Berlin or bust

All Berlin is sad. Not just me.

The Germans made it all the way to the Finale. Along with the Spaniards.

Tonight they played.

My poet friend Dylan and I sat on folding chairs at Bar Gagarin. The game unfolded on the outdoor TV.  Beside us, an Englishman who spoke no German. I ate a salad with salmon.

The Spanish scored early on. The Germans couldn't seem to manage. Every pass they kicked went straight to Spanish cleats.

"No!" we shouted. And: "C'mon!" And: "What was that?" And: "Just one goal, please."

We held out hope till the 93rd minute.

"They really could do it," said Dylan. 

"Tell them that," said the Englishman.

The whistle blew. The boys in white and black clustered, faces ashen.The boys in yellow and red marched their silver Europa Cup around the field.

They sang "We Are the Champions."

Which struck me as excessive.

But they played the better game. That I'll grant them. And Spain hasn't won for 24 years. So if someone was gonna beat Germany, I'm glad they're it.

Berlin is quiet. The bars already empty. The TVs now silenced.

We return to our homes. We return to our beds. Somber. And waiting. For the day the men we believe in live up to our dreams.

My faith is shattered

I had given it to the Dutch. They were my boys. 

Tonight, in the quarter-finals, they lost to the Russians. The youngest, least experienced of all teams. Three to One.

They played without juice. They played without joy.

The Russians move onto the half-finals. The Dutch are OUT. All together.

Unfathomable. Devastating.

The Gouda-Man weeps. Me too.

Lilan falls off the sofa, stunned

'Cause that's just what she said she'd do if the Germans beat the Portuguese.

Which just goes to show, one never do know, do one?

No quietly slumbering thing

Monday night the Germans beat the Austrians. The game was shite. But the relief was palpable. And there were many flags a-waving.

The thing is, there are a lot of people whose skin takes to prickling in a most unpleasant way at the sight of black-red-gold flapping from balconies, cresting car antennas, painted across kids' cheeks, dyed into the very strands of their mohawked hair.

Even I could feel the twitch of discomfort at this sudden swathe of Deutschie colors.

For years, nary a whisper of nationalism has been permissible here. Saluting the flag? Singing the anthem (and on one's feet, eyes teary, at that)? Treating the country's founding, and the principles upon which it is founded, as a Gift to All Humankind? Unthinkable.

Thus it is no small deal that Teutons of all ages now gather in masses and roar their support for Deutschland's players. It was at the 2006 World Cup in Berlin that it first happened -- the Germans allowing themselves a wary, held-breath pride about their high-scoring team. Not just about the team, but about the World Cup itself, with members of every nation gathered on Germany's soil, welcomed peacably, without incident. An awakening, of sorts, to the celebration of one's homeland. 

In Germany, however, the past does not lie sleeping. It informs every moment of the present. Rather, every interpretation of every moment of the present. Thus:

A recent news show took an undercover look at Neo-Nazi groups in the former East Germany, which is where, among the undereducated and dispossessed, they tend to flourish. The show then segged to left-wing students protesting the average German's newfound patriotism. Dressed as PacMans, the students gobbled up flag-waving Fussball fans. Also interviewed: an Israeli expert on German-Jewish history who pointed out that the Nazi flag was red-white-black, so what's all the fuss about?

But that's not really the point, is it?

The unspoken question is, is it safe? For Germans to feel nationalism. For Germans to express it. And how can one answer that without answering the far more unsettling, and to my mind unanswerable, question: What is responsible for the horrific events that unfurled on Germany's soil beginning in 1933? Was it simply a confluence of forces -- the Great Wars's aftermath, a people in poverty, centuries-old anti-semitism? Or does the German character itself have something to do with it?

Scholars have had a go at this. Too hot for me to touch, thank you very much.

I will say this: I am no fan of unbridled patriotism. If your German mother had been born halfway through Hitler's reign, and your father had had to flee California for Italy with his parents in 1950 lest they be blacklisted by McCarthy, well, you might be no fan of unbridled patriotism either. I do not like the gusto with which our country celebrates "what it means to be American" -- nor the jingoism I believe it leads to. Last year, Michael Moore's Sicko, viewed by me on July 3, left me so sickened by our country's national and international policies, that I could not even contemplate the fireworks. "I am boycotting the Fourth of July," I told my friend Rosemary.

