One of You E-Book

Martin Suter

• Herausgeber: Diogenes Verlag
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 374

Beschreibung

Bastian Schweinsteiger, the hero of the 2014 World Cup Final in Rio, is the hero of Martin Suter�s latest novel. The author narrates true (and almost true) details about the life of a man whose starting point made him unlikely to become a great footballer, and he tells us how Basti, through his joy and determination, achieved immense success regardless.

Leseprobe

Martin Suter

One of you

Bastian Schweinsteiger

A Novel

Translated from German by Tim Mohr

Diogenes

To Margrith,

Ana and Toni

Preface

The hero of this novel is Bastian Schweinsteiger. The events in it really happened, though not always in exactly the manner described here. Instead, this is the way the people whose lives are being chronicled experienced and perceived things. Or the way I, as a novelist, envision they happened.

I narrate and also invent the way the real and fictitious characters might possibly have acted. The monologues, dialogues, and thoughts emanate, as is always the case with a novel, from the artistic imagination of the author or, sometimes, from the imaginations of the figures themselves.

I cannot claim that any similarities to persons living or deceased or that the use of names of real people or institutions are strictly coincidental. But what they do and say and think often emerges from my poetic imagination.

As befits a heroic narrative, it is also a love story.

I wish you an exciting, entertaining, and perhaps at times even a stirring read.

Martin Suter

You can’t be both

Blow the whistle already, blow the whistle, he thought.

His new white shoes were stained green; they’d already played a half.

The wet ball glistened and waited impatiently to be played.

It wasn’t raining, the air was just damp. It sat like morning dew on the shaggy, blond hair of the littlest and youngest player. He stood in the center circle and saw nothing but white shoes and the impatient ball.

Blow the whistle already. Blow the whistle.

At the whistle he had left the center circle behind him and dribbled around a first opponent, faked out a second, left a third in the dust, and charged toward the goal as if in a tunnel.

Nobody tried to stop him. No one cheered him on from the sideline. It was silent. Like in a dream.

Max, the keeper, stood in the middle of the goal as if rooted in place, hands on his hips.

Only when the boy had nearly reached him did he raise his right hand, in an oversized goalie glove, and tap his pointer finger on his forehead.

The boy casually slipped the ball over the goal line with the outside of his right foot. Then he turned around and threw up his arms.

The referee blew the whistle to signal the goal.

The players stood on the pitch, baffled. A few embarrassed, a few shaking their heads, a few smirking.

From the sideline he heard his father shout, »Ya lost your mind?«

Suddenly the boy understood. Second half: you switch sides. The opponents’ goal was now at the other end.

For a few seconds, he was stunned into silence.

Then he laughed. And laughed and laughed.

Until everyone on the pitch was laughing.

Oberaudorf is a small town in the district of Rosenheim, a few stone’s throws from the Austrian border. The houses on the main street are painted, their windows and doors decorated baroque ornamentation against yellow, brown, or turquoise backgrounds. The center of town is dominated by the church of Our Lady, the Kaiser Mountains are visible in the distance – the Wilder Kaiser and the Zahmer Kaiser. And it’s near Sudelfeld mountain and the Tatzelwurm waterfall.

There were four Schweinsteigers: Monika or »Moni,« Alfred, known as »Fred,« Tobias, aka »Tobi,« and Bastian, called »Basti.« Fred ran a little sporting goods business on Rosenheimerstrasse and operated a ski lift called the Trissl lift. He’d been a professional skier and had played in the Austrian football league. After a football injury he’d decided to quit his job in Rosenheim and return to his hometown.

Mama, or »Mum,« took care of the household, garden, and bringing up the kids. »Dad« was responsible for their athletic education. The boys could barely walk before he put a ball at their feet or strapped skis onto their feet.

Tobi was two and a half years older than Basti, and his role model in everything.

About six years before his spectacular own-goal, Basti took the Trissl lift by himself for the first time. His family waited at the valley station until it was his turn. The boards of the little wooden hut were sun-bleached and weather-beaten. Inside it smelled of wood and the grease that was supposed to keep the giant wheel with the steel cable from squeaking.

It was only November 6, but it had already snowed so much that Fred Schweinsteiger had to tune up the snowcat and prepare the slope the night before and officially open the Trissl lift. His mother was selling crepes and germknödel at her little stand for the first time of the season.

Mum had come along for once. She wanted to be there when Basti, age three, took the lift alone for the first time. Less to celebrate the moment than out of worry that something might go wrong.

Basti stood between his dad’s skis. He wore a light-blue ski suit and a white knit cap and watched as his brother grabbed the button and glided up the mountain. Dad shoved him closer to the embarkation point and spoke to him reassuringly.

Calming him down wasn’t necessary. Basti was looking forward to the ride on the lift. All alone, like his big brother.

