DTH Columns

Apr. 11, 2004 — Lessons in fandom: The German soccer experience
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BERLIN – Soccer, we like to think stateside, is quaint.

It’s a game for kids to outgrow as they get older and find “real,” more traditionally “American” sports.

We even gave it a professional league – and one for women, too! (Temporarily, anyway.)

But in Europe, it’s a whole other story.

Soccer is professional and collegiate basketball, baseball and football rolled into one:

• The money is just as ludicrous. David Beckham’s transfer to Real Madrid cost the Spanish team $30 million.

• The fans are there. Teams sell out 60-80,000 person stadiums regularly and are notorious for their passion (i.e. drunken belligerence).

• And the competition is even better because teams are not only fighting to make the playoffs, they have to avoid a bottom three finish or risk being relegated to the second division.

During my semester here in Berlin, I checked out a pair of Hertha BSC home games this season, against FC Bayern München and VfL Wolfsburg, keeping a diary of the former.

Hertha could generously be described as mediocre - they’ve spent the entire year at the bottom of Bundesliga 1, in danger of dropping down to the second league.

With local sports team mediocrity now following my life’s travels for a third time, I have officially begun to think I have bad sports karma.

1:36 p.m.
I hop on the U6 train, my line of the BVG, to start the trek to Olympic Stadium. It’s a typical day for the once-split city – chilly, gray and damp.

I’d be rocking the blue and white for BSC, but I plan on freeloading off of my press pass (entry and food without paying? C'mon.) and then sliding down to chill with the boys. Here’s to hoping I make it.

1:44 p.m.
Waiting for my transfer, I spot the first fans of the day – jerseys abound, hats are worn, flags carried and so many wool scarves (the soccer equivalent to a team pennant) are threaded through belt loops that it looks like guys are wearing kilts. Gotta love it already.

1:49 p.m.
Two 11-year-old girls clad in opposing gear get on the train with Dad and Grandpa and receive a few playful jabs from older Hertha fans.

1:51 p.m.
The first group of drunken revelers has arrived! Berlin’s lack of open container laws makes the train ride amusing, if not slightly scary. You can forget tailgating – these guys are done before they’ve gotten to the stadium.

As the gang of Hertha-clad 20-somethings board the train and begin a serious of boisterous chants that won’t relent for the rest of the 30 minutes I’m on the train, the two aforementioned young’uns promptly cringe and begin to visibly shrink into themselves.

I almost feel bad before realizing that if I took the D train to Yankee stadium wearing a Mets jersey, that’d be my fault and I would deserve whatever happened to me.

2:30 p.m.
I pick up the press pass after a slight verbal fumble with the secretary. I asked her for it in German and when she asked for my name in English, I had no idea what she was saying.

This resulted in me standing there like an idiot for two minutes before it processed.

She handed the pass to me with an accommodating smile that said, “Wow, Americans are dumb. How endearing.”

2:36 p.m.
I take a slight detour through the trees along a well-worn path and am promptly confronted with more displays of full-frontal urination than any one man need be privy to in his lifetime.

2:38 p.m.
The parking lot is a madhouse – Tailgating isn’t something to do here, it’s the thing to do. RVs are camped out, there’s barbeques going, merchandise stands, and there’s bratwurst and good German beer everywhere.

I think I found where testosterone comes from.

2:52 p.m.
I’m finally on the Olympic Stadium grounds. There’s trucks from local radio stations blaring, a speed kick both, food and merchandise everywhere – it’s like Disneyland, with all the mini-attractions set up around the castle.

I hit up the press spread and score free Coca-cola, food and game programs.

3:08 p.m.
I manage to successfully bluff my way into the lower tier, “searching for my friends” – in German, no less! I’m 24 rows up and halfway between the goal box and midfield. It’s a sweet deal.

Wolfsburg comes out for warm-ups wearing low socks with shorts! This is horrible, just horrible. Imagine going to a Knicks game and seeing Stephon Marbury wearing 80s-style NBA shorts. Inexplicable.

Other than that huge party foul, warm-ups are much like those before baseball games. The players make everything look really, really easy. I almost started thinking that I, too, could loft low-flying 30-yard strikes to other players.

And then I remembered my club foot.

3:15 p.m.
The Hertha team song starts blaring over the loudspeakers. It’s sort of pop-polka that includes chanting and stomping. And three minutes later it’s STILL GOING ON.

3:19 p.m.
The polka-palooza mercifully ends and the crowd-chants start. They’re led by the several thousand hardcore fans in the lower-level section behind the goal. The stomping and chanting reverberates throughout the entire stadium.

Can we hire these guys for home basketball games? Please? They’re doing clap and stomp combos in sync, for crying out loud – the sheer coordination is mind boggling! Revolutionary. The w(h)ine and cheesers are officially fired.

3:24 p.m.
Greg shows. Slacker.

3:30 p.m.
Eye of the Tiger begins blaring over the loudspeaker as the teams take the field. Some things are just universal, I guess.