Why I love the Dutch

Remember those nutty Dutch fans I was talking about? My web-god Boy found photos online!

Gouda-Windmill Dude

Carrots-Where-They-Belong Freak

 

And, something I did NOT witness:

If I were Dutch...

I would be doing mad whirly jigs in my wooden clogs.

I would be jousting with windmills like a drunken Don Quixote.

I would be cannon-ball diving every Amsterdam canal.

Had you only seen Holland's team tonight! They were Energizer bunnies. They were Norse Gods. They were the World's Eighth Wonder, orange and cleeted.

Monday the Dutch hammered the World Champions (Italy), Three to Zero. Today they played France, the Vice-World Champions.

Right away it was one goal against the French, then two. Third goal? Scored fifteen seconds after France's first.

The French sweat. The French writhed. The French fought. They really did.

That's what made the game so very good.

But what made the game extraordinary? The very last minute, the Dutch suddenly, unaccountably, scored number Four.

OH MY F***ING GOD!!! I skyped Bayreuth Boy.

OH MY GOD, he skyped back. In der 92. minute!

It's like no one every told them that players get tired. Or lose their breath. Or stop trying.

A game like this, said the Boy, is why Fussball fans exist. 

The whistle blew. The game ended. The Dutch players b-lined for the stands. They freed sons and daughters from wives' arms. Hoisted tykes onto their hips. Ruffled white-blond hair, kissed soft sweet cheeks. More proud fathers than glory-seeking victors.

I love those Nederlanders. I ask you: How can I not?

The fat lady sings

Meaning, it's over. Italia 1, Romania 1.

In the United States, ties do not exist. It's all about the win. Otherwise, what's a game worth?

Regardless. A man in a yellow jersey is wet-eyed. The man meant to score the eleven-meter victory. He slinks off the field.

Cleo is licking her front paws. Now she is rolling her dampened forearms over her ears.

Why does she not care? WHY?

It is impossible not to make the eleven meter shot

And yet.

The Romanian did not make it.

Or rather, Italy's goalie Buffon blocked the ball something wicked with his lickety-split limbs.

Would be Two to One for the Romanians, had he not.

Merda.

Sixty seconds later and the Italians exact their revenge. One to One.

The world mourns.

Romania 1 Romania 1 Romania 1!!!

The world rejoices. Didn't I say beware the land of Comaneci?

Italia 0, Romania 0

45 minutes down, 45 to go... And woah, the Italians almost scored.

Today you get the play by play. Because I know you are all just dying for Live Stream Blogging.

Yo, Materazzi, get that smirk off your face. I have two words for you: Nadja Comaneci.

Lest you forget 1976.

Sure, wrong sport, whatever. The point is: Romanians can birthe brilliance. 

Right this very minute: Italia vs. Romania

Nobody is for the Italians.

Everybody knows if it hadn't been for Materazzi hissing a xenophobic "yo mama" slur at Zidane, Zidane would not have had to headbutt Materazzi in the ribs, and the ref would not have had to red-card Zidane, and Zidane would not have had to stand on the sidelines as a fellow Frenchman failed to score a goal, costing the French the 2006 World Cup title.

I'm not saying headbutting is the best way to deal with a xenophobic "yo mama" slur, but if your head is as hard and shiny as Zidane's, you might just think so.

Anyways, I am not for the Italians either. Let's just hope my paternal relatives, laid to rest in a Genoan graveyard rich with PATRI headstones, won't be too mad. Nothing like a dead Mafioso with a taste for vengeance.

Croatia 2, Germany 1

Everyone here is sad. Except the resident Croats, who took to the Kudamm, just as the Turks had the night before, and shook many cars and drank too much beer and got into scrappy little fights for no good reason at all.

The Germans played a lousy game. Not so lousy as Marx, Heidegger and Hegel, but not so much better either.

Monday, the Germans must beat the Austrians. If they do not beat the Austrians, they will not move to the next round. Also, they must beat the Austrians, because the Austrians hate the Germans, and it is a matter of national pride.

