Everyday suffering in the future: slag place
Foto: imago images/Pressfoto Baumann
Over Easter we had plenty of time to grasp the incomprehensible. People are still being slaughtered in Ukraine, it’s as incomprehensible as it is terrible.
Life goes on, the ball bumps – for example when you follow a game on the lousy pitch in Auerbach. And yes, the final decisions will add excitement to most game classes. Of course I exclude the Bundesliga, where Bayern Munich causes plenty of boredom.
Magdeburg’s prank also died, sad news, as we occasionally listened to Achim on MDR as he explained the FCM game in a slightly absent manner. The divine Magdeburg game. On Sunday, the unconditionally storming Bördekicker sweetened our Easter day with five goals, which made me think back to Easter 1981.
I wasn’t even 18 years old, played football at Empor Weimar and plowed the Weimar asphalt with my MZ 150. We were top of the table with Empor and had to defeat the second team from Motor Weimar at home. We played on ashes in the stadium of peace. Sounds good, but in 1981 it was just an empty promise, the world was on fire in various corners back then. Ok, it was mostly proxy wars, Americans and Russians rarely got their hands dirty. But war is war and soldiers are murderers.
In little Weimar, we Emporbuben only occupied ourselves with motor kickers. They were technically better, but we could kick, scrape and push better. They played on grass, we on nice slag. That’s what we lovingly called the underbody, which slashed our legs and hands when we ran unchecked into our opponents and rolled with them on the pitch, possibly even kicking secretly. Two is always better.
The bad place and our robust game robbed the motor boys of their nerve, three ended up in the dirt, they were their best players. The motor trainer raged, our parents, who were exceptionally present, yelled: “Get ’em ready!” The referee was already looking forward to the delicious bottle of Nordhäuser Doppelkorn that we had put in his dressing room. Steini sent me off steeply in the 22nd minute. I had a few meters of space, ran like I was blessed to the penalty area and hit the ball with the full instep. He sailed over the keeper and hit the bottom of the bar.
Even while sailing, I saw a sweet maiden in my mind’s eye that vaguely reminded me of Angela Davis. She smiled. A peace sign dangled from her neck and her chic afro delighted my hungry heart. She pointed to the ball. She almost seemed to gently touch it with a tap of her exquisitely manicured thumb. I experienced that venerable moment in a split second and realized the divinity of all football. Because read: The ball hit the back of the goalkeeper’s head from the lower edge of the crossbar and hit the goal from his pounding skull. A warm shower of happiness traveled through my young body, my teammates ran towards me, everyone shouted wildly, while the opposing goalkeeper was no longer able to continue playing.
Just a few seconds later, Steini got the ball. He was free in front of the goalkeeper and had to make it. He made it. We won the championship and had to go through relegation to get promoted. A day before the decider, a truck grabbed me off the bike. I lay in the hospital playing the game of my life, all my teeth loose but mentally complete.
All column texts: dasnd.de/ballhausost
