The hairstyle sits, the shot too: Harry Kane hit the triple against the lawn ballers. As a reward, no interesting, uh, difficult questions were asked in the TV interview.
Photo: Imago/Marco Steinbrenner
Now it has happened, the first matchday of the Bundesliga broke out over us and lets us take place in the capitalist atriads. Do we all have the escape into Dark stalactite caves or the depression as the last fortress, as a spiritual protective cover? Why did we get up on Friday? But not to get the construct of the Leipzig Rase Ball Sport against the Munich Mauschelamigos? Apparently already, because I too was one of the poor sausages that came to the TV just before half past eight in order to have the last little brain soup sucked off from the lower class television (tribute to Harald Schmidt).
We were all delicate worms who looked into life with big eyes and dreamed peacefully bribbling from vacation forever. I read exactly these questions in the yellow pupils of our cat, which looked at me questioningly when a grinning Sat1 television client in the worst tone of some former football gangmail asked unnecessary questions. Karl Marx again, here only the immediate parking of the sound helps, which, on the one hand, calms down the cat and on the other hand also makes her brave master to dream of snorkeling in the Mediterranean, while the roasting roller on the television is annoyed by the roasting roller.
Ballhaus East
Imago/Matthias Koch
Frank Willmann looks at football between Leipzig, Łódź and Ljubljana.
But … we experience the first matchday, there is still veiled innocence over the players, placekeeping, sausage sellers … longing stimulates. It is the memory of a different time when we were not bothered by the user of modern football and stormed the rush for 45 pfennigs because the heroes stormed the rumpel lawn in the most beautiful colors in the world. These players, who still met our fathers in the workshop, in order to jokingly pull their spoons, for awarded opportunities, washed out hope, post shots and owners.
In 2025, the lawn jugglers live in gated communities with automatic gates and goalkeepers in chic uniforms. When people are lucky, a player runs over the big toe when parking in the greatest fucking mall in his city’s biggest fucking mall. It is as if Peter Ducke or Gerd Müller touched you in 1974, when football was still round and was not in the hands of large heads and financial sharks, who once a year with the camp field of honest workers’ welding when it comes to listing fairy tales at the gathering of general meetings.
What is that? A perfectly elaborated Munich hit the Leipzig goal, which of course is not a Sachsentor, but the housing of a team of a global corporation that sells bad sugar broth on unsuspecting children. Briefly turning on the sound of the telly, I struggle briskly by the Laberschwall of the thin board drill on the microphone, the cat looks bad again. Wouldn’t it be best to throw the TV out of the window immediately? Yes. No. It’s football … Set the tone quietly … look with just one eye … or with both?
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