Now he was at the front with dad. The empty button came swinging toward him, dad grabbed it and shoved it under his bottom. »Hold on tight.«

Basti yelped and was pulled away.

»See, he’s too little, he screamed,« Moni said to him.

»He cheered,« answered Fred. But he wasn’t entirely sure of that. He grabbed the next button and rode after his youngster.

It had gotten warmer overnight, and the snow sounded slushy under his skis. Above the swishing and hissing of his ski he heard a high, bright sound. It was coming from little Basti, twenty meters ahead of him.

Basti was singing.

That same day, November 6, 1987, nearly 900 kilometers southeast of Trissl lift, a line of demonstrators passed the front of Narodni Clinic. Banners billowed in the wind, which had blown through the streets of Belgrade as a storm the night before, and rallying cries over megaphones echoed up to the delivery room, where the lawyer Dragana Ivanović was giving birth to a baby girl.

Ana.

It was snowing. The noises at the Christmas market were muted, as if everything were packed in cotton. People spoke more quietly, too, as if they didn’t want to disturb the solemn atmosphere. And everything smelled of glühwein – mulled wine – candied almonds, bratwurst, and crepes.

Basti was holding Mum’s hand. You never knew when a Krampus might pop out.

Tobi walked along without the security of a hand, but he stuck close to his family.

»You guys want crepes?« asked Dad. It was a rhetorical question, because of course they wanted crepes. It was the main reason for coming.

»Ja!« they said in unison. It was a rhetorical answer.

The Schweinsteiger family got in line.

Basti watched the man in the chef’s hat as he poured a ladle full of white liquid onto a gleaming metal plate. A short hiss, a bit of smoke, then the mass turned yellowish and solidified. The man waited. Not long, then he ran the narrow spatula under the crepe and flipped it over.

»You going to get it with Nutella or jam or chocolate sauce?« asked Tobi.

»What are you going to have?« asked Basti.

»Nutella,« Tobi answered.

»Me, too.«

At that moment a shrill bell pierced the quiet of the winter evening. Basti jumped. »Krampus!«

He grabbed Mum’s hand. »Come on!«

»He’s not going to do anything to you,« said Dad.

»Come on.« Basti was on the verge of tears.

»Didn’t you want a crepe?« asked Mum.

»Yours taste better,« answered Basti.

He had ragged fur, a grotesque face, and long, pointed horns. Sometimes Basti heard his chains rattling or his shrill bell jingling menacingly. Sometimes he saw his shadow. And sometimes he saw him in his entirety. He was gigantic. And he was standing in the foyer.

Dad had told Nikolaus that Krampus wasn’t allowed to come in. But what if he didn’t listen? Like Basti?

Nikolaus was friendly. But Basti found him a little scary, too. He didn’t do anything, but he cursed. He knew everything that Basti and Tobi had done wrong throughout the year.

Nikolaus also brought gifts – cookies and chocolates and nuts, and sometimes even a new action figure. But Basti would have forgone the gifts if it meant Nikolaus wouldn’t come. And, above all, if Krampus wouldn’t come.

Krampus wasn’t just evil. He was also dangerous. Tobi had told him that he sometimes beat people to death. But that only happened in Austria, Tobi said. Still Austria was just down the street, across the river.

Better just to cry, Basti thought, and started howling.

Tobi and Basti wore white shirts, dark gray pants, and suit jackets. Mum and Dad were also dressed elegantly. She had on a gray suit with a silk top. He had on a dark-blue suit and even a tie. They’d arrived early to church to make sure to get good seats. They were sitting in the first four seats of the third row. Very good seats. Basti got the aisle seat so he could see everything if he leaned out. The altar boys in their red and white garments and their censers and brass bells. And the priest with his beautiful voice. Behind him countless candles burned, throwing their light onto the golden altar with the Virgin and Child.

Everything was so tranquil. The organ played solemnly. The entire church smelled of incense. Basti would have stayed forever if he didn’t know Santa Claus was at his house.

As the congregation streamed out of the church doors, the streetlights were ringed with yellow halos of snowflakes. Dad opened his umbrella, Tobi and Basti pulled up the hoods of their ski jackets. They had the same jacket, in the same colors – blue, red, and white. Basti’s was just one size smaller.

They barely talked on the way home. Basti hummed »Silent Night.« Very few cars went past on the snowy autobahn. But when they did, the headlights lit up the swirling snow in an illuminated veil.

Back home, the boys went directly to Tobi’s room. Basti remembered this from last year.

»How much time now?« asked Basti, who still couldn’t read a clock.

»Not much,« Tobi answered impatiently.

It seemed like forever, though, before the bell rang.

They ran down the stairs. The door to the backyard stood open, and cold air wafted into the warm living room.

»Over there! Look! Santa’s flying off! There!«

They rushed to the door, craned their necks, and stared into the drifting snow.

