1 kilocalorie

On August 16, 2017, after twelve years of planning, the new youth training center of FC Bayern Munich was finally completed, and would be put to use in the upcoming 2017-18 season. Bayern held a grand celebration for the occasion.

This was the most significant event in Munich today—without question.

The ceremony’s exuberance far surpassed what one would expect for a mere youth academy opening. But then again, in Munich, or even in all of Bavaria, all of Germany, is there any club with greater influence than Bayern? From this perspective, no degree of grandeur is surprising.

It seemed as though every prominent figure in Munich had arrived. Luna Ta, a renowned reporter from Süddeutsche Zeitung, held a glass of champagne, her sharp gaze sweeping over the crowd of laughing and chatting dignitaries. Inwardly, she kept clicking her tongue—she saw Herbert Hainer, CEO of Adidas Group; Timo Klemm, an executive from Deutsche Bank; Dominik Bell from Allianz Insurance; Dietmar Hopp, one of the founders of SAP; and Rudolf Schäfer, one of Bavaria’s most famous lawyers…

All these titans of the business pages shared another identity: members of Bayern Munich’s Supervisory Board. Elected every four years by the club’s general assembly, they theoretically possessed ultimate decision-making power over all matters of the club.

Yet beneath the lively atmosphere was an odd undercurrent. The club president, Hoeness—who had pushed for the construction of the youth academy even during his imprisonment, and who had only just returned with honor after his sentence ended last year—had not appeared.

This project was entirely his achievement. The initiative was set in 2005, the funds had long been saved, with untold interest accrued over the years; Bayern kept the money untouched until 2015, when Hoeness finally broke through internal barriers to begin construction. In just over a year, the academy was completed, starting a new chapter and fulfilling a long-held wish.

But Hoeness’s lateness was merely odd, not alarming. At his age, even getting up from the toilet could cause delays; it was normal for big or small matters to slow his steps. What made things truly strange was that Rummenigge, the second-in-command, was also absent—and according to those present, even the Supervisory Board members couldn’t reach them.

“My God, how formal this is! Last week, when I interviewed Bayern’s youth academy director, I thought he was the biggest figure I’d ever met—but now he seems just a regular employee. I expected maybe a couple of football stars to show up, but it turns out even they aren’t important enough for this event. Only Karl would be worthy, but he hasn’t come either—he’s practically disappeared all summer, everyone says he’s never taken such a long holiday.”

The rookie reporter Luna Ta had brought was excited and nervous, nearly forgetting how to hold her wine glass, darting out and returning, sweating in the air conditioning, face flushed, exclaiming repeatedly:

“We’re already on the second round of drinks—Bayern isn’t about to make some big headline, are they?”

Luna Ta sipped her wine. Like the other calm faces in the room, she had already guessed at the heart of the matter, but she chose to frighten the newcomer:

“Of course. Bayern is unlike any other club—their executives and stars act in ways that defy common logic. Usually, club presidents and CEOs at most negotiate and argue, but at Bayern, the possibility that two old men might roll up their sleeves and slap each other is never zero.”

The young reporter was stunned.

Karl Herrmann was woken by a barrage of urgent calls from André, the marketing and PR director. He had been asleep—his sleep quality was poor, and today was his first day off in weeks—finally a chance to rest. But after covering his face and listening for a moment, his blue eyes, the color of a Morpho butterfly’s wings, snapped open, pupils constricting to adapt to the two beams of golden sunlight filtering through the curtains.

His voice, a bit hoarse but entirely steady, echoed in the quiet room:

“I’m on my way—twenty minutes.”

André’s cry sounded as though his chin hung from a noose and Karl had just kicked away the stool: “No… faster, Karl, save Bayern! The ceremony starts in less than an hour…”

Karl had already tossed aside the phone and was washing up and dressing at speed. In the mirror, a tall, handsome man washed his face quickly, bare-chested and muscled; when he raised his head, water soaked his black hair, lashes, chin, trickled down his throat, rushing toward collarbones and chest, then wiped away with a towel.

On his arm was a faint scar from stitches. Age and poor sleep had left two shallow tear grooves, subtle and blurred in the light, accentuating the Alpha quality of his face, but also hinting at sadness. Everyone assumed Karl had spent the summer on some idyllic island, but he hadn’t—so he was paler than ever.

But that would be remedied by a few minutes in the sun. Luckily, he had only gone back to sleep after waking earlier; Karl couldn’t stand leaving home with a hint of stubble. He grabbed simple clothes, slipped on shoes, and left. His wardrobe was stocked with brand-prepared suits, clothes standing like models, opening it felt as if a crowd of legless handsome men were greeting him, and he’d always take the best set, leaving the rest in the dark.

