Ballhaus Ost – In the name of the couch

The balls bounced smoothly over the grass pitches of the Northeast Regional League at the weekend. Graceful visitors decorated the stadium, the sausage was sizzling, the beer was flowing. I also sat down on my couch at 1 p.m. sharp on Sunday to admire Jena in Zwickau.

As soon as I turned on the sound of the television, the cat meowed reproachfully from the throne. What did my mean roommate think of disturbing Her Majesty’s six-hour nap? She jumped to the TV and used her claws. It’s good, the half-Saxon on the MDR was annoying. I pushed myself off the couch and turned off the sound. The cat trotted back to its resting pillow. Jena played without seven injuries, and Zwickau had an almost forty-year-old police officer play. Carl Zeiss captain Butzen warned about Zwickau’s fabulous disgust before the game. Both clubs have no moss and have to take whatever players come their way in dark alleys. They feed the boys with sausage and turnip soup.

Ballhaus East

Imago/Matthias Koch

Frank Willmann looks at the football between Leipzig, Łódź and Ljubljana.

The spectators seemed to like it; over 8,000 Saxons and Thuringians had turned up. The cat was snoring, I turned the sound back on, and the young wine maker with the adorable mop hairstyle headed in to make it 1-0 for Jena. The cat looked stern, tone out again. The fans were jumping, it looked pretty. Unfortunately there were no pyrotechnics, they had lit them at the start of the game.

For reasons only Beelzebub knew, Jena now played cautiously. I rolled nervously on the couch as the ball was quickly threshed through the rows. Your children are going to Rot-Weiß Erfurt, the Zwickau fans teased. Jena answered flirtatiously: Your parents go to the FCK. The children or the cows went to FC Karl Marx Stadt, but could also have been the answer from the Jena fans. Because of the cat’s need for rest, it was difficult to understand anything. I felt like a member of the prisoners’ choir from “Nabucco.” Surrounded by heavily armed cats, we hum quietly and sadly to ourselves.

Once left a roll on the couch and it was half time. TV full tube. The cat hissed and I called out to her encouragingly: “Make some coffee, old lady!” No reaction. I asked her sharply for the second time and then went into the kitchen myself, so I lost exactly 55 grams of belly fat. Back on the couch. The cat snored, the presenter told who played when, where and why. Sound off. Zwickau got stronger, I wallowed excitedly, the coffee got cold.

The cat meowed three times and walked to the television. Whatever she had, the sound was off. She pawed at the television. Go away, you stupid beast! She walked away and the old policeman scored the 1:1. This is how the disgust of the people of Zwickau came to light. I looked at the cat chastisingly; it was sleeping again. I sang, “Cat, I know where your food bowl is.” I ran around the room excitedly. When I wanted to throw myself back on the couch, the cat was lying there.

I sat on the edge of the couch, as befits a tolerated human in a cat apartment.

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