There are people with the gift of grasping a catastrophe that has just occurred in one sentence, with an all-encompassing rebuke. In this case it was the center half of the company football team of the Hamburg taxi guild. A tall guy, his jersey dripping with sweat, his forehead and hair dripping with sweat, his pants and socks covered in sand. The term “middle runner” shows everyone who knows the profession: It’s been a while. But even then there were sloppy back teams, but not in four…