No sign of Santa.

But the Christmas tree was there. The candlelight twinkled on the tinsel and the gleaming ornaments and cast a golden sheen on the angel’s hair. Golden, like the snowy veil around the streetlights by the church.

And at the foot of the tree were presents. »100!« Basti shouted. »100!«

He couldn’t count yet, but he knew 100 was a lot.

It was very dark, but he felt safe. He listened to the noises his mum made. Kitchen noises. Clinking, clanking, water running, footsteps.

Sometimes he had to chuckle quietly when he thought of how frightened mum would be when she lifted the top of the garbage can to throw out the trash. Boo, he would shout. And she’d let out a shriek, like always, and yell at him, »You little rascal!« And he’d hop out of the garbage can and run off.

Sometimes it didn’t take long until she needed to throw something away, sometimes it took ages.

He preferred when it took a long time. Waiting a long time in his safe spot in the dark gave him a good feeling. He had disappeared and nothing could happen to him.

Like in bed in the dark.

But he had to be sure somebody was around. He didn’t feel safe alone in the dark.

He heard the water running. Mum was washing something.

Hiding in the garbage can was a great game.

»What kind of instrument is that?« asked Basti.

»Bagpipes,« answered Mum.

The men with the bagpipes followed a carriage. And in it sat Father Christmas. He looked very friendly, and lots of children waited for him.

The carriage stopped, Father Christmas climbed out and passed out gifts. The children weren’t afraid, and Father Christmas smiled the whole time and didn’t curse.

Krampus was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly the children and Father Christmas were gone, and a woman came on the screen and spoke.

»Who’s that?« Basti wanted to know.

»The Queen of England.«

Basti knew what a queen was from bedtime stories: the wife of a king.

»Why doesn’t she have a crown?«

»She doesn’t always wear it,« Mum answered.

And then the queen was gone, and a newscaster gave the weather forecast.

A few days later, there was another fat man on TV who also smiled the whole time like Father Christmas.

He didn’t have a crown on, either, same as the queen.

»Is he a king?« asked Basti.

Mum and Dad laughed.

»Almost,« said dad. »He’s the chancellor. It’s a little like a king.«

»Don’t we have a real king?« asked Basti.

»No.«

For a while Basti watched as the chancellor was applauded.

»But we have a Madame Chancellor?«

Mum and dad laughed more now. And Tobi, too.

Basti was pleased to have said something funny, and he laughed along with them.

Dad shook his head in disbelief. »Madame Chancellor!«

The sofa was L-shaped, checkered red and white. The cushions had the same pattern and there were additional pillows, also checkered red and white. It was very cushy, and the entire family could sit there and watch television together. Tobi and Basti watched Die Sendung mit der Maus, the Smurfs, or Pippi Longstocking. When the boys went to bed, Mum and Dad watched movies or the game show Wetten das …? or the procedural Tatort. And on the weekend Dad, Tobi, and Basti watched ski racing, football, or tennis.

But Basti wasn’t sitting on the sofa now. He was squatting on the floor next to it playing Lauberhorn World Cup.

It consisted of six white pieces of paper taped together with clear tape. He had drawn gates and safety nets, trees and bushes along the side of the course, a starting gate at the top, and a finish line surrounded by spectators.

The blue pencil has just started out of the gate: Luc Alphand, phenomenal skier. Gaining momentum through the long righthand curve and racing through in a deep crouch toward the Russi Jump and – oh, slight miscue! He’s lost time there! But he hits the jump and – yes – long – forty – no – fifty meters, and now into the Traversenschuss – first split 42:21, excellent!

Ski racing was just one of the games Basti passed the time with when Tobi was at school. He also played football. That took more effort because unlike the ski slopes he had to color all the sheets of paper green, carefully leaving the white lines. But at least he could use it for multiple games.

The players were M&Ms, red for Bayern Munich, yellow for Borussia Dortmund. For the ball he used little dice.

Bayern always won.

Dad didn’t always have time to practice with his boys at the football pitch. When he couldn’t, Basti and Tobi played in the front yard or with the neighbors in the street that ran in front of the house.

Mum didn’t like either option. In the front yard, her flowerbeds always suffered. And in the street, there were cars. But so few that you could easily play there. At least as far as Tobi and Basti were concerned. All they needed was some chalk to draw lines. If a car came, they let it go by, and once it passed they went back to playing.

The best place to play would have been in the field on the other side of the street. Because if you fell in the street, you skinned your knee, and Mum would have to pick little pebbles – spread during the winter to make the roads passable – from the wound with tweezers. That part didn’t hurt, but the antiseptic she sprayed on afterwards burned.

But that field belonged to the farm down the road and was surrounded by a fence to keep the cows in.

