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The little ones are making a fuss again (nd-aktuell.de)

Magdeburg icon in wine red and white: Christian Beck

Photo: imago/Matthias Koch

There is wonderful news to announce, the Regionalliga Nordost started again at the weekend and beguiled with surprising results on matchday number one. Chemnitz and the BFC Dynamo lifted me up in front of the laptop. Master Beck from the Methusalem camp showed off his skills twice in Meuselwitz. The old dream of flying, I flapped my arms and flew over the desk chair an estimated 200 centimeters off the floorboards to the delight of the house elves. Now it is debatable whether this art of flying is healthy for body and life. But pure rationality must never win, life is boring enough.

Beck plays at BFC Dynamo for two kilos of flared pig bones a week because he just can’t stop himself. That’s the good news at the beginning of the week. When the striker starts with his tripping steps and a mild smile adorns his face, the pineal gland of every halfway anointed soccer player must vibrate. Even if he ends his career in Hohenschönhausen, Beck is an icon for almost everyone in Magdeburg at a time when it is difficult for every fan to identify with any player. Kickers change employers at breathtaking speed, always on the lookout for a better-stocked food bowl.

When a new player at your club publicly proclaims that moving to your club is a dream come true, remember at once that human dreams are smoke and mirrors and lip service is nothing but a few lousy words. We friends of lower class football are still very lucky. The devil didn’t throw a deconstructivist bastard like Bayern Munich in front of us.

Imagine if BFC Dynamo became champion ten times in a row in our beloved Regionalliga Nordost. How would we rage and look for good reasons to get this suspense killer, this stuffed bore rooster out of the stall? We would certainly secretly set up a super league to quarter these football destroyers there for life. But because we are not in charge of the so-called Bundesliga, but rather incompetent decision-makers from the crawling box of failure-oriented managerial activity, the dull monotony of Bundesliga football will again be in 2023: Bayern Munich will be champions.

My heart belongs to the little ones whose butter is stolen from their bread every day. Who torment the ball in front of a few hundred confused people in drafty stadiums, because their art of playing is deficient and their breath is always too short. They have a few kilos too much on their ribs and by the 50th minute at the latest they are thinking about the cold beer that is waiting for them in the clubhouse. Handed over by the evil club host, he too is a misbegotten figure of his guild.

In the fourth class we are all spotted beauties. Free from immaculateness, we shrug our shoulders when people from Köpenick recently tell us about the Bundesliga. We defiantly yell (I apologize to all those living near the stadium) “Kampf du Sau” (I apologize to all the pigs) and come up with many ugly plagues to wish on our opponents (Excuse me opponents). Our winning cakes are sand cakes. Our coffers are always empty like the stomach of a 300 meter long devilish crocodile. In the eyes of our neighbors, we are pathetic oafs who dabble after their failed clubs. we call it love

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