Our columnist traveled to Dortmund on Saturday to become champion. He experienced failure – and found solace in the midst of tens of thousands who were just as stunned as he was.
By Mickey Beisenherz
Now that you’re here, feel free to watch me suppress…
The cross, the header, the goal.
The missed penalty.
The straddle past the ball.
Once you’ve slept on it, it’s actually a lot worse.
Again and again you go through the scenes that were to mark the game so negatively.
Cross, header, goal against.
The missed penalty.
The inaccurate sliding tackle.
Header, penalty, sliding tackle.
Header, penalty, sliding tackle.
Markus Söder should be right
Unfortunately, remembering is not hard work with which one could still bend reality in retrospect, if one only softens it often enough with the hammer of thought.
It is like it is. The club really managed to gamble away this title.
First. At home. against Mainz.
And even worse: Markus Söder should be right. It may be the first true statement he has ever made: “Borussia Dortmund is too stupid to win the championship.” Ironically, when the growing pessimism of the permanently watered fans has given way to real confidence in the title.
Yes, they often awarded match points.
Yes, they have often been too stupid.
But today it will work out, I felt that. Accordingly, I arrived at Dortmund Central Station calmly and with anticipation. The regional express, like a pleasure boat entering a black and yellow harbor basin. May 27th, 22 degrees, sunshine. Perfect circumstances, right?
Accompanying the most wrong thought that circulates in professional football: “TODAY it’s our turn.”
Statistically, that may be true, but it hardly goes beyond bratwurst esotericism.
What you say as a fan on a day when there is something to get after years of disappointment. Greater justice, a mild-mannered football god, top-class sport as a heavenly waiting room. Money does score goals, and there is no currency in the karma account that would matter in sport.
There are days that are a beautiful frame for a pretty ugly picture.
The golden shine, the exuberant mood, the anticipation of the game and more:
The master party at Borsigplatz. 400,000 were expected. On Catholic Pentecost Sunday. As if this religious charge was still needed.
But how it is with the expectations in professional sport. What inspires those in the stands can weigh down those on the pitch.
The coolest stadium in the world
Of course we didn’t know that when we walked three quarters of an hour through the midday sun from the main train station to the stadium at 1:30 p.m. Women, men, girls holding their fathers’ hands, boys to whom Oppa is just telling how Lothar Emmerich won the European Cup with his left glue back in 1966. A wave of pure euphoria sloshing towards the temple. Where the structural weakness is particularly great, the association must strengthen the people.
Left and right the black and yellow jerseys of all different vintages and sponsors. Eagle Owl, Artic, Continentale. On the back half-worn flocking: Koller, Burgsmüller, Tretshock.
At the Möller Bridge (not named after the midfielder), left-back legend Dédé stops to take a selfie with an elated father and son.
I meet the others in the beer garden next to the stadium: Lena, Maik, Aladin, Mirza. Another quick beer and then in! We don’t want to miss anything from the liturgy. Beer, waving the flag and a stadium sausage with triple mustard. Yellow Overflow. The 81,500 spectators, presented by the Stadtparfumerie Pieper. Sing, celebrate, get intoxicated by the atmosphere.
Isn’t it just the coolest stadium in the world! It’s our turn today! And doesn’t Pott rhyme with God?
I even wrapped my bracelet in neutral white, because (I had treatment in Hamburg) a ROYAL BLUE bandage of all things really doesn’t have to be. Who knows, a couple of ultras might have caught me in front of the arena: “You can go in, but your arm stays out!”
With the exception of the small block of Mainz fans, everyone is really wearing traditional costumes today.
Ah, yes, the people of Mainz. They’re still playing too! Unfortunately more than all of us, who were already in the motorcade in our thoughts, had expected. The score is zero to one relatively quickly, and the ecstasy gives way to disillusionment.
Is it supposed to be true?
Are we really that stupid?
That just can’t be true!
Ha!
Penalty for us!
It will shoot: The revived Sébastien Haller.
Sebastien Haller misses the penalty. It was clear
He of all people, who had to miss the first half of the season because he was fighting for his life as a cancer patient. What a story!
First he scores as he wants in the second half of the season and is symbolic of Borussia’s strong second half of the season and now the penalty, with which he quickly put us back on the road to success….
He misses. Logo. It was clear.
Then the zero falls to two. My face, hey.
When I bite into the sausage, liters of mustard dripped onto the black hoodie of the man in front of me.
Also there somehow a failure in black and yellow. The nasty sweater is exactly what the embarrassed BVB player was missing.
Fear, hope, chance after chance is won, but nothing is really compelling. Once again, the elf doesn’t seem to have the nerve when it comes to something. When it comes to, as they like to say in football, to reward.
Finally, in the 70th minute, the hit that was no longer considered possible.
one to two Meanwhile, FC Bayern does not get beyond a one-on-one in Cologne.
The hope is back. If only briefly.
The competition from Munich proves what makes a top team: scoring the winning goal at the crucial moment. Sovereignty is an apprenticeship, and the training center is not in the Ruhr area, that much is clear.
When Niklas Süle made it 2-2, it was already too late for Borussia to score the third goal. An unadorned final whistle. So that’s it. The roundabout at Borsigplatz will remain open to traffic as usual tomorrow. We are sober in the stands when the first push notifications come in: “FC Bayern fires Salihamidzic and Kahn.” Well, congratulations to the new German champions.
The Bavarians disintegrate like the Denver clan
While the eleven-time serial winner begins to disintegrate himself just in time for the final whistle like the Denver Clan, the Dortmund team and their coach Terzic are celebrated from the south stand and the tens of thousands of fans who are still in the stadium. It’s not just the coach of the vice champion who sheds tears. Grown men descend the stairs towards the exit, hug each other for consolation.
Would we have preferred the bowl instead of this folklore? Probably yes.
But the fabulously bad mood with which they accept the first of probably ten other championship trophies in Munich also tells a story about the passionate self-satisfaction of the people “in the pot”.
Yes, the vibe sucks. And still significantly better than where they just won the league. Maybe it’s not so much about the end of the story as it is about how it’s gone so far. And aren’t the people in their terraced house gardens often happier than those who sit bored on their boats in the marinas and are suddenly heartbroken when an even bigger ship comes in?
All of this is probably a pathetic attempt at self-deception, but when I think of this sunny Saturday in May with all these people, I would like to say: Our failure was nicer than your success.
Header, penalty, sliding tackle.
Header, penalty, sliding tackle.
Header, penalty, sliding tackle.
It is to be crazy.