Why the Austrians hate the Germans is unclear to me. Especially since the (west) German state has spent the past fifty years taking full and total responsibility for the horrors of WWII. Even today, you cannot turn on the TV during a single hour of a single day without coming across a documentary about the Holocaust, or some variation on said theme. Last night, a handful of comedians spun sub-par humor from Germany's loss to Croatia on Channel 2. On Channel 1, a smoky voice narrated a spool of black-and-white footage delineating the development of Hitler and Mussolini's dastardly alliance.

Part of growing up German, even today, means coming to terms with what your own forbears once did, or witnessed, or denied was being done and witnessed all around. 

I'm not saying that's not appropriate.

However. As I understand it, the Austrians generally prefer a version of reality that frees them of such discomfiting guilt sensations. Welcome Hitler with open arms? Us? Never! And thanks to The Sound of Music, the world lets them get away with it. Which is why, according to one K. Nahmacher, Austrian-born resident of New Jersey, that musical is downright evil.

If this opinion is incendiary and better left unspoken, forgive me. Also, the next time you hear me humming The Hills Are Alive, don't be mad. I love those Van Trapps! I just can't help it.

There is something happening in Europe...

...of which many of you may not be aware.

And I'm not talking Mr. Bu(ll)sh(it) breaking bread with slump-shouldered Angela Merkel.

Nor am I referencing the winner Heidi Klum and her teutonic panel picked as Germany's Next Top Model. (So much more, um, not black those aspiring fashionistas are than Tyra's hand-picked dozen.)

No, my friends, we are talking...

Fresh-laid grass. Yellow cards. Sweaty headbands. Calves as hard as bone.

Yesterday Turkey shot a winning goal against Switzerland in the game's final minutes, and Berlin erupted into the night. We could hear it all the way from Bayreuth Boy's balcony, rockets blasting the sky, air-pistols. On the Kudamm, Turkish youths swarmed the streets, rocking helpless cars back and forth.

C'mon, I said to the Boy. All they did was beat the Swiss.

Exactly! he said.

The Swiss are notoriously weak as players. They are also notoriously polite and reserved. They are so polite, in fact, they think Gemans are rude...and loud. Hello? If Germans are loud, then Americans are ten monster trucks revving. And Italians are a fifty-piece tuba band warming up alongside those engines.

Last night a Swiss and Turkish player collided, knocking each other onto the rain-logged field, a tangle of muddy limbs. The Swiss helped his rival to his feet, patting his arm kindly. The Turk scowled, wrenched himself free, and roared off toward the ball in play. Which might explain why who won won.

Every day I watch the games. Every day I tune into the post-game commentary. Every day I say things like: Ibramovich hasn't shot a goal in two whole years! And he's Europe's top-paid player.
Or: What an old-fashioned game the Greeks play. So eighties.
Or: Offsides! Offsides!

The Boy cannot believe it. I cannot really either.

Those of you who know me may also know this:

In my five years at CAL, I never once attended a football game. Not even as blue-gold pilgrims swarmed Berkeley's hills, stadium-bound, for the fight against Stanford, an annual battle of biblical proportions.

In my nine years in New York, I never once watched a baseball game. I do not know where Shea Stadium is. I didn't notice when the World Series turned Subway, New York teams head-to-head on the diamond.

I said things like: Oh, the Mets are from Brooklyn?
Also: Like I care.

Yet it took only a single game for me to become a full and irreversible Fussball fan.

The Italians loped across the field, tall and beautiful, their black curls damp, their olive limbs aglow. Their 2006 World Championship title lent a casual arrogance to their step, a tilt to their sharp chins. Then came the Dutch, decked in garish orange. Like pit bulls they came, blasting across the field, ramming the goal, relentless, unforgiving, from game's start to its end. Three fierce goals they scored to Italy's dazed one.

You had to love those little Dutch. And the fans! One had draped fat bundles of carrots over each ear. Another wore a huge Gouda cheese on his head. Atop the Gouda stood miniature replicas of Dutch national treasures, windmills included.

Still. I am wondering: Why? Me? Care?

Contributing factors are as follows: