He did seem to be feeling “prretty good,” as did his 15,000 or so countrymen, most of them also wearing their kilts. At that moment, half an hour before the France-Scotland Euro qualifier, the majority of them were still outside the stadium, happily draining the dregs from their bottles and flasks before coming through the gates and into the alcohol-free stade. My new friend with the hot dog must have run out early.

Before tonight I’d considered myself an anomaly because of my desire to travel to a foreign country (from Seattle to Paris, in my case) to see a football game. Now it appeared that I was among the majority. Alas, the rest of them were rooting for the other side; as a foreign France fan I was apparently alone. These were fans of the Scotland team, and they were everywhere.

I’d seen these men in their kilts around town in the four days I’d been in Paris, but I’d assumed they were there for the Rugby World Cup, going on the same week. Why would anyone (aside from me, of course) travel across national borders to see a football team? Particularly one that was destined to lose?

Because Scotland would lose. Of course they would. France, the World Cup runners up in 2006, had lost only a handful of games since World Cup qualifying. Scotland hadn’t even made it as far as World Cup. Their previous victory over France, in October of 2006 in Glasgow, had been an anomaly. A never-to-be-repeated miracle. And now they were here to love their team through the opposite of that accomplishment.

The first fan I chatted with, on the night before the match, had brought his eleven-year-old son from Scotland to see the game. “It’s his first away match,” he confided proudly. “I wanted him to see what it was like.”

And what was it like? Well, from my perspective it was polite yet fun-loving men in kilts living for several days fueled by massive quantities of alcohol and a passion for their team which surpassed all reason.

Since I’d traveled 5,000 miles to see this game myself, though, I can’t exactly point fingers when it comes to that whole “surpassing all reason” thing. Also, in the interest of honesty and full disclosure, I have to say that not every Scottish fan was a) male, or b) drinking. But those who weren’t were kind of boring and normal, so this essay is not about them.

But I digress.

When I walked toward Parc des Princes two hours before the match, Scottish fans were wall-to-wall in the neighborhood around the stadium, guzzling beer and stronger drinks as they braced themselves for the game. I myself went early because I wanted to spend as much time as possible viewing everything that was going on before the match.

And what was going on? Well, to give you a snapshot, let’s take a look at the restroom situation.

To find the restrooms in my section of the stadium required locating a steep concrete staircase which led down to a concrete landing. On this landing the universal male/female signs — which pointed down toward additional staircases — were posted at well above eye-level. Finding these signs was difficult even for those of us who were sober. For the Scotsmen who weren’t, it was a mind-boggling challenge. Each time I headed in or out I would find several of them standing there, befuddled, staring from walls to stairs and back again. At one point I took pity on a lost soul and pointed him in the direction of the men’s room. He rewarded me with a beatific smile of gratitude before heading down the stairs, clutching the railing with both hands.

There apparently were not enough Toilet Traffic Directors, though, because I visited the ladies room twice and discovered that most of the toilet seats were up on both occasions. One would think that the absence of urinals in a ladies room might have been a tipoff that this wasn’t the right place, but apparently not. Perhaps they just figured it was a French thing.

Yet given the amount of alcohol that had been consumed and the passions that football can inspire, I found the group to be, on the whole, incredibly polite and well-behaved.

And then the game began.

If I’d walked into the match not knowing where it was being played, I would have assumed it was a Scotland home game. The Scottish fans were louder and more boisterous, and they weren’t about blending in. The ubiquitous kilts and Scottish banners were a statement to the world that these were Scottish fans, and their entire existence that evening revolved around supporting their team.

During the game France played well, as always, controlling the ball for long stretches while executing perfect pass after perfect pass. Scotland played strong defense, though, and by the end of the first half France’s inability to score was becoming worrisome. My French guys did an excellent job of driving the ball up the wings, but time after time their crosses let them down, usually sailing ten feet past the goal and directly to a Scotland defender.

By the second half I was feeling the same painful sense of inevitability that had accompanied the first Scotland qualifier the previous October. For some reason a France victory was, again, not meant to be. Somehow I was not surprised when the Scotland team, perhaps fueled by the crowd’s energy and alcohol fumes, gave James McFadden service for that one perfect and unstoppable strike. The ball hit the back of the net and the stadium erupted.

It was the only goal of the game. Final score, France 0-1 Scotland.

France fans slipped out immediately after the final whistle. The Scotland fans, however… Well, they needed to savor this for awhile. For ten or fifteen minutes after the game they stayed in the stands, singing and chanting their love for and pride in their team. I may not have shared the sentiment, but I understood it. I’d felt the same thing as my Seattle Sounders, a USL team (division below the US MLS) had demolished two MLS sides in a row in the US Open Cup — first Chivas USA, 3-1, then the Colorado Rapids, 5-0. I understood the joy and shock and amazement you feel as your beloved David manages, against all odds, to take out a feared and powerful Goliath.