One day when mum was startled by the impatient honking of a car, and Basti, who had once again played with tremendous energy and no regard for his body, came home with a particularly badly skinned knee, she said to her husband, »Talk to Ackerhuber, I counted his cows. There are twelve fewer than there used to be. Surely, he can rent us a bit of space.«

Ackerhuber was understanding, and they agreed to a modest rent. Fred helped him to move the fence.

With wooden posts, Tobi, Basti, and Fred built two goals, painted them, one red, one blue, and hung nets from them.

With the little mower they used for the front yard, they mowed the football pitch, strung twine as guidelines and marked the lines with chalk.

And with that, the Schweinsteiger Football Grounds were finished. From then on, Mum’s front yard remained mostly intact.

As did Tobi and Basti’s knees, for the most part.

Tobi put on his football gear. For Basti, this was the sign for him to put his on, too. He never asked, »Where are we going?« or »Who are we playing with?« It just went without saying that Basti would be included. And because he was the youngest and smallest, it sometimes happened that he had to play in goal or was the last one picked or wasn’t picked at all. But he always went anyway.

When they went to the garage after leaving the house, it usually still wasn’t clear what Tobi had in mind. In the garage were balls and bikes. Balls they needed whether they were just going across the street to the cow pasture or to the sports fields in the village. If they put both backpacks, holding four balls, on their backs, it meant they were taking the bikes. And that meant they were going to the village fields. Because if they were just crossing the street to the Schweinsteiger Football Grounds, they just carried them. Putting their backpacks on meant they’d be playing with Christian, Michael, Stefan, Dennis, Alexander, Thomas, and whoever else showed up at the village fields or the local football club’s training grounds.

That was good. There were proper goals there, and Basti could play – maybe not even in goal the whole time.

If they took only the bikes and not the backpacks with balls, that wasn’t good for Basti. That meant that Tobi was going to play with his team, the Oberaudorf Football Club, and Basti would have to watch.

This time they took just the bikes.

At the fields, there wasn’t much happening. Two married couples were playing mixed doubles on one of the tennis courts. On the terrace of the café, people had pulled their chairs together for a festive – and boisterous – round.

A couple of Tobi’s F-Juniors teammates were already there kicking a ball around while a few parents sat on the painted bleachers alongside the pitch chatting. More and more players turned up, and then the bus from Kolbermoor arrived with the boys they were playing in a friendly.

At 3:30 the coach blew his whistle. The kids who were still hanging around went toward the pitch while those who had been kicking balls picked them up and ran over to their respective coaches.

Basti slunk grumpily to the covered home bench of the Oberaudorfers, which looked like a weather-beaten bus stop.

After the whistle blew, Basti began to announce the match under his breath. »And now Christian to Stefan, a long pass. And there, Tobi, wide open … but Stefan doesn’t see him and continues to dribble. Too stubborn! And now is dispossessed by number eight. Counter!«

Soon he himself was on the pitch, at least in his own mind, running, attacking, defending, picturing his moves. If only they’d let him onto the pitch.

Number four on Kolbermoor fouled Dennis, who fell to the ground and remained down. The referee showed number four a yellow card, went over to Dennis, who was still on the ground, spoke to him, and waved the coach over.

Dennis’s mother went over to him with a baby in her arms at the same time the coach did. Both spoke to him, the baby started to cry. Dennis managed to stand up and limp off the pitch, leaning on his mother. As she went past number four, she raised her fist at him: »Bastard!« she hissed at him.

Coach and referee now huddled near the bench. The coach gestured helplessly and kept putting out his arms, the palms of his hands facing upward. Then they stopped in front of Basti.

»What about this guy?« asked the referee.

»He’s not one of ours.«

»Why is he in uniform then?« the referee wanted to know.

»He’s the brother of one of the team members. They all dress the same. His father is the Schweinsteiger who runs the sporting goods store.«

Now the referee turned directly to Basti. »Can you play?«

»Sure.«

»He’s too young,« the coach explained. »Next season he’ll be eligible for the G-Juniors.«

»Are you too young?« the ref asked Basti.

»No,« he answered confidently.

»Then up you get.«

Basti got up from the bench, and the ref jotted down his number. It happened to be fourteen.

»Like Cantona. You know who that is?«

Basti shook his head.

»Plays for Marseille. You’ll hear about him. And that’s your name, Bastian Schweinsteiger?«

»Yeah,« nodded Basti eagerly.

»In you go. I guess we’ll see if we’re going to hear about you, too.«

Oberaudorf beat Kolbermoor four to two. Two of the goals were made by the youngest and smallest player on the pitch.

»Looks like we will hear about you,« the ref said to Basti after he blew the whistle for full time.

Basti was only five and already a member of the FVO, the Football Verein – or Club – of Oberaudorf. He played for the G-Juniors and was still the smallest. But the coach quickly recognized his talent and put him in midfield. Basti would rather have played striker because strikers got all the goals. But he quickly came to enjoy his position. The strikers called his name because they wanted the ball. He liked that.