Karl, the firefighter, sped to the burning crisis on Säbener Straße, where André greeted him, nearly crying with relief, saying he’d almost jumped out the window, only climbed back in when he saw Karl’s car approaching. Karl ignored his chatter and asked for the essentials.

After all, whatever power struggle the two leaders might wage, they would never disgrace Bayern by fighting in public during a ceremony. Yet André avoided giving a straight answer, only revealing at the elevator:

“It’s all because yesterday Augsburg’s executives’ embezzlement scandal broke—couldn’t keep it under wraps. We were supposed to play a charity match with them at the end of the month. I haven’t slept all night; we’re so passive now.”

“Public opinion is brewing—if the match goes on, are we helping the club or the criminals? If we cancel, Augsburg will be relegated to the third league because of funding issues!”

“Mr. Hoeness insists on holding the match, but Mr. Rummenigge wants to cancel. If they can’t agree, Mr. Rummenigge won’t attend the youth academy celebration today.”

Karl inhaled, then sighed.

“This is external affairs—not my job.” Karl pressed the elevator button for the top floor. “What about you, Mr. Director?”

André, quick as ever, pressed another button—the penultimate floor, his office, clearly not wanting to accompany Karl upstairs. He grinned sheepishly:

“Have pity on me, Karl—I may look glamorous as director, but so what? I can’t stand between them like you do. If I pick a side, I’ll offend the other and be out of a job by tomorrow. I just follow orders.”

André spoke rapidly:

“Who else—Mr. Ancelotti? Oh God, I keep forgetting Pep is gone. No one supports him, he doesn’t have a say, nor does the locker room listen to him. No one wants to play extra charity matches, and after the scandal, even less… Oh, I’m here. Go on up, you’ll see for yourself.”

He hopped out of the elevator, saluting theatrically: “Good luck, Captain!”

Karl didn’t want to dwell on what André was hiding. The elevator continued its slow ascent; he felt the floor and cold metal walls growing hot. If he couldn’t extinguish this fire, the local headlines would explode in minutes, and Bayern would be news for three days and nights; years later, this would be cited as a classic internal scandal.

Along with the explosion would go Bayern’s reputation, the dignity of countless people, and the tear ducts of the young academy players awaiting the ceremony—imagine dozens of athletic boys and girls crying together, enough to carry off an elderly executive on the spot.

Hoeness and Rummenigge’s offices occupied the top floor of the administration building—a vast space used only by them, two wall-to-wall glass offices on opposite sides, with two elevators between. They never used “the other’s” elevator. The day’s dispute was in Rummenigge’s office. Karl calmed his breath, paused at the door, giving them time to notice him.

The window was open, and the two men were still arguing. Rummenigge’s rare, raised voice echoed in the corridor:

“For two seasons, forced construction on the academy, floods, rising material costs, worker strikes—overspending everywhere. We’ll have to reallocate the budget to repay loans every year. The squad isn’t complete; we just finished the Audi Cup, and league play starts in days—the opener’s against Leverkusen, a tough opponent. The main players are exhausted and have signed a protest—you pretend not to see? To sell tickets and make money for them, we play extra matches, travel away. If we must play a charity match, let it be at Allianz, and split the income—Augsburg aren’t the only victims, nor the only ones short on cash!”

Players signing a collective protest—collective.

Just overnight, from yesterday to this morning, a batch of players, including key starters, had signed a protest against the charity match and handed it to the two presidents, and Karl had no inkling.

He felt as though struck by a hammer; his last day off before the season opener was destroyed. Now he understood André’s evasions.

Hoeness’s shout was even louder, like an old lion roaring at an invader:

“We are Bayern Munich, the Star of the South, the dominant force in Bavaria—not beggars shaking bowls, not petty merchants counting coins! Augsburg is a Bavarian club; we can’t let them be relegated without help. As long as we can get by, we won’t resort to charity matches! We won’t become a laughing stock!”

“Then leave! Put on your bow tie and attend your ‘awards ceremony’ alone—I’m sick, I won’t join!”

“You think your absence shames me? You’re shaming Bayern, and yourself! Petty! With a chairman like you, the academy kids are unlucky!”

“Yes, I’m petty—I wouldn’t recklessly build on credit! Nor ignore fans’ protests!”

“Fans’ protests? If not for your plans to change the 50+1 rule, why would fans protest?”