Wolfsburg had the good sense to switch to high-socks – sports actually does have a fashion god.

3:37 p.m.
A 1-0 Bayern deficit shown on the big screen elicits a cheer from the crowd. It’s been a long year for BSC fans, and dropping out of the first league would be crushing to the pride of Germany’s capital city. The jeers at bad plays so far have been jaded, resigned ones.

3:42 p.m.
Wolfsburg takes the first shot on goal, which is saved by the Hertha keeper, Christian Fiedler. BSC responds with a rush and is fouled just outside of the box, but the penalty is headed clear.

3:44 p.m.
A very inebriated man has just plopped down in front of us.

He’s so drunk he’s talking to invisible friends. He’s also a bellower. This is going to be entertaining.

3:46 p.m.
Two beautiful Hertha passes – one long and low and the second a one-touch chip over the defender’s head – set up a wide-open shot in the middle, which is kicked directly into the goalie.

And there was no rejoicing. *Pause* Boooo…

3:52 p.m.
The drunkard has just been smirkingly laughed at by a man with a mullet, who shares the laugh with his mullet-wearing wife.

When Mr. Mullet is laughing at you, it’s time to sign up for A.A.

3:53 p.m.
TOOOOOOOOR! Her-THA! Her-THA! B! S! C!

Hertha scores when a Pal Dárdai centering pass in the box is touched past the goalkeeper by Nando Rafael.

All is suddenly well in Berlin. I can even see the sun.

3:55 p.m.
Defender Dennis Cagara makes a long run down the sideline before sending a shot high and wide of the goal. The crowd responds with appreciative applause.

Hertha seems to be aware of just how close the second division looms.

3:58 p.m.
Can someone come up with a more complicated rule than offsides? Please? I mean isn’t pass interference hard enough?

I’ll bet attempts to explain the offsides rule are responsible for more smiles and nods than you’ll get from George Bush at a nuculer physics symposium.

4:13 p.m.
The drunk is officially incoherent. Officially.

4:15 p.m.
Halftime. Hertha up 1-0 and playing well. This could be a boring half. Time for some beer.

I wait in a terribly long line, which is muted by the fact that the beer is only three euro, plus a one euro deposit on the cup (there’s an annoyance). However, while waiting in line, I am overwhelmed by the smells emanating from the pretzel stand next to me. This is problematic because I’m keeping Kosher for Passover.

Doing that and going to a ballpark is like going to a meeting for narcoleptics as a chronic insomniac.

I break down and go to the pretzel stand. And there are none left. Yaweh smiles.

4:35 p.m.
I miss the beginning of the second half and am forced to walk across an entire row of people to get to my seat. They were not there last half. Maybe they were just late.

4:45 p.m.
The fans are still cheering and chanting and being raucous. I don’t think they’ve sat down except during halftime, and maybe not even then. I’m in awe.

4:52 p.m.
It got colder, it’s drizzling slightly, Hertha is solidly in control and I have to displace an entire row of people to make sure I get my cup refund before the game’s out. Exhilarating.

The announced crowd is 33,000 in the 55,000-person stadium. Not bad for the day and relatively meaningless game.

4:58 p.m.
I get back to my seat to Wolfsburg get their best chance of the game on a rush when a one-hopper goes over the keeper’s fingertips … and over the crossbar. Maybe they’ll tie. With all the continuous action, you never know.

It’s impressive how conditioned these guys are – they’re on the move for 45 minutes straight. Football players only move for about eight seconds at once and baseball players take turns. Basketball’s almost close, until you realize these games are twice as long and have only one real stoppage, at halftime.

5:01 p.m.
After three minutes of staring at a warm, fluffy white brötchen (bread roll) I had purchased only at the insistence of the Wurst salesman – she said it was too hot to give me in my hands – I lose the Passover battle.

It's so damn good, I almost don’t feel bad.

And then I remember God gave me a second chance and I blew it.

I have incurred the wrath of Yaweh. Not a good position to be in.

5:15 p.m.
The crowd is absolutely livid after a series of non-calls against Wolfsburg. I’ve heard arschloch (find a German and as-k) more times in the last three minutes than the last three months.

It looks to me like there’s at least two pretty clear ones. I guess the refs are ready to go home.

I can’t really blame them. Somewhere inside with a hot beverage would be inviting. Berlin weather – it’s faaaan-tastic!

5:16 p.m.
One of the Wolfsburg players tries to get some attention by lying on the floor for several minutes. He is resoundly ignored by the referees. Wolfsburg does get a scoring chance out of the deal. I suppose the diversion worked.

5:18 p.m.
The final three whistles blow and Hertha wins 1-0. The fans do some crazy flag-waving stomp and clap sequence for the next five minutes as I’m exiting.

After the Berlin equivalent to “I’m a Tar Heel Born” finishes, they stay in place and start doing more chants. They’re better men than I.

I’ll give it a go here to earn back some street cred: Her-THA! Her-THA! B! S! C! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!