What he didn’t like was that he wasn’t on the same team as Tobi. But when the F-Juniors played, Basti always went and watched. Sometimes the coach substituted him in for one of the F-Juniors. Of course, not everyone who was taken off for him was happy about it at first. But soon he had earned enough respect that they came to accept him as a peer.

At a practice, the coach spoke to Basti’s father: »Basti belongs on the F-Juniors.«

»But you have to be seven.«

»It would definitely be unusual,« the coach admitted. »But Basti belongs with the Fs.«

»And Tobi,« Fred suggested, »belongs with the Ds.«

»Not yet,« said the coach.

When Fred Schweinsteiger broke the news to his boys on the way home, Basti said, »Okay,« as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tobi said nothing.

Moni and Fred sat in the living room. Basti was already in bed. Tobi was allowed to stay awake a bit longer as he was older. But he couldn’t watch TV. He had to be in his room, but could have his light on.

So Tobi sat on the stairs and listened to the TV.

During an ad break, the sound was turned down, and Mum said, »Today he played ski racing and football for hours again. Until Tobi got home from school and was finished with his homework.«

Mum and Dad had returned to the same old subject. Next year, on August 1, Basti would turn six and be eligible to start school. But because he would turn six between July and September, it was possible to hold him back.

»I tell you, he’s too physically active for school,« answered Dad.

»If we let him play around for another year, he’ll just get more so.«

»Or maybe he’ll get better at playing. Maybe it’ll become a job for him.«

»Playing?«

»Yeah, well, sports. Sports is playing. Football. Skiing, Ice hockey. Tennis. Golf. All just games. Let’s allow him to play for another year.«

For a while all Tobi heard was the sound of the TV ads.

Then Mum’s voice: »Why don’t we ask him?«

The television was turned back up.

Basti was still awake when Tobi entered his room, turned on the light, and asked, »Do you want to go to school next year?«

Basti blinked at the light. »I have to.«

»No, you don’t. Mum and Dad want to ask you whether you want to.«

»Then I’ll say no.«

It had been warm and dry up to now. The autumn storms hadn’t come, and the leaves were still on the trees. But now there was frost some mornings and today the peaks of the Wilder Kaisers were lightly dusted with snow. Tobi and Basti looked forward to more snow.

The family had just finished dinner, and Dad was helping Mum clear the table.

The boys were sent upstairs. Basti had to go to bed, and Tobi was allowed to play a bit more because he was seven-and-a-half now.

After cleaning up, Dad turned on the television like he did every night.

Late that night, Dad woke the boys and said to the sleepy kids, »Come downstairs quickly! It’s very important.«

The TV was on and Mum was excitedly talking on the phone with somebody. Outside, cars drove past honking their horns like when Bayern had won the German championship.

On the screen you could see lots of people celebrating.

»Did Bayern win again?« asked Basti.

»No. The people won. The border is open.«

Basti knew what the border was. It was at the end of the street if you rode your bike over the wooden bridge to the customs house.

»At the customs house?« he asked.

»No. In Berlin. Where the Wall is.«

A wall, thought Basti, like in football when there was a free kick. But he didn’t say anything, he just looked at the people on TV. Hugging each other, laughing, spraying champagne, pounding on the hoods of cars, and waving flags.

Neighbors came with bottles of champagne and talked and toasted and laughed and patted each other on the shoulders and even danced. It was a late night. Nobody noticed that Basti had long since fallen asleep on the sofa.

»It stopped snowing, Dad,« said Basti. He stood at the backdoor, holding the lace curtain to the side.

Dad sat at the table with a furrowed brow, hunched over folders and papers and figures. Tobi sat next to him doing homework. You could hear Mum in the kitchen with the dishes. Nobody reacted to Basti’s report.

»It stopped snowing,« Basti repeated.

Tobi stood up, went to the window, and looked out. There was half a meter of new snow on the hedgerow. This winter Dad had needed to shake the snow off the boxwoods almost daily.

The mountains hadn’t been visible all day, that’s how dense the haze of snow and clouds had been. But now it had cleared up.

»True,« Tobi confirmed. »It’s not snowing anymore.«

Now Dad looked up from his bookkeeping. »It’s too late to go skiing.«

»But not for playing football,« Basti protested.

The brothers looked at their father inquisitively.

»For playing football?« he chuckled.

The boys nodded.

»In the snow.«

Tobi shrugged. Basti mimicked him.

Fred Schweinsteiger looked at the backdoor, which Basti now opened, and looked at the paperwork in front of him and said, »It’ll be dark soon.«

»Just until it gets dark,« the boys begged.