Eventually the fans began to file out, and I joined them in their parade up the local street, which had been closed to traffic for the occasion. I walked up the street among thousands of Scots, all of whom were still in shock at what they’d witnessed. Several of them pulled out their bagpipes and drums along the way. The procession was euphoric yet surprisingly calm.

When I got back to my hotel I found two young Scotsmen sitting on the front step, languidly waving their Scottish flags for no audience but themselves. I stopped to chat for a bit, enjoying a full English conversation for the first time in several days, and we talked about the experience of the game — my disappointment, their awe-struck amazement.

“We beat France,” one said, reverently.

“Twice!” his friend chimed in.

It was hard for me to be upset that night, despite the fact that my beloved France team had somehow dropped from first to third place in their qualifying group, a performance that could easily keep them from advancing to the Euro 2008 championships next summer.

I knew this, in my head, and it was painful.

Yet in my heart I kept seeing kilts, and hearing bagpipes, and remembering those two flags, reverently waving in the dark for an audience of two.

Somehow it’s hard to feel grief in the face of so much joy.

The cantina is tiny, seating perhaps forty people, and is located along the back wall of the food court in a suburban shopping mall. On this night it is packed, and Spanish is the universal language. I am one of two females there, and the only gringa. I sit alone and ignore the curious stares and sidelong glances as I nibble at beans and rice and adequate chile verde and sip on a Corona. My focus, like everybody else’s, is on the flat-screen TV on the wall above the bar. The commentary coming from the speakers is in Spanish, which I don’t speak. It doesn’t matter, because I can’t hear it anyway.

We are watching a soccer game, a Gold Cup semi-final, Mexico vs. Guadaloupe. I am here because it was the only place I could find showing the game. I am the only person rooting for Guadaloupe. I root silently, to myself, but inside I am filled with support for this underdog French territory that waves the French flag and plays the Marseillaise — the French national anthem — before its games.

Why am I here? you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you: I blame my great-grandmother and Zinedine Zidane.

I am one-eighth French — my mother’s father’s mother came from France — and seven-eights Anglo-Saxon-Celt. When I was younger it was the French portion of myself that I embraced. I didn’t want my ancestors to be fair-haired, fair-skinned English speakers. I wanted interest. I wanted drama. I wanted to be French. So despite the fact that I myself was fair-haired, fair-skinned and English speaking, I wholeheartedly embraced the French part of myself. This led to five years of French classes and a few other quirks, such as the ability to tell a Degas from a Cézanne, a Monet from a Seurat, and the non-French impressionists (poseurs!!) from the real thing.

Along the way and completely separately, my passion for soccer was slowly developing. I kicked the ball around occasionally in college gym classes, completely oblivious to things like tactics and technical skills. I watched soccer on the rare occasions when it happened to be on TV. Later I would sign up for actual classes, and I started playing (badly but with passionate gusto) in a Women’s Indoor C league (because there was no D, E, F or Z league.) And I became that cliche of cliches, a soccer mom, watching as my son learned about corner kicks and goal kicks and one-touch passes and give-and-goes. The first time he cleared the ball with a perfect slide tackle, I thought my heart would explode with pride.

But for the longest time my heart was unattached. My love of soccer was free-roaming and equal opportunity. I learned that the continental European style of play, with its perfect passing and orientation towards long stretches of possession rather than long, hopeful blasts down the field — matched the game that was in my heart, but it didn’t matter to me who played it.

And then I saw Zidane play. Zidane, who was French. Zidane, who eventually came out of international retirement to lead France to the 2006 World Cup Final. (And we’re going to ignore that little headbutt thing that took him out of it.) When I saw him play, with his amazing skills and his personal presence and his way of controlling an entire field … Well, that was that. It was all over.

I credit (or blame) Zidane for the internal collision that led to a permanent, inseparable fusion of my previously unconnected passions. My French language skills, which had been languishing for years, were suddenly honed and sharpened on French soccer articles and videos. I can tell you, without stopping to think, the lineups for every France National Team game from the past year. I can debate the merits of bringing various former players back to the team. (And I can tell you which former players have been romantically linked by rumors to the coach’s much-younger significant other, thereby perhaps leading to their being former members of the team.) And this passion has outlasted Zidane, who retired last year.

Tiny Guadaloupe lost the game that night after putting up a valiant fight. Their goalkeeper made save after save after save, but eventually there was that one perfect strike, just out of his reach, that he could not stop — a long, high, arcing blast into the upper-right corner of the net. I smiled as the bar erupted with joy. This wasn’t my actual France team, after all, and David can take down only so many Goliaths. My French boys from Guadaloupe left the tournament with heads held high, content in the knowledge that for one brief period of time they’d grabbed the world’s attention.

I tracked down my husband and younger son in another area of the mall. Neither is a soccer fan, but they’re happy to accompany me on my quests. My husband, cheerful enabler of my addiction, drove us home.

Yes, it’s an unusual obsession, particularly for an American woman. But it’s beyond my control, and it makes me happy, and nobody gets hurt.

Can you say the same about your addiction?

Photo credits (all from Flickr): (1) Zim182; (2) Yemeni; (3) Hector Milla