Of course it is: Joel Embiid vs. France. It had to be.
Clearly upset that America has stuck them with Snoop Dogg in the stands instead of Taylor Swift and denied them the opportunity to drool over Caitlin Clark, French basketball fans have vented their frustration on their favorite Cameroonian for the past two weeks.
And now they’ve poked the indomitable lion.
The French have tried everything in an effort to deny Team USA its seemingly inevitable gold medal.
It all started at the welcoming party, when the Americans got equally seasick from the Seine’s tides and sniffles from the Paris rain.
They’ve confused them with their language, their meters, and their money; they’ve congested them with their smoke and their perfumes.
They’ve jacked up prices with a refundable sales tax—yeah, like LeBron is going to wait in line at the airport to redeem that—and failed to mention that generous tips left on credit cards go straight to the boss, lining the pockets of billionaires Bernard Arnault (aka Louis Vuitton) and the Wertheimers (Chanel Nos. 1 and 2).
They’ve made it hard to walk on their uneven pavement, and it’s against the law to ride a scooter over it.
They’ve showered them with croissants in the morning, fries at halftime, and souffles at night. All in such tiny portions, even Deuce Tatum has lost weight.
They’ve even bubbled their water.
They’ve made dressing in sweats distasteful and toting Michael Kors handbags embarrassing.
They’ve promised them the sights and instead stuck them with Lille, a suburb of… Belgium.
(Note to Team France: Enjoy Fairbanks in 2028.)
They’ve scheduled their games in the middle of the (American) night, kept the Eiffel Cell Tower fully powered during the (American) day, and even violated the sanctum of the arena by sticking them with European basketballs, referees and rules.
Every time they hear that annoying horn, it reminds them of Munich in 1972. And every time they see that triangle mascot, it sends the subliminal message that you ain’t Michael Jordan and his Dream Team.
There is no Lightning Lane at Disneyland Paris, some of the Louvre’s art isn’t child-friendly, and don’t you dare call one of Stephen Curry’s 3-pointers an “arc de triomphe.”
You just have to hope that the butchering of American names into “Evin,” “Ed Ards” and “Boo-er” – the French don’t believe in the letters K and W—will inspire the best from Team USA.
The simple sight of three French stars should help stir their pot of gold.
France is led by Rudy Gobert, the only guy in NBA history who everyone rooted against as he was being choked by Draymond Green.
Then there’s Nicolas Batum, who claimed “a lot of people thanked me” after his Roberto Duran-like groin shot on Spain’s Juan Carlos Navarro in the quarterfinals. Guessing Green was one of them.
And Victor Wembanyama. The Caitlin Clark of Europe. The beanpole most Americans would love to dunk on… then pick up the pieces and reassemble, because, like Clark and Creme Brulee, the kid really is likable.
In the end, don’t be surprised if the French pull the ultimate stunt in an attempt to maximize their chances of the greatest basketball upset of all time.
Yes, they could stoop to the level of terrorizing Team USA—like they did all Americans watching the Opening Ceremonies on TV—by handing out supersized cut-outs of Marie-Antoinette’s detached head to patriotically display in the background when Embiid and his adopted mates shoot free throws.
Alas, it probably won’t matter. It’ll be the Americans sipping—fittingly—Dom Perignon as the red, white and blue of the United States, not France, is raised highest at the medal ceremony.
Ooh la la.