When Moni entered the room with the dishes, it was empty. She called upstairs, »Tobi? Basti?«

And when she didn’t hear an answer, she called out loudly and angrily, »Fred!«

She went back into the living room and saw that the backdoor wasn’t closed all the way. Three sets of footprints led off into the snow, and in the distance she heard the carefree voices of the two boys. Or more accurately, three.

She shut the door, annoyed, and started to clear the paperwork from the table. Receipts. And bank records. She began to set the table for dinner.

Behind one of the goals at the Oberaudorf sports fields was a children’s ski lift where the littlest could take their first runs. Basti was no longer one of the littlest, but he still liked to go there sometimes. He liked the fact that he could do both of his favorite sports – football and skiing – there at the same time. At least during the winter.

When there wasn’t too much new snow, he and Tobi would not infrequently say they were off »to practice at the baby lift.« They practiced their form a little. Then they traded their skis for the cleats they had in their backpacks, pulled the football from their hiding spot behind the pile of logs next to the utility shed, and took a few shots on goal. »Practicing set pieces,« Tobi called it.

Sometimes they played for so long that the snow in the entire penalty area was trampled down. And the next day it would be frozen like an ice rink.

For a proper ice rink, the street in front of the house had to do.

When the temperature dropped below freezing, Basti and Tobi pulled the garden hose out of the garage and sprayed the street, waiting for an initial thin layer of ice to freeze, then they kept spraying until the ice was thick enough to skate on. They marked the goals with four bricks and in no time the rink filled with boys and girls from the neighborhood.

It was not uncommon for the postman to stop and turn off his engine, waiting patiently for a break in play when the teams would clear the ice and let him through.

Tobi and Basti traveled with Oberaudorf’s Winter Sports Club by this point. In order to make this possible, and to get to the many locations where races took place, Dad had put together a ski team with fourteen kids. All the parents had pooled money to buy two minibuses, and Schweinsteiger Sports had chipped in with ski equipment. The buses were covered with ads for half of Oberaudorf’s hotels, restaurants, and small businesses. Those sponsorships didn’t bring in much money, but it was enough to keep the team going.

During practice and at races, Basti had gotten into the habit of doing play-by-play like a TV commentator, just as he did while staging play races at home. Sometimes he was Marc Girardelli, sometimes Luc Alphand, sometimes Bastian Schweinsteiger. But the racer he liked to pretend to be above all others was Alberto Tomba. He was untouchable this season. He won six of nine World Cup slaloms and won the Giant Slalom three times as well.

On this day, Basti was racing as Tomba la Bomba and commentating so loudly that everyone knew who he was playing at being. And they teased him about it.

Back home at dinner that evening, Tobi gestured to Basti with a chuckle and asked Mum, »You know who that is?«

»My son Bastian, I should think.«

»Nope. Tomba la Bomba.«

Mum was appalled, »You consider him a role model, Basti? A playboy like that?«

Dad and Tobi laughed.

Basti asked about the unfamiliar English word. »What is a playboy?«

»Well, you play a game or a sport,« Dad explained. »And a boy is a youngster. It just means a kid who likes games. Somebody who wants to play all the time.«

Basti nodded earnestly. »That’s what I want. To play all the time.«

Not far from the Schweinsteiger home, the Auerbach river flowed. It rose from two springs near Wildalpjoch Mountain, above the Sudelfeld ski area where Tobi and Basti had skied since they’d outgrown the Trissl lift.

The Auerbach travels sixteen kilometers to Inn, and it’s a wild run. Again and again the water crashes down the streambed vertically, swirling in basins carved out of the stone by the water over millennia. These pools at the bases of cascades were called Gumpen by locals.

Sometimes cataracts follow one another so closely that together they resemble a waterfall. And about a third of the way along the Auerbach’s run, its mightiest waterfall, the Tatzelwurm, whooshes and froths.

A Tatzelwurm is a scaled serpent-like creature with a powerful skull and the teeth of a lion. Anyone who fights and injures one and thus comes into contact with its poisonous blood dies on the spot.

Basti wanted nothing to do with a Tatzelwurm.

»You don’t have to be scared,« his dad told him. »The waterfall is just called the Tatzelwurm because it’s so big and wild.«

But that wasn’t true. It was called that because the basin at its base housed a Tatzelwurm.

It was the middle of summer, the first day of August, Basti’s sixth birthday. Great white clouds towered to the east in an otherwise blue sky. At times they hid the sun and it suddenly grew cold. Dad moistened his finger and held it up in the wind. »Westerly winds,« he said. »It’ll clear the clouds.«

They planned to hike up to the Tatzelwurm gumpe and then follow the Auerbach back down, taking a dip in every gumpe along the way.

They’d been hiking for forty-five minutes when they began to see the spray rising in the distance and heard muted thunder. The Tatzelwurm roared and hissed and seemed to churn out steam.

»Come on!« Dad called when Basti started to slow down.