The argument was spiraling off course. Karl didn’t hesitate any longer—he knocked firmly on the door. The clear thuds acted like a silencer; the room fell silent. Two seconds later, both Rummenigge and Hoeness responded—the former subdued, the latter still angry: “Come in!”

Their synchronization quieted the air for another two seconds, then Hoeness snorted: “I spoke first!”

“And this is my office,” Rummenigge muttered, pouting.

Karl opened the door, seeing two flushed, angry bosses—one at the desk, twirling a pen; the other reclining on the sofa—both staring at him grimly.

Hoeness’s round face, blond hair now ginger, receding but as stubborn as his temper, lips perpetually downturned, small glaring eyes, made him look like a sour golden kiwi.

Rummenigge, gray hair, once Munich’s handsome youth, long face, fine nose and eyes, now wore round black-rimmed glasses, his face fuller, his smile more approachable than Hoeness, like a kindly grandfather—but equally arrogant.

Hoeness spoke first: “Karl, your locker room has a problem, you know?”

Rummenigge immediately defended Karl, sneering: “If not for your backing, why would our Frenchman stir up trouble for our kids? Philipp doesn’t want to return because of you—otherwise Karl wouldn’t be so isolated!”

“Ha, ha—now you drop your international theories? Back to Bayern-ism?”

“Sorry, sir.” No time for delays, Karl interrupted their half-serious, half-mocking argument, sat in the middle chair, and reached out to Rummenigge’s desk: “May I see?”

Hoeness grabbed something nearby and threw it over: “Printed out—a bunch of slick ones, not handwritten, electronic signatures sent by email. They want to stir trouble but fear the media.”

Karl glanced at the wrinkled paper; the reasons were predictable—protecting reputation, schedule too tight. The lead signer was the French star, followed by Robben the Dutchman, and Boateng, the defensive anchor.

Boateng’s child had been born that summer—perhaps the novelty and fatherly love, or to cultivate a family-man image, he insisted on family first, and didn’t want to play charity matches that took him away from home.

Though Ribéry and Robben were foreign, they held seniority and influence, left and right wingers who had brought Bayern countless victories. With Boateng, a German local, joining, the protest gained weight.

The remaining signatures were less significant—local stars like Müller hadn’t signed, nor had major names like Lewandowski and Neuer. Amusingly, a young Bayern academy player had signed—Hoeness’s own promotion from the second team, a young goalkeeper, Christian Früchtl.

Ever since joining the first team, he’d been in the spotlight. Papers praised him as Neuer’s future rival, having played all preseason matches in Neuer’s stead, performing well.

Hoeness gave him a chance, yet he’d been swayed into spoiling Hoeness’s plans—Karl sighed inwardly.

Rummenigge, of course, seized the chance to jab at Hoeness, lighting a cigarette, eyes slanted at the paper in Karl’s hand, smiling: “Actually, I misjudged you, Uli—you do have vision, bringing in an opposition party.”

Hoeness’s face reddened further, turning from a kiwi to a peach, gruffly refusing to discuss, only urging: “Well, Karl, two weeks until the match, tickets on sale ten days ahead, at latest three days—you must resolve this.”

The issue was indeed troublesome. Ten players dared protest, because no one in the locker room wanted to sacrifice their vacation for a charity match. Karl knew this well. Discontent had been simmering, and now the opposing club’s scandal had provided a legitimate excuse.

Ancelotti, the new manager after Guardiola, found his charm failing at Bayern; after a month, his authority had only diminished, almost invisible in the locker room. The players had thrown their grievances straight at the presidents; the logic was sound, and mishandling it would mean hurting their own for outsiders—what a headache.

“What’s to resolve? Don’t the players have the right to refuse? If they don’t want to play, can we force them? You won’t be the villain yourself, so why burden Karl?”

“It’s not a burden—it’s my responsibility. Sir, everyone will play the charity match. Let’s go to the academy—the car is ready, timing is perfect, I know you’re concerned—the new bow tie looks great, here’s your speech…”

Karl was sure they were playing good cop, bad cop. He didn’t argue, simply took it all on, soothed both sides, even preempted Hoeness’s speech, nudging him toward the door:

“Not just one car, don’t worry, President. Come on, I’ll get your coat.”

“Humph!” Hoeness’s mood cleared rapidly; moments ago red as a peach, now he was beaming, turning to Rummenigge: “Karl’s doing you a favor, not laughing at your nonsense! Split the money fifty-fifty—ridiculous…”

Rummenigge pretended to draw a weapon from the umbrella stand: “Sir, you want a fight, eh?”

