French Toast

Inspired by our leaders in Congress (whose cafeteria now calls french fries "freedom fries") and by New Jersey restaurant owner Anthony Tola (who poured his Dom P�rignon down the toilet), Georgia grocer George Lauzon (who stripped his shelves of Evian water), New York City 's Hotel Sofitel (which denuded its doorway of the French flag) and the Fox television network (which kicked Frenchie off American Idol ), I joined the French resistance last week and gave up, in sports, all things Gallic. All things: French Open, Frenchy Fuqua , French Lick ( Indiana ). Tour de France, Bubba Paris , Jason Bere .

Think it's easy? It isn't. It means renouncing Frenchy Bordagaray, the California-born Brooklyn Dodger of the 1930s. Fined $500 during the Depression for spitting on an umpire, an aggrieved Frenchy told reporters, "The penalty is a little more than I expectorated." It means removing French articles and prepositions from all names. So LaPhonso Ellis is now Phonso, and Delino DeShields is Lino Shields. Pete LaCock may not like his new surname, but the former Cub and Royal will, we are certain, get used to it.

France is opposed to a U.S. war on Iraq , and thus Johnny Miller finds himself torn between croque monsieur and Croak, messieurs. "Everyone who's been to France loves the food," the NBC golf announcer acknowledged on the air last Saturday. "But the last 20 years, France has done everything it can to oppose America . And...people aren't sure if France is still our friend."

The answer, to believe our congressmen, is a boycott. Renounce your French cuffs, Jerry Jones ; your French kissing, Morganna; your French-maid outfit, Dennis Rodman . Hockey broadcasters should no longer indulge the Francophone. Don't call the Devils goaltender "Mar-TAN Bro-DURE" but rather what Baywatch actress Yasmine Bleeth once did at the ESPYs: "MAR-tin BRO-der."

Or so I was thinking as I drove on Saturday to the largest French-speaking city outside of France to test my resolve before the most famous of all Francophone sportsmen, the Montreal Canadiens . If I could resist the siren song of Les Habitants—who gave the world Maurice Richard , Yvon Cournoyer, Guy Lafleur and many more of the most euphonious names in sports—I could resist anything. I defiantly stopped at a Burger King in Albany , N.Y., for a Croissanwich, America 's gleeful desecration of French cuisine. And later, emboldened, I passed into Quebec .

Hours later I passed—pleasantly unfrisked—into the Bell Centre . The Canadiens , it must be said, have the most stylish uniforms in North America . They make the New York Yankees look like the Bulgarian army. All their players are supermodels. Or so you would think to hear their names: St�phane Quintal , Yanic Perreault , Jos� (jo-ZAY) Th�odore. I became transfixed by the name of defense-man Patrice Brisebois and repeatedly said it aloud, "Pa-TREECE Breeze-BWAH." Every single time, it made me smile.

In France it is illegal to boo La Marseillaise, the national anthem. In Montreal , however, I thought I heard the man behind me hissing throughout The Star-Spangled Banner. But no. He was, I saw, just orally inflating his ThunderStix . By the time a lovely woman with a name to match—Marie-Eve Janvier—sang a heartachingly beautiful O Canada in French and English, my resolve was breaking down like the line at a French bus stop.

A ceremonial first puck was dropped by Canadiens legend Jean Beliveau , resplendent in a perfectly tailored suit, his silver coif immaculate. (If God got a $500 haircut, he'd look like this.) Beneath 24 Stanley Cup banners Beliveau gave a regal half wave. There were 21,273 people in the stands, and we all roared like the MGM lion. My skin, I noticed, was pebbled like a plucked chicken's.

Quebec , of course, is not France, and Montreal is not Paris . "In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French," wrote Mark Twain . "I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their language." But Canadiens fans patiently indulged my French hockeyspeak, graciously allowing me to shout, "Avantage numerique!" when the Habs had a power play.

I had begun the day by cursing Vikings kicker Todd France. I'd condemned champagne celebrations in victorious locker rooms. I'd vowed not to root when Frenchman Tony Parker of the Spurs and Frenchman Antoine Rigaudeau of the Mavericks both dived for the same loose ball. I was in favor of returning to France not just the Statue of Liberty but the backyard football play of the same name. I would ask Packers tight end Rufus French to change his name, legally, to Rufus Freedom. By day's end, however, I was eating a Franco-Mexican collaboration—nachos et fromage—while watching Finns, Swedes, Russians, Americans and Canadians try to kill one another in a manner so quaintly civilized that it might yet inspire a bumper-sticker slogan: DROP GLOVES, NOT BOMBS.