whiff of fried ham on the side. Yinz don’t win on an empty stomach, my old man always told me.
We’ve got a championship team playing right on the Mon—you know, them, uh, whatchamacallits, the Riverhounds! That’s them. They kicked some ass last year and won the Super Kick Cup or whatever they call it.
Point being is this: I saw Sportscenter today call this Paris team the ‘champions’ of soccer. Far’s I’m concerned, they ain’t no goddamn ‘champion’ until they show they can handle a beatdown from our local Riverhounds.
What’s the French ever won? Nothing. We had to bail them out in two World Wars and considering we’re Steel Town, USA, we basically did it ourselves. French fries? Never heard of them; we eat freedom fries with our Heinz.
I mean, come on, is it any surprise Mario Lemieux had to leave French Canada to win some Cups here in the ‘Burgh?
Yeah, you might have beaten some jags from England. Big whoop. So did we about 250 years ago. They’re still reeling so hard, they don’t even got an NFL team yet. If you jags really think you’re the best, then name a time and place, and fork up like $100 million to help organize the whole thing, and we’ll see you there. And even if you do pull off the upset, we’ll still whoop your ass this October after we put the hurt on the Saints.
That, uh, is how sports work in Europe, right?
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