When they reached the gumpe, the roar of the Tatzelwurm was so loud that they could barely hear one another. Dad and Tobi took off their t-shirts and jumped in with their shorts and sneakers on. Basti kept his shirt on and looked up at the cliff from which the Auerbach fell nearly 100 meters.

Dad yelled something he couldn’t understand.

Basti shook his head.

Dad yelled again.

Again Basti shook his head. Then he sat on a rock and waited.

When the other two climbed back up the rocks, spluttering, Dad asked, »What’s up?«

»Nothing,« Basti answered.

Tobi volunteered an explanation. »He’s scared of the Tatzelwurm.«

Dad laughed. »There’s no such thing. It’s a myth.«

»Krampus is real, too,« insisted Basti.

They went down the steep streambed to the next gumpe. The black rocks over which the water churned had been worn perfectly smooth. Spruce trees clung to the edges of the basin with thick roots. One had given up, its bare trunk and needleless branches hung across the narrow crevice like a skeleton. As if the Tatzelwurm had eaten the flesh from the bones.

Here, too, Basti refused to jump in.

Only at the third gumpe did he join them. The water was crystal clear, Basti could see every stone, every branch, and every plant on the greenish bottom. He could have seen any Tatzelwurm.

When Tobi suddenly screamed, »Watch out! Tatzelwurm!« he just laughed.

It was beginning to get dark by the time they’d swum in every gumpe of the Auerbach and reached the iron railroad bridge. That’s where Mum was waiting. She had arranged everything: coffee, hot chocolate, cake. Candles reflecting in the water of the creek.

Mum put a blue and white striped bath towel around Basti’s shoulders. »Happy birthday,« she said. Then added, »And don’t catch a cold.«

The next morning he woke up coughing, stuffed up, with a fever over 100.

Even though it was May, a low-pressure system had pushed temperatures down to nearly freezing, and thick, gray clouds blocked the mountain views. The Schweinsteiger family sat on the sofa. Basti had a blanket over his legs. Not because he was cold, but because it was cozy.

They were watching tennis. Steffi Graf versus Monica Seles. French Open final. Steffi would win. Steffi always won. Basti couldn’t remember a single time Steffi hadn’t won. As a result, he was a little bored.

»Do you need to go to the bathroom?« asked Tobi when Basti threw off the blanket and got up from the sofa.

»No, I’m going to go play.«

»Don’t you want to see who wins?« asked Dad.

»I already know,« Basti answered. »Steffi.«

Dad laughed. »But you don’t know how. You can learn things from watching.«

The boys had gotten tennis rackets and started taking lessons at age three. But they weren’t as enthusiastic about the sport as they were about football and skiing.

»I’m not going to become a tennis player. I’m going to be a footballer,« said Basti.

»And me, I’ll be a skier,« said Tobi.

»Me, too.«

»You can’t be both,« Tobi corrected.

»Yes, I can.«

»No, you can’t.«

Cheering broke out on the television.

»Why are they rooting for Monica Seles?« Basti wanted to know.

»They cheer for the underdog. It’s nice,« Mum explained.

Basti went up to his room and began to play with his action figures.

He was so wrapped up in his battle of superheroes that Tobi’s calls didn’t register until he came into the room. »Come downstairs! Fast! Steffi might lose!«

Ana squatted on the carpet in the living room and played with her favorite doll. Her parents sat on the sofa, glued to the television. They wanted to watch something that Ana wasn’t interested in. You could hear the monotone voice of a sports commentator. Mama and Papa talked in serious tones about something she didn’t understand. And she talked with Lana, her doll. Also in a serious tone.

Suddenly the sound of the voice of the man on TV changed, and Mama and Papa stopped talking. Ana heard applause and people shouting. The way it always sounded when her parents watched sports.

Ana wasn’t into sports. Neither was Lana. They talked about more important things. Like clothes, hair styles, food, diapers, the things that babies are concerned with.

In the background, the light popping sound of a tennis ball started up. »Tennis,« Ana told her doll. She knew the word because Mama and Papa sometimes watched the sport.

A strange noise startled her. It sounded angry, like a curse word, and loud, like a scream. And it kept repeating. Plop-plop-Scream! Plop-plop-Scream!

Ana stood up and went over to the TV, carrying Lana. »What’s wrong with that woman?« she asked.

»Nothing,« her father answered. »She breathes that way. It lets her hit the ball harder.«

Ana laughed. She screamed along with the next one. She did it tentatively and laughed. Her parents laughed, too.

Until her mother put her finger to her lips.

Ana sat down next to her and watched the match.

»That’s Monica Seles, she’s Yugoslavian, like you,« Papa explained. »And she isn’t much older than you, she’s just sixteen.«

Ana was only two-and-a-half and didn’t know how much older that was.

Surely she could talk to her about clothes and hairstyles the same way she could with Lana. She had blonde hair, gathered with a purple scrunchy, and looked very pretty.