André texted Karl: “Dear Karl, you are Der Herr der Maenner*—I will always respect you, always love you, always praise you…” By then, they were already on their way to the new youth academy, with time to spare—Karl had resolved the issue in minutes, getting both old men into the car.

Some journalists at the scene had already posted online; fans wondered if Rummenigge and Hoeness were really brawling on Säbener Straße. They were bound to be disappointed—twenty minutes later, they watched, jaws dropped, as Bayern’s two leaders, supposed to be at odds, walked arm-in-arm into the hall, praising each other.

Their conflict was widely acknowledged.

But their widely acknowledged conflict could never truly be made public—that too was a consensus.

On stage, Rummenigge spoke with emotion: “The past brought us here, but the academy will lead us into tomorrow—which is why Uli and I agreed on rebuilding the facility, overcoming all obstacles, determined to create a better, more professional sporting world for the children.”

Hoeness tossed aside his script, arms wide: “In the past twenty years on Säbener Straße, we produced Lahm, Schweinsteiger, Thomas Müller, Toni Kroos; we established a complete women’s program from scratch, giving us Bianca, Melina—heroes not just for Bayern, but for the nation. Now, boys and girls stand together below.

Be patient, children, don’t be anxious—I would never forget, Säbener Straße also produced our Karl Herrmann! Yes, I hear your cheers—the world’s best defender, every Bayern child’s beloved captain! Our grand slam player! Last year, the Ballon d’Or refused to honor him—not Karl’s loss, but France Football’s! They insulted football! But we know—with our eyes, minds, hearts, souls—we know Bayern and Germany have forged a mighty football force… The old academy is past, the new future begins here. Who will be the next Bayern captain? You, child? Or you?”

“Whoever it is—I’ve returned, I’m watching, as I have steadfastly for decades. I await new stars rising from the new academy. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses—let’s celebrate a new page for Bayern Munich. We are destined for greatness! To the Star of the South!”

“To the Star of the South!”

In thunderous applause, Luna Ta finally found an opportunity to approach Rummenigge. Though Hoeness had returned, the youth academy director—chosen by Rummenigge to spite him—had been in post for two years, and was busy flattering. Luna overheard him say to Rummenigge:

“Perhaps the next Karl really is standing here, Mr. President—it’s incredible, we never know what rewards these children will bring…”

“The next Karl? I’ve signed so many youngsters, Uli too—at least five new faces sit on the bench every year, until they nearly get hemorrhoids, but years pass, and there’s still only one Karl.”

Rummenigge shook his head, self-mocking, speaking louder, joking to those nearby:

“To get another Kroos would be a blessing! I hope I’m alive then, to sign his contract—that would at least ‘make amends,’ so when I’m in my coffin, fans won’t still curse me!”

Luna Ta and the others laughed heartily.

As they headed to the hall, Karl returned to his car. He opened the glove compartment and drew out a thin envelope from beneath some spare items. The envelope was tightly sealed, not easily opened—and if it were, its contents would be revealed. It had lain here for some time, but Karl had never dared place it on Hoeness or Rummenigge’s desk—he knew he would not get the answer he wanted.

But whenever he sat in the car, tired—like now—he couldn’t help but take it out, touch it awhile.

Today, the feeling was especially strong—with the new season about to start, everyone would be back at work, back in conflict. Football was modern warfare; they were either fighting or preparing to fight.

After avoiding it all summer, Karl had thought he was better—but now, back in the familiar chaos, the illusion that “this life is best” evaporated quickly.

Fatigue came so fast, so fierce.

He thought again how he should be lying in bed, sleeping. Once the season began, he didn’t know when his next undisturbed day off would be; after the season came the World Cup, and as national team captain, he was destined for another sleepless summer.

Yet he closed his eyes, put the envelope back in the glove compartment, forced himself to summon adrenaline, and returned to urgent work. He was captain; whether swept along or not, he had taken responsibility, promised the presidents, and must handle this matter—first this, then the rest.

He collected his thoughts, sorted the people in the locker room by category, planned how to coax and pressure, divide and conquer—his mind quickly settled into a clear arrangement.

In the dim light of the underground garage, his eyes glimmered like jewels, his skin returned to its pallor, and a tiny mole at the corner of his lower lip—like a dot from a ballpoint pen—became more apparent, shifting with his lips as he spoke. He pushed his black hair back, calm and swift, and dialed the first call.