If I Were To Write A Piece Of Flash Fiction About The French National Team,

I would house it within the Tardis-like expansiveness of the nation’s capital city. I would wheat paste it up against the wall in the shape of a politician inviting the passing you to lift up the bank pen attached to the picture and scribble whatever you wanted onto the thing, and — if you took the offer up and your pen happened to pass over just the right spot — a button would fall, be pressed, and the poster would lift up and reveal a stairway down into the catacombs, where of course you would find a green pitch, but also a small rabbit who maintains the pitch and doesn’t know that he lives at a secret facility where all the players practice, joke, and tell each other stories and is convinced that — every once in a while — he falls asleep and has a dream about giants who — like him — like to run.