»I hope she wins.«

»It’ll be tough,« said Papa. »Her opponent is Steffi Graf. The best player in the whole world.«

»But Lana and I want Monica to win.«

Her parents looked at each other and laughed. And mama said, »Then she’ll win.«

And Monica won.

Now that Basti played for a real football club, he watched the World Cup differently. More expertly. He wasn’t allowed to watch all the matches, as many were on too late for a six-year-old. But when Germany played, he was allowed to watch. And when Germany didn’t play, he watched, as well. Secretly, from the stairs.

One time his dad caught him. He went past the base of the stairs and looked up and saw Basti sitting there. Dad wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth and grinned instead.

But on the night that Germany played Argentina in the World Cup final, the entire family gathered in front of the TV. It was an unbearably tense match. At times during the first half, Basti had to close his eyes and cover his ears. Because the best player in the world was playing against Germany: Maradona.

In the second half, however, he no longer feared the greatest player in the world. German defender Buchwald had neutralized him.

But the ball just didn’t want to go into the goal.

Then the commentator shouted, »Matthäus … what a pass, Völler, and what will it be? A penalty has been awarded! A penalty has been awarded!«

And Brehme made it one-nil.

What followed were the worst moments of the match. In the Schweinsteiger’s living room, it toggled between spellbound silence and loud cries of »Noooooo!« Mum went to the kitchen, Dad and Tobi shouted coaching advice, and Basti kept closing his eyes and covering his ears.

Then, finally, the whistle blew for full time. Germany had won the World Cup. It was loud in the room now. Mum returned from the kitchen and the boys waved their little black, red, and gold flags.

The family stood for the trophy ceremony. They didn’t sit down on the sofa again until the endless laps of honor began.

At the Olympic stadium in Rome, the full moon shone down on a sea of black, red, and gold flags. The cup was passed from player to player.

And in the middle of the pitch, all alone, lost in his thoughts, his hands in the pockets of his beige trousers, wearing a dark blazer, his tie still not loosened, his gold medal dangling on his chest, Franz Beckenbauer strolled across the empty pitch.

»Why is he alone?« asked Basti. »Isn’t he happy?«

»Of course he is,« said Dad. »He’ll celebrate with the team later. But now he’s just soaking it in. He wants to commit it all to memory. So he won’t forget it for the rest of his life.«

Basti lazed on the sofa and stared at the screen. Dad was at the sporting goods shop and Tobi was still at school. Mum had made crepes for lunch, and now he was waiting for the second slalom run in Saalbach. After the first run, his two favorites were in the lead: Marc Girardelli was a fraction of a second ahead of Alberto Tomba.

It was still fifteen minutes until the start, and Basti, switching stations to kill time, had stopped on a report about the ten-year anniversary of the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di.

Basti watched with fascination. As the bride was helped from a gilded carriage which was completely stuffed with the lace of the bridal veil and the silk of the train. As the maid of honor arranged the ever-extending train as the princess slowly mounted a set of stairs to a salute of trumpets. As she slowly walked down the aisle, past the guests, on her father’s arm, to the sound of an organ.

The bride’s face was barely visible. It was hidden behind the veil, which was held in place by a tiara. Basti thought she looked beautiful.

Just as his mother came out of the kitchen and sat down next to him, the organ music was replaced by louder, more festive orchestral sounds. The bride and father of the bride, followed by the maid of honor and pages, drew near the altar.

The prince waited there. He wore a magnificent uniform and kept looking over his shoulder at his bride.

Basti and his mum watched the ceremony, spellbound. Until the couple, smiling and waving, slowly drove away in an open carriage past cheering multitudes and the picture finally faded.

»Nice,« said Mum.

Basti said, »When I grow up, I want to get married just like that.«

His mother laughed. »You’re not a prince.«

»Can’t you become one?«

Before his mum could answer, Tobi came rushing in. »Who won?«

Basti made the most of his extra year of playing. He made great strides in skiing and often earned a spot on the platform for medal ceremonies. Soon he could keep up with Tobi, became friends with a boy the same age, Felix Neureuther, and often rode to competitions with him and his family.

In football, he began to be talked about, too. He quickly went from the youngest and smallest on his team to an established midfielder and set the older kids up with beautiful through passes.

He continued playing tennis together with Tobi, and improved at hockey as well. It was a wonderful year of play.

But after summer vacation, things got serious. School began. He had been looking forward to his first day of school. He would ride his bike to school with Tobi like one of the big kids. And he would get a Schultüte – the traditional cone-shaped bag of goodies to mark your first day – just like Tobi had a few years before.

The first week in the little yellow schoolhouse behind the tall oaks went totally fine. There was a lot of playing, both in class and during breaks. But in the second week the studying began. That was less interesting. Basti started to look forward to the playtime during breaks and after school and at home.